#and included this scene of them fighting in the post and I just...

[cutehoons02]

We don’t pray for love,we just pray for cars!

Fast Hearts: Hyung Line F1 series

*pairing: Park Sunghoon F1 Red Bull driver x sports Journalist

*trope: Enemies to lovers/Forbbiden love

*driver: Park Sunghoon=Max Verstappen

*synopsis: Sunghoon is the synthesis of the journalist hater. He respects their work but when a young girl without fears and a little cheeky enters the world of F1 and Sunghoon for him is a disaster. This journalist loves to tease him, sometimes ask inappropriate questions just to make fun of him and drive him crazy. Sunghoon every time he sees her would like to put it in his place because he hates her but at the same time is attracted by her but the problem is that he should not be distracted by anything because he is fighting for the world championship for his first time with Red Bull.

*tags: At first they can’t stand each other, Hoon is really asshole with her (at first) but she also teases him always, kisses, 2 sex scenes (doogy style-normal sex) unprotected sex (don’t horny ppl) fingerings, masturbation (f.m) sucking, the list of races is random (there are not all races of a season of F1) pet names (baby doll) (hoon,hoonie)

11.8k (💙) *English is not my native language

You were in your final year of sports journalism, and with your top grades and a way with words that had already made more than one professor uneasy, you were lucky enough to be selected for an exclusive internship with F1 TV. Not just any TV, but the official platform of Formula 1: young, viral, fast-paced. Interviews, exclusive content, and, most importantly, social media. It was the first race of the season in Bahrain, and you were already at the center of your first post-race conference.

Jin – the undisputed king of Mercedes – had just won. Again. The seventh time in a row, and no one even raised an eyebrow anymore. But your attention wasn’t on him.

To his right, in second place, Park Sunghoon seemed like a shadow just about to explode. His dark eyes fixed on the Red Bull can in his hands. A hard face, clenched jaw, raven-black hair slightly tousled. He was gritting his teeth with elegance.

From what you knew, he had been with Red Bull since he was 17. A prodigy, a winner, stubborn. He’d come close to winning the championship the previous year. This year... he wasn’t accepting any compromises. He had to win. And today, a single mistake at the start had cost him everything.

It was at that moment that you raised your hand with the microphone between your fingers. Everyone turned to look at you, including the content creator beside you who was filming for social media channels. Your voice, clear and calm, was the one that made him raise his eyes.

“Park Sunghoon, the car this year seems more balanced, more aggressive in the corners. So, if you don’t win the championship… can we say that maybe it was never the car’s fault, but yours?”

Silence.

A brief, icy silence.

Jin gave a small smile and lowered his face. Jay, third on the podium, made a soft “oh” with his lips.

But it was Sunghoon’s gaze that took your breath away for a second. He looked you up and down slowly, with surgical precision. Narrowed, dark eyes, full of contained disdain. You felt them slide from your hair down to your legs, where they lingered just a bit longer than necessary.

He slowly ran a hand through his silver hair, then responded.

“You’re new, aren’t you?”

His voice was low and sharp, like a thin blade.

“You see, in your line of work, asking smart questions is the first step to staying in it for the long haul. Next time, try harder.”

You bit your smile.

“Oh, so if you lose, we can say the car wasn’t the issue and you made a rookie mistake at the start? Or should I ‘ask better questions’ even to the telemetry data?”

The crowd let out a small “ooooh.” Jin coughed to hide a chuckle.

Sunghoon clenched his jaw. He gave you a long, penetrating look, then stood up with a swift movement of the chair, leaving Jin and Jay still seated.

Without saying anything else, he walked off.

You watched him go, your lips slightly curved in a smile.

Welcome to Formula 1.

The Red Bull plane had landed a couple of hours ago, and as was customary before every race weekend, Sunghoon had decided to cycle along the entire track. It was one of his rituals: silence, asphalt, and a visual analysis of the circuit before the data and telemetry took over. He was accompanied by Jake and Jay. The three of them were known in the paddock as the 02z: all born in 2002, growing up together on karting circuits, adolescent victories, fierce rivalries, and shared dreams. Now they were professionals, but their friendship – though rough and competitive – was still alive.

Jake, the McLaren driver, was the kind of guy who smiled too much, even when he lost. He loved afterparties, Twitter memes, making TikTok videos, and his dog Layla, who followed him everywhere. He always had a joke ready, but he was also a fierce driver when it came to racing.

Jay, on the other hand, was the "rockstar driver." He played guitar before races, had a philosophical air about him, and had a cover-worthy smile, but when in the car, he was as determined as few others. He was supposed to be Sunghoon's teammate at Red Bull, but he had chosen Mercedes, aiming for a long-term plan. He was balanced but stubborn. Once he made a decision, no one could change his mind.

And then there was Sunghoon. Cold, calculating, focused. He lived only for F1. The only one who skipped F2, catapulted directly into Formula 1 thanks to the Red Bull Academy. The previous year he had come second. This year… everything revolved around the championship. The rest was noise. The sun was setting behind the Jeddah skyscrapers, painting the track in orange and pink hues. They cycled in single file and then in parallel. No one spoke for a few minutes until Jay broke the silence.

-You know, I’m still recovering from that press conference.- Jay said, his tone amused, sharp, and cheeky. Jake chuckled and said, 'That stuff is already in the best moments of the year. I mean, it has meme potential for sure.' Sunghoon didn’t respond, but his jaw muscles tightened slightly. -The scene: you shutting up a newly hired intern… and her schooling you in front of Jin.- Jay said, and Jake chuckled, looking at Sunghoon, repeating the words you had said a week before: 'Can we say it was your fault, not the car’s?” Boom. Mic drop.' Jake mimicked the gesture with his hand, pretending to throw a microphone. “It was a stupid question,” Sunghoon said, annoyed. -It was the truth, said in a bold way. Maybe that’s why it hurt you so much.- Jay said, staring at Sunghoon, who gripped his bike handlebars tighter. 'And anyway… she’s cute. I looked her up afterward. There are clips everywhere, even in Layla’s profile reels.' He laughed at his joke, while Sunghoon slammed on the brakes and stared at him with the coldest look he could muster. “Don’t start with this too,” Sunghoon said with an icy stare. Jake raised his hands and laughed, 'I’m just saying the pictures turned out well, and she seems like a nice girl…' “I don’t want to hear that name in my presence again. Got it?” Sunghoon said, his voice firm, sharp as a blade. -Damn, you’re more sensitive than a diva at the Met Gala,- Jay said. 'Admit it, she made an impression on you.' Jake laughed. “No.” -Mhm. I’ve known you since you used to steal new tires at karting. If you say no with that voice, it’s a brutal yes disguised as an excuse.-Jay replied with an arched eyebrow. Sunghoon began cycling again, faster. But the two easily caught up with him. 'I can’t wait for you to interview me. I promise I’ll answer with 'Yes, miss,' but only if you say it.' Jake responded, glancing at Jay. 'Come on, Hoonie, maybe she’s exactly the type you need. You need someone to break your facade now and then. You know, someone human. With emotions.' Sunghoon didn’t speak, but his hands were gripping the handlebars as if he wanted to break them. His gaze was fixed on the asphalt in front of him, but the images of the press room were still in his mind: full lips, nerdy glasses that couldn’t hide the cheeky attitude, the voice that didn’t shake in front of him. The voice of someone who didn’t kneel. Not even in front of someone like him. Jay (whispering to Jake) -Do you think he’s already thought about it while taking a cold shower?- Jake (laughing) 'Yeah. But he says it’s hatred. Some lies he tells himself really well.' Sunghoon slammed the brakes abruptly. He turned to them with a fiery look. “Whoever talks about her again… will walk the track on foot. On an empty stomach.” He shouted, annoyed by the bickering behind him. -Shit. Sorry, boss.- Jay replied, laughing, but under the threat, Jay and Jake were laughing. They were laughing hard because their cold, cynical, icy friend… was finally distracted. And that could be far more dangerous than any rival on the grid.

Qualifying had been like dancing on the edge of a knife. In Jeddah, to set a good time, you had to brush against the wall. Literally. Not centimeters. Millimeters. And Sunghoon had done it. Not a scratch, not a smudge. But the clock had spoken clearly: P2. Jin, once again, was faster than him. That evening, in his motorhome, Hoon had consumed himself with the data, the telemetry, every line of the racing line. His engineer knew him well: when he was like this, it was best to leave him alone. No music, no chatter. Just Jin, Red Bull, and obsession. Sunday – Race Red light. Three. Four. Five. Go. Perfect start. Millisecond reaction time. Jin kept the lead, but Hoon was glued to him. Less than 0.3 seconds for twenty laps. At Turn 22, he got so close he could see the carbon fiber on the Mercedes quivering under the pressure. Then, at the end of the straight after the second DRS zone, he did it. He dove in. Fake left, entered right. Jin closed too late. Contact? Almost. But he made it. P1. The pit crew exploded. His heart was pounding in his chest like a tribal drum. But Jin wasn’t the type to back down. After six laps, he was back. Right behind him. 0.4. 0.2. 0.1, and then it happened. In the second sector, amidst the chaos of walls and blind corners, Sunghoon suddenly lifted his foot. He braked. For just a moment. That was enough. Jin launched at full speed, and couldn’t react.

BANG.

The Mercedes hit the diffuser of the Red Bull. A piece of carbon wing flew onto the track. Screams on the radio.

Jin (via radio): “Is he f*cking insane?!”

Sunghoon (via radio): “What the hell was he doing?! I was letting him through! He knew that!”

It was a dirty move. A trick. A provocation. Soon after, Jin passed him again. He still had enough pace, despite the damage, to close P1. Sunghoon, P2. Again. But this time, with the taste of blood between his teeth.

Post-race – Parc fermé He got out of the car as if he were stepping on broken glass. His helmet still on, his fists clenched. The crowd cheered, but he heard nothing. Just anger. Frustration. And shame. Jin approached him immediately. Taking off his gloves, visibly agitated. 'Are you crazy? What was that?' Jin said, disappointed. “If you wanted to pass, you could’ve. I left you space.” Sunghoon said coldly. 'You braked suddenly. In the middle of the track. This isn’t karting, Hoon. If you want to win a championship… do it like a man. Do it clean.' Jin said, staring at him with those severe, veteran eyes. He was in his eighth championship. You didn’t play games like this. Not like this. Cameras were everywhere. Microphones even more so. But no one dared to interrupt them. That’s when he saw you. Dressed in a long paddock outfit, beige sand, soft and light like the wind blowing from the Gulf. Big sunglasses, a little smile on your lips. The F1TV microphone in your hand, but no question. Just a fixed gaze on him, in silence. A mute challenge. A reminder. He hated you. And yet… he just wanted to rip that outfit off you. Sunghoon via radio, entering the pit box: “Tell the press office I’m not going.” PR (via radio): “Hoon, there’s the mandatory press conference.” Sunghoon (cutting): “I’m not going into that room. If needed, fine me. I won’t talk to anyone. Especially not her.” The Red Bull garage door slammed shut with a thud.

The press room was cold. But the adrenaline from the race still burned on the skin, like the Saudi sun. Jin was sitting composed, his gaze focused yet relaxed. Next to him was Heeseung, but the second-place seat was empty. Sunghoon hadn't shown up. No statements, no comments. Just silence and the usual arrogance. You, with the microphone in hand and your heart still racing from the race, asked the routine questions. Precise, professional. But inside, you were seething. That guy was getting under your skin. And beneath your surface.

With your team, you'd just closed a piece that you knew would explode like a bomb in the paddock. Headline:

“Park Sunghoon: pure talent or just ego in a helmet?”

Subtitle:

“Today’s move on Jin was a gamble on the edge of safety. When ego surpasses adrenaline, risk turns into a threat. And Sunghoon is playing with fire.”

The article ended with:

“Respect is earned by acknowledging your mistakes. But perhaps that kind of respect doesn’t interest Sunghoon. Not for now.”

The sky was turning pink, the Arabian sunset descending like velvet over the team tents. You were walking near the Red Bull motorhome, ready to wrap up the weekend… when you saw him. Sunghoon. Leaning against the back of his motorhome. His eyes are down on a tablet. Your article opened in front of him. He had his hair pulled back with a band, a Red Bull in hand, and his jumpsuit pants slung low on his hips. He had that lone wolf look. Or maybe, a hunted animal. You stopped. “Are you out of your mind?” you snapped. “That move… You both could’ve been out. What the hell were you thinking?” He slowly lifted his eyes. Started at you with that dark, sharp look. “I don’t need a babysitter. And certainly not a nosy journalist who gets excited writing about me.” He raised the tablet. “What’s this? Now you’re pretending to be a moral judge?” “You risked someone’s life.” “My life, and mine only.” He chuckled. Cold. Cynical. “That piece of yours is crap.” And that was when your vein popped. Without thinking, you shoved your hands into his chest and pushed him against the wall. He didn’t move an inch. He just blocked you with one hand on your side, hard. Too hard for just a defense. His fingers dug into the lightweight fabric of your dress.

“Christ. But this… this drives me crazy. The way she challenges me. The way she touches me. I want to shut her up, not with words. But with mine. And I shouldn’t. I’ve got a damn championship to win. And yet I’m thinking about what she looks like under that dress.” Hoon thought as he shot you a glance.

He looked at you with pupils slightly dilated. A flash crossed his gaze. “Watch out,” he hissed, inches away from you. “You’re not important enough yet to use those words.” But you didn’t back down. “No?” you whispered, your heart in your throat. “But enough to get a reaction from you. Mentally… and physically.” He slowly released your side, but he did so with deliberate slowness. He turned to leave, but muttered something through clenched teeth: “Next time… choose your words better. Or you might find yourself having to swallow them.” And disappeared into the motorhome, but you knew that wasn’t the end. It was just the beginning.

The Australian sun had just set, but Albert Park still shimmered with the glow of victory. Sunghoon Park had finally won. First win of the season. First time ahead of Jin. He had driven like a demon straight out of hell. Surgical precision, aggressive yet clean overtakes. The Red Bull was flawless—but he was more than that. You’d followed him all weekend, like always. But this time, the story had changed. And you knew it. So, with your heart pounding in your throat and your brain lit up like an engine pushed to its limits, you wrote an article. For him.

Title:

"Sunghoon Park: Fueled by Hate. And Finally, a Win That Burns."

He drove like he had fire under his wheels. Like every corner was an answer to every word written, every look given, every laugh behind his back. Did he finally show a human side? No. Thankfully, no. Sunghoon Park is as cruel to himself as he is to others. But tonight, Melbourne trembled for him. Because when he wins... it hits you. Like a wound that burns. And damn, it leaves a mark.

Well done, Park. Keep going. Maybe, in the end, someone will love you for this, too.

Click. Published.

And you knew he was reading it. You felt it, under your skin.

That evening, you wore a knee-length black dress with a modest neckline but sensual style. Your hair was down in soft waves, and you wore a floral perfume with warm undertones.

You weren’t looking for him. But you weren’t avoiding him either.

You rode up to the eleventh floor alone. But when the elevator stopped at the sixth, he stepped in.

Black shirt, collar open, eyes cast down but fully aware. You turned your head to speak.

"Just wanted to say... nice job today. You finally woke up."

He didn’t answer right away. Closed his eyes for a second, then slowly turned to you.

"Your piece. I read it. Poison in the shape of praise.

You’re good with words. Almost as good as you are at playing with me," he said, voice hoarse.

"And you’re good at reacting when I mess with you. We work."

He took a step closer. Too close. The elevator kept rising, but time stopped.

"You provoke me. Always. You wanna know the truth?" He brushed your cheek with the back of his fingers, speaking just inches from your lips.

"It turns me on like hell." And he said it with a smirk that promised nothing good—then he kissed you. It wasn’t sweet. It was violent. Fiery. An implosion.

His lips were hot, and hungry. His hands grabbed your waist and the back of your neck. Your body hit the elevator wall with a dull thud—but you didn’t complain.

You couldn’t. You were too far gone.

Sunghoon’s tongue pushed into your mouth with force, weeks of restraint pouring out in one breathless moment. His kisses were rough, and dirty. He bit your lower lip too hard, then moved to your ear.

"I can't take it anymore. Pretending. Ignoring you. You drive me crazy and I don't know if I want to kiss you... or shut you up with your hands tied behind your back."

he whispered, panting.

He bit your ear—first gently, then harder—while lifting you slightly against the wall, fingers digging into your sides like he wanted to leave a mark. You scratched his shoulder blade. He chuckled. A low, wicked laugh. Bastard. And god, so sexy.

"I thought you needed focus, Park," you said, moaning.

"Apparently, you are my focus," he murmured, trailing his hand along your thigh—and your whole body shivered.

DING. Floor 11.

He pulled away. His eyes were glazed, but clear.

"This isn’t over," he said darkly.

"It hasn’t even started," you whispered as you stepped past him, legs shaking—but the fire? That was just beginning.

Barcelona.

The circuit where it had all begun.

Where Park Sunghoon, just seventeen years old, had won his very first F1 race as a rookie—blowing away every prediction, every doubt, every insult hurled at him online.

That day, the world had dubbed him the Ice Prince. Unshakable. Precise. Ruthless.

But this time… this time, he hadn’t won.

He’d finished fourth. A wrong strategy, an unstable car after the second pit stop, and far too many thoughts clouding his head.

He’d been leading the championship for weeks. Max had dropped out of the top spots. Jin was only a few points behind and yet, something… something was slipping through his fingers.

Jake and Jay noticed it too.

On their days off in Monaco, when they went running along the coast in the morning or locked themselves in the gym, they saw how Hoon trained harder than necessary. How he sometimes drove one of his vintage cars for hours—just to outrun his thoughts. How he studied telemetry in silence, even on rest days.

Jake—with his loud laugh and Layla the puppy always in his arms—tried to make him smile.

Jay, more observant, said nothing. But he watched and now and then, during quiet moments, the two exchanged knowing glances and smiled.

Because they knew something Hoon would never admit:

There was a journalist—with too much light in her eyes—who was getting under his skin.

Barcelona. Post-race.

In the Red Bull garage, the air was tense.

Mechanics worked in silence. No one dared speak to him.

The team principal had simply nodded and said:

"Today wasn’t your race. But the season is long."

But Sunghoon wasn’t listening. He had taken off his race suit, changed clothes, and now sat outside the motorhome, hidden in the shade.

The sun was setting slowly, and the roar of the engines had faded into the distance and that’s where you found him.

In a corner of the paddock you knew by heart. Your heart saw him first—before your eyes did. He was sitting there, the Ice Prince. Only that night, the ice was starting to melt.

You walked over—this time with no microphone. Just your voice.

“You didn’t run away this time,” you said softly.

He looked up slowly. Tired eyes. Angry eyes.

“And you’re still not tired of chasing me,” he replied, voice low and laced with venom. You stopped just a few steps away. Silence. There was no challenge in your stance—only honesty.

You looked him in the eye. He didn’t look away.

“I saw you make mistakes today. For the first time… you looked human.”

His jaw tensed. He gave a small nod. A silent admission.

“It’s not easy, trying to be perfect… is it?” Silence again. Only the distant hum of generators and the pounding in your chest.

Then, he spoke.

“I don’t want to be perfect.…I want to win. I want to deserve the seat I’ve been given and every time I screw up, every time I lose, it feels like I’m spitting in the face of those who believed in me.”

He looked down.

For one fleeting moment, he seemed fragile.

“And me… in all of this… am I just a distraction?” You didn’t ask out of pity. Nor to provoke him. You asked because you wanted to know.

He inhaled deeply. Didn’t look at you. But his voice wavered—barely.

“There’s no room for you. There shouldn’t be room for anything. But you… you’re there. Always. Because you provoke me every damn weekend, and I think about you, I see you—when I drive, when I lose, when I lock myself in the gym, when I race along the Côte d’Azur, even then. And I wish I could rip you out of my head forever. But you’re there. In my thoughts. And you drive me insane.”

His fingers moved—slowly. He took your hand. A gesture that wasn’t like him. A crack. A surrender. A silent confession.

His skin was warm. His grip firm, but not rough. He looked down—like he hated himself for it.

“And that… is the problem.” You didn’t reply right away.

Then, slowly, you knelt beside him—still holding his hand.

“Maybe… you’re not the problem. Maybe the problem is that, for the first time… you’ve found something you can’t control.”

He looked at you. Eyes not full of tears—but of storm.

“If I let you in, I won’t be able to focus. And if I keep you out…I won’t be able to breathe.”

Silence.

“Then choose what scares you more: losing… or feeling something.”

He didn’t answer. He let go of your hand but he didn’t stand. Didn’t walk away he stayed. With you and in the silence of the Catalan night,

for the very first time, it wasn’t the sound of an engine keeping him company—but you.

The sky above Silverstone seemed to barely hold the weight of the tensions built up on track, it had been an explosive Grand Prix. Sunghoon started second, Jin third. Everyone’s eyes were on them. No one was talking about anything else. The battle between them had become the main storyline of the season. And when, on lap 37, Jin attempted the inside pass, Hoon didn’t back down. The two brushed against each other, their tires touched, and the Mercedes flew off into the gravel, ending the race. Sunghoon continued, but the damage to the floor of the Red Bull sent him sliding to fourth place. Zero points for Jin. Just twelve for him. A disaster for both and a perfect explosion for the media.

After the race, the air in the paddock was as tense as a rubber band about to snap. Sunghoon got out of the car with his suit unbuttoned to his chest, sweat on his skin, his face burning. He threw his gloves onto the wall and ignored anyone who tried to speak to him.

But you were waiting for him.

Microphone in hand, posture impeccable, eyes determined.

You had watched the replay several times: the move had been risky, borderline. And you wanted his version but you also wanted to provoke him. You wanted to break through his ice. You intercepted him just as he was about to enter the garage, with two PRs on his heels.

“Park, got a second?”

He turned, saw you, and stopped. His black eyes immediately narrowed.

“What is it now, you want to ask if I tried to kill Jin?”

“No. But if you want to talk about it, we can add it to the interview.”

Silence. The cameramen were already there. The microphone was on.

You took a deep breath, then pressed on.

“You’ve been complaining all season about how Jin is treated like a deity. But today, when you had control, you chose to push him off. Is this the champion mentality you’re trying to show the world?”

Sunghoon stared at you. His eyes turned to stone.

“You know what the problem with this generation of journalists is? You all think the track is a reality show. This isn’t Netflix. This isn’t ‘Drive to Survive.’ It’s Formula 1. And I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

“Then why do you seem so obsessed with what we write? Why do you read every single line that concerns you?”

The shot hit its mark. You knew it a muscle twitched on his jaw.

Then, without saying another word, he turned and disappeared into the garage but the look he gave you… was a promise.

The call came less than thirty minutes later. From his PR.

“Mr. Park would like you to come to his office. Room 813. He says he ‘wants to discuss your journalistic skills.’”

You didn’t respond, you just went, you opened the door without knocking.

The room was bright, modern, with large windows looking out onto the now-empty track. Sunghoon was standing there, hands in his black pants pockets, a tight t-shirt that hugged his chest.

As soon as he saw you, he lifted his chin.

“Took you less time than expected. Ready to apologize?”

You closed the door slowly behind you. The blood was pounding in your temples.

“Apologize? For asking a question any journalist would ask? You called me here to hear applause or to confirm that you have thin skin when it comes to criticism?”

He stepped toward you, slowly, like a predator.

“I called you here because what you did was personal. It wasn’t a question—it was an attack. And you know what? You like it. You like to poke me. You like to make me lose control.”

You clenched your jaw.

“Because you’re arrogant. Because you think the world owes you something just because you drive faster than the rest. But you know what I saw today? Panic. Haste. A kid who feels threatened by someone who’s won more than him.”

He stopped just two steps away from you. Looked down at you.

“You’re just a brat. A nuisance. A background noise. And you’re playing with fire.”

You moved closer. Anger, excitement, tension—it was all mixed together.

“And you’re a walking ego with an inferiority complex. But hey, at least one of us has the balls to admit it.”

His gaze burned. He took a step forward. Then another. Now he was too close. You could feel his breath.

“Kneel.”

The word hit like a whip you didn’t back down. Your eyes locked onto his.

“Fuck you.”

He smiled. Cold. Obscene. Dangerous.

“I’m asking you to choose. Either you run like everyone else who can’t handle me…Or you show me that your mouth serves for something useful.”

Time stopped.

There was no noise—only the beating of your heart.

His hands had closed on either side of your hips, not touching you, but surrounding you with the tension of the gesture.

It was then, in that suspended moment between hate and desire, that you realized neither of you would give in first.

Sunghoon looks at you like you're a mistake. But the noticeable swelling in his pants screams the opposite. "What is it, champ?" you say bending your head to the side. "Are you afraid of a journalist who asks uncomfortable questions even with her mouth full?" He doesn't laugh. He never does. But his eyes shine with repressed desire, burning anger. "You talk too much." growl. "And you don't know when to shut up." You laugh, provocative. "Perhaps. But I bet I could teach you to moan my name before you can silence me." At that moment he snaps. He grabs you by the back of his head and pushes you against the wall, his forehead a breath away from his. "Don't tempt me, little viper. I'll break you."

"Promises, promises…" you whisper, biting your lip. Slowly, you kneel before him. Look at his belt, then go back to his eyes. "Can I open the gift?" Silence. Then a dry: "Do it. But no scenes." You unlock it with slow fingers, and you already feel the heat growing between you. When you unbutton his pants and lower them, his black by Supreme "Really Supreme?" raise your eyebrows. "Did you want to impress someone?" "Shut your mouth… or use it well." You laugh slowly, and then you light up. "Oh, don't worry. She'll be busy for a while." Lower the bigboxer, tense, throbbing. You bite your lips. Feel the water rise. "Christ, Hoon … below you are a champion even without a helmet." He looks at you as if he wants to pierce you, but the beating that pulsates on his toe betrays his self-control. You stroke it with slow fingers, going up and down. With your other hand, you stroke his side hard, feeling his muscles contract under your skin. "Let me guess…" whisper, as your tongue grazes its tip. "That's the weakness you didn't want me to find out." "Silent," he grunts. "Suck, now." You look at him, provocatively, and say: "I'm not as good as you think." His hand grabs your hair, squeezing it at the root, forcing you to open your mouth. "Then learn. I just want to hear my moans and the sound of your throat as you swallow me."

You take him between your lips slowly, while he sighs a " Fuck…” that sends a shiver down your spine. Feel his warm skin on the tongue, the tip smooth against the palate. You begin to move, lips tightened around him, tongue working in slow circles. He groans quietly but does not give up control. He guides you with his grip on his hair, and moves you as he wants. "Look how good you are when you stop talking…" he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "Maybe I should keep you like that more often." You cast a glance at him, while your mouth is full of him, and slightly tighten your grip around his left testicle, to challenge him. Sunghoon moans, a growl that becomes a crude groan. He pulls your hair with more force. "You're playing with fire, bitch." With one blow, he pushes it deeper into you. Your hands are clasped, one against his belly, the other pumping him with alternating rhythm to your mouth. You are moving as if you are enjoying a delicious dessert, sucking and licking with ravenous attention. You're destroying it, and you know it. He looks at you like he can't believe how well you're doing. Or how crazy you're driving him. "God, I can't stand you…" he moans. "But I swear you will never find another who fucks you like that." Lift your mouth for a moment, your lips shiny. "Who talked about fucking? I'm here to do a thorough investigation…" "Head down. Mouth open." And push, this time decisively. His hips move, and he penetrates you deeper, while his sighs turn into broken grunts. The salty taste of his skin, his smell, the tension in his voice that's all. He's coming, and you know it. "Take it all, bitch. You owe me." And with one last hoarse groan, you hear it explode in your mouth. His seed invades your palate, salty and bitter, while his hands hold you firm against him. You watch him calmly swallow it, never taking your eyes off his. When it ends, you're still there, satisfied, your mouth licking your lips slowly. "I would say that this …" you whisper, standing up," … deserves an adult-only article." He grabs you by the waist, holds you tightly against himself, and in a low, hungry voice says: "I hope you're not done. I certainly don't."

He lifts you off the ground with one hand behind the nape of your neck and the other on your hip. His body is hot, still tense from the pleasure you just gave him. "Anyone who stands against me… " growls against your neck, in a deep and dangerous voice, "…you have to accept the consequences!" You try to mask the excited trembling in your voice. "I just did my job as a journalist…" Sunghoon pushes you to the desk. Red Bull sheets are scattered everywhere. Strategies, telemetry. And also … your printed article. "This?" he says, grabbing the paper. "Your version of "work"?" You take it and read it aloud, with a cheeky chuckle:

“Has he finally shown the human side? Nope. And fortunately. Sunghoon Park is as cruel to himself as he is to others. But tonight, Melbourne shook for him.”

He looks at you with those sharp eyes and whispers, "You're not as important as you think. But fuck, how crazy you make me…" He folds you firmly on the desk. Paper rustles under your skin. Feel the cold wood on your bare thighs. Lift your skirt up, slowly. "Always in these good girl skirts…" he spits with sharp contempt. "You're a bitch, especially with me." He hits you with a slap on the butt. Strong. It makes you gasp and moan almost reflexively. The pain stings you but immediately mixes with a jolt of pleasure that leaves you breathless. "Oh, Christ…" you sigh. "You like it, huh?" murmur against your back. "Do you want another one?" You don't answer. He moves your panties to the side. And when he looks, he remains silent for a second that seems eternal. "You're already so wet." His voice is lowered, almost fierce. "And I didn't even touch you." With two fingers he opens you, and caresses your clitoris with the precision of those who want to punish and reward at the same time. A groan escapes you, raw, primitive. "Look how you tremble." He sticks a finger in you slowly, then a second. The obscene sound of your wet body makes him smile. "So soaked. For me. Just for me." Then he lowers his pants again. His cock, hard and shiny, leans against your entrance. "Tell me you want it." he orders you. "Fuck me, Park." whispered. With a strong push, he gets into you. It's chunky, hot, and fills you with an impact that leaves you gasping, fingernails sinking into the edge of the desk. "So tight…" he moans. "As if no one had ever taken you properly."

Every shot is deep, and brutal but rhythmic. The desk moves under you, sheets sliding to the ground. One is you. One is him. One is your sharp tongue, and the other is his fierce response. His hands grab your hips. Then they slide up, one to the neck, the other to the breast. He pulls you back against himself as he continues to push in. "Yell at me how much you hate me." "I hate you…" he whispers through his teeth, trembling. "…but fuck, continue." And he does. It takes you stronger, deeper, until your thoughts are no longer words, but moans, cries, broken requests. He fucks you like it's the only way to silence the war between you. When you feel that you are about to come, he whispers in your ear: "Let me feel how a journalist who can no longer use words trembles."

His cock pushes back into you with a force that takes your breath away. A scream escapes from your throat as you feel the pressure inside grows like a wave about to overwhelm you. "I want to come …" moans, the voice broken. "Please let me come…" Sunghoon does not slow down. But he bends over you, his mouth warm against your ear. "And why would I do that? For a bitch who writes articles just for the pleasure of teasing me?" You stutter, confused by pleasure, almost unable to think. "I… I … it was just … part of my job…" He grabs your chin from behind, forcing you to turn your head slightly towards him. His eyes are cold, and hungry, yet full of something darker. "Then pray." he orders you, pushing even harder inside you.

"Fuck you." you spit with a trembling voice, looking for a shred of control. But he looks at you with a sharp grin. "That's exactly what I'm doing, baby doll." Then it almost completely comes out of you, leaving you empty, about to go crazy. You feel the emptiness, you feel the absence, and your body moans in despair. "No … no, please…" he whispers, his voice broken. He smiles, satisfied. "Good girl." He caresses your clit with two fast, precise fingers, and a moment later you come with a choked cry, your moods dripping down her still pulsating shaft, which fills you all the way again with a deep thrust. Your moans mix with his. Every stroke sends you another spasm of pleasure. Feel the orgasm explode inside you like a slow and devastating bomb. "Where… where do you want to come?" he groans, his breath panting. "I'll take the pill…" you gasps. "I'm clean… and you?" "Me too. Regular tests. No girl in months." "Then fill-fill me. In. I want to hear you come inside me." With two final thrusts, you hear it explode. His hot seed invades you, you feel it squirt deep, and then overflow. The threads of his pleasure begin to trickle out of you along your thighs, while he stays there, inside you, panting, his forehead resting on your sweaty back. You both tremble. You both groan. Both of you, for an instant, are alive only in that wild, dirty, sincere bond. He stays inside you a little longer, his hand holding you steady against him. His breath caresses your nape. Then he slowly walks away, and you feel the heat dripping from you as he gently turns you around this time. Rest your head against his bare chest, sweaty, still shaken with pleasure. And he, unexpectedly, slips a thumb on your cheek, calmly stroking.

"You are a damned temptation." he murmurs in a hoarse voice. You look up and, with a weary but cheeky smile, whisper: "You'll see what I write this time. The title will be:

"Pilot under pressure: unexpected explosion".

He snorts, but he has a half-smile. "Don't think too much about me during the summer break." he tells you, the voice returned harder. "And if you even try to date some poor idiot, remember that only I … can take you like that. Only I can make you feel alive." He bends down to pick up his pants and looks at you once again. Then with a silent gesture of the chin, he points you to the door. "Now go. Before I change my mind and fuck you against the window again."

The summer holidays in Formula 1 were the only time of year when you could finally escape. No circuits, no hospitality, no press conferences with arrogant drivers and eyes like ice.

Just your home, the salt on your skin, and your feet in the warm sand of the Mediterranean.

You spent the days with your hands buried in bowls of cold pasta and grilled fish, the evenings filled with ice cream, slow conversations, and light dresses. Yet every time you closed your eyes… there were no seashells or waves to lull you to sleep.

There were his hands.

His pushes.

His killer gaze that seemed to say, “Never try to forget me.” And it worked. Because you couldn’t.

Some guys had asked you out. One with the gentle smile of your father’s pharmacist, another was a Danish surfer you met at a beach party. All nice, available, perfect for a summer fling.

But your body didn’t react. Your mind went blank the moment you thought about kissing anyone else. Sunghoon had branded you.

Not with sweetness, but with that cold fire only someone who never gives anything can make burn and you hated him for that.

Because he didn’t even give you a reason to stop thinking about him.

No paparazzi shots.

No compromising photos.

No mysterious girl appearing in his stories.

He had spent a week in Korea, you had found out by accident from a fanpage post that had spotted a picture of him at Incheon airport. But then he had returned to his kingdom: Montecarlo.

Jake, Heeseung, and Jay were posting stories on luxury boats, laughing with glasses of white wine between their fingers, and evenings by the Côte d’Azur. But not him.

He was like a shadow behind them. He showed up occasionally, with an expression too serious for a man on vacation.

Training.

Silence.

Balanced meals.

Zero clubs. Zero Oisha. Zero Twiga. A championship driver a war monk.

Sunghoon Park seemed to live in selective chastity, as if sex—even the wild kind with you—was a distraction only allowed in the heat of an impulse. Then? Nothing.

Yet you still felt his skin on yours, like a scent that wouldn’t go away.

The way he had taken you, teased you, humiliated you, and made you come at the same time.

The way he had looked at you in the end, while saying in that raspy voice:

“Only I can make you feel alive.”

He had kept his promise.

But now? He had left you to manage that emptiness. And you hated getting lost in emptiness. Maybe that was what hurt you the most: no longer even having the chance to truly hate him.

Sunghoon Park never smiled at Monza. He didn’t answer questions with enthusiasm, he didn’t sign caps, and he didn’t shake hands more than necessary. He had returned from vacation with the same sharp discipline he had left with: trained, focused, unreachable. No gossip, no distractions, no women. The only thing that mattered to him was winning and Monza was his. He could feel it. Every turn, every meter, every gear change seemed to align with his blood. But there was one problem. You. You, with your fluttering skirt and the media badge, wore like a summer bracelet. You, laughing too loudly in the press room, asked questions that drove him mad with frustration and desire. You, who never bent to him and perhaps, for this reason, you had become impossible to ignore.

The sun was beating down on the Monza paddock.

You were talking to two colleagues when one—a British journalist in a too-tight tie and oversized ego—got a little too close.

He laughed at his own jokes, brushed your elbow too often, and then, with a winning smirk, he said:

'Are you sure you’d rather interview those Korean robots than go out with a real man?'

His hand brushed your back, lower than was professional. Before you had time to respond with your usual sharp sarcasm, a cold voice interrupted the scene.

“Get your hands off her.” The tone was so low and sharp that the air seemed to freeze.

You turned.

Sunghoon was there. His suit was half-open, dark hair slightly tousled, sweat on his skin, eyes darker than usual.

The journalist looked at him, trying to laugh it off. 'Relax, champ. We were just talking.'

“I don’t care. You’re two seconds away from ruining your career.” Hoon’s voice was flat. Serious. Lethal.

The colleague made a ridiculous apologetic gesture and disappeared into the crowd. You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. What a knight.”

Sunghoon didn’t laugh. But he didn’t walk away either.

He was staring at you. Eyes locked with yours. As if he were looking for something. As if he wanted to make sure you were okay.

“I don’t need a bodyguard, you know? I can handle myself.” Your tone was provocative but sweet. He tilted his head slightly.

“It’s not for you. It’s to avoid breaking his nose and ending up in the headlines.”

You burst out laughing and that was when you saw it. The corner of his mouth curled. A half-smile and then, for just a second, his gaze drifted down to your bare legs, to your throat as you laughed, to the fingers holding your notebook.

Then it returned to your eyes.

He had been looking when he shouldn’t have.

The moment was interrupted by the roar of engines. The race was about to start.

After the race – Podium

He had won. Sunghoon Park had won Monza in front of the sea of red, the screaming fans, the delirious engineers but when he raised the trophy, his eyes only searched for one thing.

You and there you were. Radiant smile, hair tousled by the wind, eyes sparkling from the sun… or perhaps from something more.

You approached later, at the back of the paddock.

“Congrats, champ.” You said it with a strange tone. Affectionate. Almost tender. Sunghoon slowly turned around. He looked at you and for the first time, he didn’t respond with sarcasm.

He didn’t call you “annoying.” He didn’t roll his eyes.

“Thank you.” Just that. One sincere word. Calm. Real and then, quieter still:

“I missed you.”

You stayed there, suspended between the smell of gasoline and the setting sun and the mask he had always worn… seemed to have cracked just a little.

The humidity in Singapore clung to your skin like a wet dress. Even at midnight.

You’d spent the whole weekend feeling hot, restless, and confused: – restless from the heat, – restless because of the race, – restless because, ever since Monza… things between you two were no longer clear.

Sunghoon had changed. But he wouldn’t admit it. He was still quiet, but now he searched for you with his eyes. He was still cold, but his gaze softened when he spoke to you.

And today, when Jay won with his new team and Hoon came in second… he smiled. A real smile.

You’d asked him, microphone in hand: “First time I’ve seen you happy about not winning.”

He’d run a hand through his sweaty hair, shrugging. “My two best friends were on the podium with me. Doesn’t happen often.”

Then, a quick glance sideways. “And Jay earned it. He pulled off the lap of his life. I respect that.”

It was the longest sentence he’d ever said to you. And maybe the most honest.

That night, the Fullerton hotel was dressed in gold. From the top floor, the track looked like a constellation of artificial stars.

You’d had two rum-and-pineapple cocktails, with something else in them that made you feel both weightless and burning hot.

Wearing a short black silk dress, hair loosely curled, you smiled like a girl who knew she was playing with fire.

Then you saw him. Sunghoon. Suit unzipped, a half-buttoned shirt, collar open, hair slicked back with his fingers. Beautiful. Untouchable.

But your body remembered him too well and your mind hated him for it. You walked up with a little smirk and said: “You know, I thought you were going to kiss Jay on the podium today. You looked so… happy.”

He stared at you for a second. “Are you drunk?”

You pouted. “Just a little… just enough to find you even sexier than usual.” Sunghoon clenched his jaw. A moment later, he grabbed your wrist.

“Come with me.”

“Hey!” you protested, laughing. “I just want to have fun. Can’t you play along?”

He turned to you, eyes low, voice rough. “You will have fun. Just not the kind you’re thinking of.”

With a bold spark, you whispered against his ear: “Are you… my fun, Hoon?”

He placed a hand over your mouth. Not hard—just enough to shut you up. You looked up at him, your tongue lightly grazing his palm.

He pulled it back instantly. “You’re impossible.”

The hotel room was cool with air conditioning, but your body... was burning. The night’s humidity had seeped into your skin. And the tequila into your blood. You were still laughing as you leaned back against the closed door, your bare shoulders brushing the wood.

he black silk dress clung to you like a second skin, slipping lower with each heavier breath.

“Didn’t think you were the type to rescue drunk damsels at the post-race party.”

Your voice was light, tipsy, teasing. But your eyes... wanted him, Sunghoon shrugged off his blazer and left it on the chair.

White shirt unbuttoned to the chest, elegant black trousers eyes down, jaw clenched.

“I didn’t rescue you.”

“No? Then why bring me here?”

He stepped closer. Slow. Controlled. He smelled of aftershave and warm skin. “Because you were one step away from real trouble.”

“Maybe that was the idea…” A smirk played on your lips. You knew you were provoking him. And you loved it. He didn’t answer. He leaned in, took your chin between two fingers.

“You like playing games, don’t you?”

“With you? Always.”

And then he kissed you. Hard. Certain. Without mercy. His tongue claimed your mouth, and you moaned against his lips, grabbing at his shirt.

His hands moved to your hips, then lower, gripping you with force.

“You’re drunk. And too turned on.”

“That’s on you.”

You rested your forehead against his chest.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Silverstone. And I hate that.”

Sunghoon lifted your face with both hands.

“Then hate me better.”

The kiss that followed was slower. Deeper. Then he guided you gently to the bed and knelt in front of you.

“Spread your legs.”

You looked at him with glassy eyes.

“Yes, champ.”

“Don’t say it like that. You know what it does to me.”

His voice was low, nearly a growl as your thighs parted, he slowly lifted the silk, revealing the delicate black underwear already damp.

He looked up at you.

“Always this ready for me, huh?”

“Only for you. But don’t get used to it.”

He gave a dry, sarcastic laugh.

“I don’t want to get used to it. I want to ruin it.”

His fingers brushed against the fabric you gasped right away. Then he moved under it. Slow. Precise. He was learning your body like he studied a track—curve by curve.

“God, you’re soaked already.”

“Stop talking to me like that...”

“Why? Sounds like even my voice gets you off.”

His fingers started moving in earnest. First slow. Then faster. One, then two. Then his thumb joined in, finding your most sensitive spot.

You were about to lose control. Legs shaking. Sweat trailing down your temples.

“Hoon... I’m gonna...”

“No. Not yet.”

He stood, eased you back onto the bed, and came over you. Your clothes still on, but desire naked. Blazing. His kisses trailed down your neck. Your shoulders. Between your breasts.

“You’re a constant temptation,” he murmured, lips hot against your skin.

“And a problem. One I’m not sure I want to fix... or destroy.”

You grabbed the back of his neck.

“Then destroy me.”

He pressed against you—hard, hot, exactly where you needed him. You moaned so real, it made him shut his eyes like it hurt. Then he looked at you—lips wet, eyes dark.

“This is the last time.”

“Are we sure about that?”

You bit his lip. He sighed—but didn’t pull away. In fact, his hand returned to you, deeper, faster. You came for him—shaking, breathless, undone. He held you close, gently kissing your forehead. Then he pulled back and looked at you and you, curled into his chest, whispered:

“You’re not as cold as you pretend to be.”

He turned, gave the faintest smile.

“And you’re not as a good girl as you pretend to be.”

Sunghoon felt at home. It wasn’t Seoul—no—but Suzuka reminded him why he’d started all this. The Japanese asphalt under his tires had a different sound. Almost intimate and this… this was the turning point.

The title was just within reach.

Jin, his most relentless rival, was only a few points ahead. One mistake… or a bit more courage. That’s all it would take.

You, on the other hand, arrived in Suzuka feeling strange.

Too quiet. Too alert. Something gnawed at your stomach—a mix between a warning and fear. It wasn’t jet lag. It wasn’t the heat. It was him.

You saw him from a distance, in the garage.

That blue-and-black race suit clung to his body like a gladiator’s armor. Head down, focused—but you could read beyond the surface.

You approached under the guise of work, your press badge clenched in your fingers.

“Here to confess you already miss me?”

His voice, sharp as always—but his eyes… searched for yours.

“No.” You bit your lip and handed him a canned coffee.

“I came to tell you to be careful at the start.”

“I’ve been racing since I was four.” He laughed quietly.

“I know what I’m doing.”

“I know. But I…”

You hesitated. Then stood on your toes and kissed him—briefly—just below the mole by his eye.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just looked at you. But inside—inside, something cracked.

“Why did she do that? Why now? Why like this? It was a useless kiss, short…but it left me more exposed than a thousand words.”

You turned quickly and walked away. He stayed there, too still for too long.

The race start was clean then came lap three. The fight was on—Sunghoon and Jin, wheel to wheel through the fast section before Turn 9.

Your voice in the mic had just begun to rise when—CRASH.

Jin tried the inside, Sunghoon closed too late. The contact was sharp.

Hoon’s car slammed into the barriers—hard, direct a front wheel flew off. Carbon brakes burst into smoke. Global broadcast switched to instant replays, you didn’t scream, you didn’t speak, you let the mic fall.

-Where are you going?!- yelled the cameraman behind you.

But you didn’t stop. You tore through the media area, ran through the Red Bull hospitality corridors.

Two hours. Two endless hours then a doctor emerged from the medical room.

“Who are you?”

“His girlfriend.” The words came out without thinking a lie? Maybe but it felt like the only thing true.When you opened the door—he was there.

Laid out. Neck brace. Bandage on his brow.

Alive. You didn’t say a word.

You leapt into his arms—gently—and he pulled you in with one free hand.

Then he kissed you. In front of everyone. Without a second thought and something shifted. It wasn’t just tension anymore. It wasn’t just a game. It was truth.

You pulled back slightly, hands cupping his cheeks.

“You scared me to death.”

“I thought you only fell for the thrill.”

“No.”

You looked him straight in the eye.“You’re not just a problem anymore.”

He smiled. Slowly. Then closed his eyes and whispered against your forehead: “You’re my only distraction.”

The lights of Abu Dhabi didn’t just shine on the track. They lit up an entire season—racing hearts, stolen glances in the paddock, fingers intertwined in the shadows, and words never spoken out loud. The world was watching. And you… you couldn’t stop watching him.

The weekend had started with a tension that felt electric. Sunghoon started P2. Jin was on pole. Everyone knew it: everything would be decided here. The world title was balanced between two frozen flames. But you—deep down—you always felt it. That Red Bull helmet, number 02, would be the first to cross the finish line.

In the final laps, the air was so thick it could’ve been cut with a heartbeat. Lap 53. A crash. Safety car. Sunghoon’s radio crackled.

— “Box, now.” — “Are you sure?” — “Trust us. This is your moment.”

Fresh tires changed everything. Jin stayed out. And you held your breath. The last two laps became the cleanest, fiercest battle of the season.

And when he—at the penultimate corner—found that tiny window, that perfect braking point, when he slipped through like a scalpel and overtook Jin at Turn 9… The world flipped upside down.

Then, over the radio: “Let me hear her voice.”

It was the engineer—he turned to you, handed you the mic.

— “Copy, Park Sunghoon. Go claim your destiny.”

He laughed. He groaned something into the radio. And then he pushed. Pushed like the entire year was packed into those last two kilometers.

Checkered flag. P1. World Champion.

“You’re world champion!” you screamed, voice breaking, tears rolling down your cheeks. You heard him sob. Sunghoon Park. The ice prince. The robot. The boy without a heart. He was crying.

He parked the car like it was a ritual. Jumped out, and before removing his helmet, kissed the car. Then the tires—like he was thanking a partner. Then, the crowd. He threw himself into them, as if needing proof that it was all real.

On the podium, he was unrecognizable. Laughing, crying, shouting in Korean. He sang the anthem with a broken voice and champagne in his eyes. Jake and Jin sprayed him like kids, and for once, he just looked… alive.

And then he saw you.

You were there for work, still wearing your badge, mic in hand. But he didn’t care. He grabbed your wrist, ignoring cameramen, PR, the whole world.

“Sunghoon! I have an interview to—”

“Not now. You’re mine.”

He pulled you through the motorhome, down the still-warm hallways of the garage. Opened the door to his room. Closed it behind him.

Then he looked at you. And the silence hit.

“I can’t play this game with you anymore.” “Me neither,” you whispered. “I thought you’d just be an annoyance. A distraction. But instead…”

He stepped closer. His breath still ragged from the race. The smell of asphalt and sweat, of victory and desire, wrapped around you like heat.

Sunghoon's lips smelled of champagne and victory. And you … you were hungry. Of him, of his body, of his ego that smelled of warm skin and sweet sweat. He held you to himself with almost desperate force, as if he feared that you might vanish, escape, dissolve in the air of the suite. The noise of the party downstairs was just a distant echo. He moaned softly when you sank your fingers into his damp hair. “I can't take it anymore… " he whispered, his voice hoarse, tense. You smiled at him, cheeky. "Poor champion … so impatient.” Slowly, almost to punish him, you let him down the Red Bull suit, then the thermal jersey, revealing that body polished by fatigue and glory. The strained, sculpted muscles smelled of adrenaline. You stooped, sinking your lips to his candid, salty skin, sowing bites and hickeys like a signature. "They'll all see them," you whispered between bites. "Everyone will know that you are mine.” He grabbed your butt hard, barely growling. "Stop it," he admonished you, but the voice was shaken. You answered only with another slow lick on the line of hairs below the navel. You pulled his suit down altogether,and he stayed in bo bo His gaze burned. You rubbed against him, shamelessly, like a cat in heat. He snapped, grabbing you by the hips. “Christ. Look…” His hands, big, calloused, slipped under your sand-colored dress, mercilessly lifting it. "Raise your arms.” You did it, slowly, looking him straight in the eye. "Who the fuck are you dressed up for?” he growled, his gaze lost between your sand thong and the transparent bra. “For you, " you replied, almost chanting. "Just for you.” You rubbed against his erection, and he snorted a sharp laugh. "Keep it up and get on your knees before I get to touch you as you deserve.” He pushed you to the bed, decided, and when his teeth sank into one of your bare buds, your breath broke.

"Oh … Hoon …" you stammered, your voice broken with pleasure, as you tried to get your legs between his. "Do you see it? You're all mine already” he hissed at your skin. He sucked you, tasted you, explored you as if entitled to every inch. Then he stopped suddenly, and in a hoarse, rough voice whispered in your ear: “I wanted to fuck your breasts until you forget your name. But now … now I just want to sink into you.”

He slipped your panties with an almost sadistic slowness, the light fabric surrendering between his strong and impatient fingers. His dark eyes, shiny with desire, rested on your damp center, and the smile that folded his lips was typical of a man who knew he had won. "Look how reduced you are," he whispered, biting his lower lip softly. “All wet just because I'm looking at you. You've always been an arrogant little bitch, but underneath it all… two fingers of mine are enough to make you tremble.” His words made you groan. But it was the tone that broke you: low, rough, loaded with malice. "And now shut up," he added, as his lips glided slowly over your thighs. He began to suck your skin, to brand you with moist kisses and light bites, climbing up, approaching, barely touching you where you wanted to feel it most. You writhed under him, and the words came out to you in sobs, cheeky. "Come on, Hoonie…don't drive me crazy like that … ” "Shut up, baby doll," he hissed. "Dolls don't talk, they get used.” Then he looked you straight in the eye and let his tongue slide against you, with a decisive, expert gesture. The scream exploded in your throat, but he plugged your mouth with one hand, eyes fixed on yours. "You want them to hear you scream my name, bitch?” You nod, moaning under his grasp, and he growls a: “So you ruin me… and I like you crazy.”

His tongue moved in slow and deep circles, then quick and cheeky, while his breathing mingled with yours. When he stuck two fingers inside you, your body rose from the bed, arched like a stretched bow. "Say my name," he ordered. "Hoon… Hoonie, yeah…oh my God … ” "Stop coming without permission," he admonished you, clasping your hips tightly. ”I can't… please…I can't…" He added another, slow, torturing you, making you moan his name like a broken prayer. “You're taking everything so well, " he hissed. “I can't wait to replace these fingers with my cock, baby doll.” Those words sent you further. A warm, overwhelming wave shook you, and you came against his fingers and mouth. He drank it all, slowly, with a hungry and satisfied expression. "He knows about you and victory. Better than champagne.” Then he pulled up, his voice hoarse and his chest rising. "I hate you, bitch. But you're my drug.” And you, panting, with your legs still trembling, smiled at him with a cheeky air. “I know. And that's what fucks you.”

He kept you under him as if you were his all along, and maybe, in a way, you were. His hands clasped your hips with a force that left its mark, while his warm breath crashed against your neck. He was on top of you, hard, tense, ravenous. But he wasn't moving yet. Only the tip of him grazed the entrance to your pleasure, torturing you. "Hoonie…" you groaned, scratching his arms. "Not yet," he admonished you with a hoarse whisper, a threat stifled by desire. “You really are the greatest asshole I've ever known, " he snorted, his lips swollen with desire and his heart pounding. "And you the most unbearable little bitch in the whole paddock," he retorted, the fierce smile opening between his teeth. “But look how you shrink as soon as I touch you.” He bent down and brushed your lobe with his teeth. “Who would have said… the brilliant journalist, always with the answer ready… all wet for me.” “I'm just studying for an in-depth piece, " you muttered, your eyes ajar. "Behind the wheel: the ego of champions.” He laughed quietly, without humor. “You're about to find out how long the ego is.” Then he rotated the pelvis, causing you to tremble under him. You clenched his biceps with force, teeth sunk into the lower lip. "Fuck me, Hoon. Move. Now.” His gaze became more gloomy, hungry. “You're not the one giving orders, baby doll.” And with a sharp, deep blow, he pushed himself into you. A single, devastating lunge that made you scream. "Oh my God … yes … Hoonie, so…” He paused for a moment, just to look at you as you trembled beneath him.

He kept you under him as if you were his all along, and maybe, in a way, you were. His hands clasped your hips with a force that left its mark, while his warm breath crashed against your neck. He was on top of you, hard, tense, ravenous. But he wasn't moving yet. Only the tip of him grazed the entrance to your pleasure, torturing you. "Hoonie…" you groaned, scratching his arms. "Not yet," he admonished you with a hoarse whisper, a threat stifled by desire. “You really are the greatest asshole I've ever known, " he snorted, his lips swollen with desire and his heart pounding. "And you the most unbearable little bitch in the whole paddock," he retorted, the fierce smile opening between his teeth. “But look how you shrink as soon as I touch you.” He bent down and brushed your lobe with his teeth. “Who would have said… the brilliant journalist, always with the answer ready… all wet for me.” “I'm just studying for an in-depth piece, " you muttered, your eyes ajar. "Behind the wheel: the ego of champions.” He laughed quietly, without humor. “You're about to find out how long the ego is.” Then he rotated the pelvis, causing you to tremble under him. You clenched his biceps with force, teeth sunk into the lower lip. "Fuck me, Hoon. Move. Now.” His gaze became more gloomy, hungry. “You're not the one giving orders, baby doll.” And with a sharp, deep blow, he pushed himself into you. A single, devastating lunge that made you scream. "Oh my God … yes … Hoonie, so…” He paused for a moment, just to look at you as you trembled beneath him.

When you felt his body stretch over yours, his breath breaking into a low growl, you knew he was getting there. Her hands clasped your hips tightly, and with a deeper push, you felt full, warm, completely overwhelmed. "Oh f-Hoon…" you moaned, hands scratching his sweaty back. He did not stop, he pushed again, marking you, as his hot seed poured into you in waves, making you gasp for the fullness that made you tremble. "Good little doll…" he muttered in a low, deep tone. “You took it all, like a real girl of mine.” That phrase got under your skin more than his last push, the one in which he sank you again with a muffled groan as if he needed to brand you for real. When he came out, slowly, a warm trail dripped down your inner thigh. He looked at you with satisfaction, then bent down and kissed your forehead with a sweetness you did not expect. You sank your head against his rib cage, still shaken, still sweaty. You hugged him, tight, and for a moment it was all silence. Then your fingers began to play through her damp hair. He relaxed immediately under that touch. You knew him enough to know he was giving up. To you. “That thing from before… " you muttered, your voice tumbled. “That stuff that I'm your girlfriend… was it a stupid joke or are you serious, Hoonie?” He lifted his face, resting on your chest. His eyes looked for you, and when you fixed that wayward tuft on his forehead, he threw you one of those crooked, arrogant smirks that you knew all too well by now. “When I speak, I never do it in vain, little doll, " he said in a hoarse voice. “Even though I hated you, over time you got into me. In the head, in the skin. Every time I saw you walking around the paddock in those provocative clothes and that naughty mouth, I just wanted to take you away. And yes … I like you. And yes … you're my girlfriend.” You giggled a subtle, cheeky sound. “But you didn't even ask me, champ. A little obvious, right?” He rolled his eyes, theatrical, then poked his face against your neck and whispered softly, his voice scratched with desire and tenderness. "You want to be my girlfriend, little dool?” You barely budged, with a defiant smirk. “Depend. Are you going to act like a model boyfriend or do you just want to fuck me until you take my breath away?” He laughed slowly, his chest vibrated against yours. “Both, if you let me.” "All right," you whispered. “I want to be your girlfriend.” And you kissed him. Long. Deep. Slowly, as if it was the first time really. "Ok, but now shower," you muttered, brushing her sticky, hot skin. He sighed. “You're right, but… I don't want to let you go.” You clasped to him once again, fingers tracing circles on his back. "Come on, champ. You won this race too. But it's my turn to drive now.”

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Rebblog and comments are appreciated

©cutehoons02 all rights reserved 2025.

[mustardyellowsunshine]

Enjoy some pearl-clutching InuYasha.

[touchlikethesun]

xx

[thesquidkid]

Starting a collection of Matt's abilities from the comics (screenshots taken as I read the comics, there's probably some missing) (in: Daredevil Vol 1 #1-#7)

Daredevil Vol 1 #1

Before the accident, he starts training "just to keep in shape"

After the accident, he trains more intensely, which somehow feels easier

He realises his senses have gotten better

And he can get by on the street without much help thanks to his "radar sense"!

Daredevil Vol 1 #4

Matt is the only one who can resist Killgrave's power, thanks to his strong will

Daredevil Vol 1 #5

More explanation on how his radar sense works, and its limitations (too many people around, too much noise)

Daredevil Vol 1 #7

Matt added some smoke to his billy club, blinding his adversary! (Here: Namor) (I guess the ability highlighted here is his ingenuity)

[goldentigerfestival]

Yuri's dialogue (JP) is so fascinating to study, like... the repetitive use of certain words/phrases that others use sparingly but he uses constantly. the way it feels like his vocabulary is more expansive than what he uses, but he defaults to a "comfort" level of speech. the way it mixes in with his sort of "street talk" words and the sheer level of informality. the way his "street talk" phrasing is contrasted by the tone of his voice (on that note, people I know who also know JP are also very endeared by these aspects of him so I KNOW IT'S NOT JUST ME!!!).

'cause the thing is, he uses phrases that yeah, other people do use, but he uses a handful over and over and over (contrast to other characters' sparing use of repetition). it's actually... really refreshing? it sounds more relatable and less "video game/anime/JRPG/RPG" writing or something, idk. like closer to how a real person would speak.

I do my best in my translations not to make things sound too stiff across the board, but Yuri makes it so easy. it's why I'm so interested in translating all his lines in Vesperia, like... the actual, original tone for him with his original wording because it's smth Eng only players don't get to experience ('cause even if you listen with JP audio, if you don't know the language, ofc you're gonna miss out on context. it's nobody's fault for not knowing, just... they unfortunately miss out). the thing is, there are a lot of times when the lines in and of themselves are not contextually incorrect in the English ver (usually the situation for smaller scenes, because they altered the text outright for more important stuff which was the stuff that originally set me off, but there were also plenty of cases of just vocal tone shifting with the correct context that still gave off the wrong impression), but Yuri's tone is shifted away from the original in Eng even though it's completely and perfectly translatable.

I am by no means about to translate the entire game because let's face it, I really don't care that much for Vesperia on the whole. I'm kinda stuck with it because Yuri's there lo and behold I actually am WAY more engaged in his stories in Rays, Link and Asteria because it's an amazing character put into circumstances where he actually gets to shine and feels more alive, which Vesperia did not provide nearly as well with its very disjointed story. also, Tales gachas have banger stories that are arguably better than the mainline games, and they regularly make Yuri a very central character to the gachas. Crestoria was also about to do it until they pulled the plug on that game and I'm pretty confident something interesting has been lost to the world. also I just generally don't have the energy or motivation to do that, so... I'll only be focusing on Yuri's lines, especially because his stuff is where the bulk of the messing around was. he's just insanely fun to translate for and I love burying myself head first into his speech.

will I actually finish this project? dunno. will I get around to posting it? whatever I get done (so all of it if I complete it), and if I decide to call it quits then I'll post what I have at the time I decide that. will it take a long time? probably, but I can always mention stuff along the way...

[todayisafridaynight]

sometimes i like to think about ichi and the gang letting jo go up the millennium with them before shipping him off to the big house and then just sicking him onto tendo like a rapid dog when they get to him

[ambrosiagourmet]

I've been thinking about Laios' succubus lately. Mulling it over a bit.

Because I've seen these pages brought up a fair bit, but almost entirely in the context of shipping (on all sides, really). And I really want to understand what they are doing for the story beyond that.

When I went back to reread the scene and section, a few things caught my interest: the way Laios responds to both forms of his succubus, the themes of the volume the chapter is found in, and the other events of the chapter itself.

So let's dive into those three things, and what I think they say about the succubus scene's purpose.

Laios is never fully frozen by the succubus

So. If you compare Marcille and Chilchuck's reactions...

to Laios':

-

There is a difference. Sure, the basics may look the same once it turns into Scylla Marcille, but even then, it functions differently.

Chilchuck and Marcille are completely frozen once they catch sight of their succubus. Izutsumi, as well, isn't able to look away, and completely freezes up once her 'mom' starts talking to her. As Chilchuck describes, "just looking at them makes you unable to move."

And yet, Scylla Marcille has to actively convince Laios to comply. He even looks away from her at one point!

Laios accepts this succubus, but he is never actually helpless to it in the same way. Taken in? Convinced? Sure, at least enough to let things happen that he probably should question more than he does. But magically compelled? Not really. Not the same way as everyone else is. So that's interesting. But let's move on for now.

2. Volume 9 is all about drive and desire

I don't often look at chapters within the context of the volume they are included in, but I think there's some really fun things to be found with that perspective in mind.

For one, volume 9 starts with an exploration of what desire brought Laios to the dungeon:

And ends with a question of what desire brought Laios to the dungeon:

It's also very concerned in general with questions of why people do what they do. Why they are in the dungeon, why they are with the people they are with, why they stay, what they fight for.

In addition to Laios, we see it with Marcille...

Izutsumi

Kabru

and Mithrun

Hell, we even get it for the demon!

It's certainly not the only volume concerned with desires and motives, but it is particularly focused on these ideas.

The succubus scene fits quite well into the ongoing question about desires, especially Laios' desires. It is even placed at an interesting spot within the volume. The volume is six chapters long, and the scene takes place at the start of the 4th chapter. It's almost smack-dab in the middle.

With all this in mind, it is interesting that, with both versions of the succubus Marcille, it's not totally clear which parts of her Laios is rejecting.

The first version of Marcille looks human, but Laios attacks when he identifies her as a monster. The second Marcille looks like a monster, but he seems to believe that she is the real (human)(ish) person that he knows. So is he rejecting the monster at first, and then accepting the person? Or is he rejecting humanity and only interested in the monstrous?

Something to consider as we look at the next point...

3. the rest of the chapter is a seduction, too

This is one of those things that might not be apparent on a first reading, but is crystal clear on a revisit. We see the succubus try and charm Laios over 7 pages, and then see the Winged Lion do the same thing for the next 19.

Much like the succubus, it offers the mingling of monsters and humans. Much like the succubus, it offers belonging.

(and this is the point where I absolutely must also link this post by fumifooms on the succubus, which has some great ideas on how the scene is informed by Laios' trauma and desire for acceptance!!!)

But, back to the point. The Winged Lion wants to feed on Laios just as much as the succubus did, and it uses similar strategies to try and make that happen. Though this chapter isn't really the turning point for the next Lord of the Dungeon (it is Marcille who will, eventually, become the Lion's next victim), it certainly behaves like it is.

Laios is convinced. The succubus gets its meal. By the end of the volume, the reader begins to understand how concerning his desires are. Together, it is all very good at building up that sense of dread and pending disaster, as we see exactly how and why Laios might just fall into the Lion's open arms and bring about the end of the world.

-

So that's the three things I noticed. But there's still something I want to touch on by looking at the way these observations overlap, and what they reveal, together.

As I said, by the end of the volume, you can feel the tension growing. Just as Kabru and Mithrun do, you look back for an answer to the questions that have been built, chapter by chapter: why is Laios here? Where will his loyalties fall? This chapter, and scene, seem to prove the inevitable truth: he will choose the monster, of course. He will choose the seductive, easy power of the Winged Lion.

But the details of what actually happens tell different story: one in which the Lion is wrong.

First, as a reminder - even in Scylla Marcille mode, the succubus never fully entrances Laios. It convinces him, but it doesn't have him completely under its thrall.

Similarly, in the dream, the Lion does convince Laios to embrace the world he is offering. But even within that dream, Laios continues to ask questions that will be vital to him later. It is because of those questions that Laios comes to a new understanding about Thistle.

And it's this realization that he cites later as part of his reason for refusing the Lion's offer.

He is thinking through things the entire time, just like he continues to question the succubus even after it turns into Scylla Marcille.

Laios also expresses an interesting reason for why he wants to see the future of this world. He's not just invested because it would mean people liking what he likes, or him getting to spend time with monsters. The thought that comes immediately before his acceptance is about what he wants for monsters and people.

I don't think it's a coincidence that this statement - "we're living beings that share the same world, but all we can do is keep killing each other" - can apply to the various humans races just as much as it does to humans and monsters. The thing he is thinking about here isn't just a matter of his personal daydreams. It's an idea that underpins every conflict in the story.

Laios caring about how people as well as monsters in this manner is something that the Lion gets wrong every time. Even at the end, he still frames Laios' desires entirely around hating people and loving monsters.

The Lion has heard him express an opinion about the future of the world! It happened right there in the dream, right in front of him! He just didn't take it seriously, and didn't view it through any lens other than "Laios likes monsters more".

He's convinced that he understands how to get to Laios. Maybe the Lion can't truly see everything, or maybe his vision into everyone's deepest desires has made it hard for him to realize how much choice still matters. That people can, and do, choose which desires to act on, and how to act on them.

Whatever the case, he's wrong about Laios, and the story shows us this over and over again.

After all, look at how the succubus interaction plays out:

A monster uses Marcille to appeal to Laios...

He realizes that something about the situation is wrong, and rejects her.

It changes strategies, and makes new offer: to turn him into a monster.

It also assures him that his friends are, or will be, taken care of.

He accepts. Or rather, allows the monster to have its way with him.

But Laios is not as helpless as he initially appears, and what the Lion thinks is a successful seduction also contains the seed of an idea that will allow Laios to later resist him.

We even get to see Izutsumi playing a similar role in both instances, as the one person fully able to take action in the face to the illusion.

The story lays out what is going happen, and then explicitly tells us that the demon and the succubus are thematically related.

The chapter performs a great sleight of hand here - everything about it seems to indicate that Laios is doomed give in to the option to have his deepest desires realized. But if you look closer, it also contains the evidence that he won't. There's a lot more going on for him.

Yes, he still falls for obvious tricks. He is still extremely into monsters, and he still doesn't feel like he fits in with other people. He may, deep down, crave to surrender to the monstrous - to let it absorb him. But he questions more than he seems to. He considers more than people realize. He cares so much more than anyone gives him credit for.

And I think this is part of why we see the succubus called back to so many times, especially with the wolf head addition to his Monster Form, which he specifically added due to his encounter with the Scylla Marcille.

This all stays with Laios. It doesn't just foreshadow the path of the story, it is fundamental to how and why he walks that path. It's not about him choosing monsters, and it's not about him choosing people. It's about how he considers both, and cares about both.

And it's about the forces that think they already know his answer. Mithrun and Kabru. The Winged Lion. The succubus.

It's about how they are wrong.

[writesvani]

down low — jeon jungkook

boxer! jungkook x collegestudent! reader

friends with benefits au, situationship au

comment here for the Down Low taglist;

SUMMARY: There's no love, there are no fights with Jungkook—just a twisted addiction that keeps you crawling back. You tell yourselves it’s not toxic. After all, you never argue, never get jealous. Just fuck, lie, and slip back into the arms of the people who will never know.

It’s not love.

But it sure as hell isn’t nothing.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: porn with plot, smut, angst, dry humping, fingering, jerking off, oral (both receiving), vaginal sex, choking, spanking, slapping (light), hair pulling, biting (light), doggy, missionary, sideways, cowgirl, shower sex, mirror sex, cheating, semi-public sex, club toilet sex, unprotected sex (stay safe, please), discomfort, lying, manipulating, gaslighting, explicit scenes, explicit language, fighting, substance abuse (weed, cigarettes, alcohol), angst no comfort, seriously fucked up characters

word count: 7,6k + more soon!

chapter index ^᪲᪲᪲

— chapter one: U Up?

— chapter two: Inhaling You, Exhaling Guilt

— chapter three:

— chapter four:

— chapter five:

drabbles + extras ^᪲᪲᪲

— down low; moodboard

— red polo shirt (pending...)

— don't cut your hair (pending...)

— DL playlist (soon...)

the drabbles in this story are part of the DownLowVerse, so i highly recommend reading them to get a deeper understanding of the plot. as the story unfolds, new drabbles will unlock, and they’re designed to enhance the experience. i suggest reading the chapters in order, and in the author’s notes, i’ll let you know when’s the best time to dive into each drabble, as they’ll be posted after certain chapters.

but don’t worry — reading the drabbles isn’t a MUST. they won’t change the story, but they’ll add extra layers to it, helping you connect with the narrative in a more meaningful way.

DISCLAIMER:

Listen, if I did own Jeon Jungkook, I wouldn’t be writing this fic—I’d be too busy staring at him in awe like a fool. But alas, I do not. BTS? Also not mine (shocking, I know). This is purely fiction, and if you think this is an accurate representation of Jungkook or any BTS member, I have some bad news for you. This is a toxic, messy, morally questionable story born from my weird imagination, not a documentary. So don’t take it seriously, and for the love of all things holy, don’t send this to the real Jungkook. Let’s keep our delusions in this safe little corner of the internet, okay? Cool. Now, enjoy the chaos.

all works published here are created by me (@writesvani on tumblr). i own all rights to my original works, including any written content, original characters, and plotlines. copying, redistributing, translating, or posting my works on any other social media without my explicit permission is strictly prohibited. all rights reserved.

[erebus0dora]

some of you asked if you could print/chew/otherwise consume my Devil's Minion art, and i did ask if you needed a masterpost on the topic, so-

may i offer you this Google Drive folder, o gentle creatures..?

i'll add more, and i believe it's sensible to add the links to the original posts with these images, but frankly speaking i am chill with whatever way you use or share them if that's for your personal use

just keep them free, that's my only request

what was born as a free art should remain free art

any questions left? ask them, i don't bite unless you would really like that

now, have a peaceful day and my digital hug

💜UPDATE💜

it feels appropriate to make it a fully shaped masterpost, links and all, so... links to each and every artwork on the theme - below the cut

the Tarot cards (Hermit/Death)

"...rest" (but mirrored)

first take on Armand that looks like anime

some thoughts on the age of the magnolia tree

human!Daniel deliberately thinking of beautiful things

The Magnolia Tee Print

animated Daniel (literally, as in, a gif)

a very vampire!Daniel, thoroughly researched

Byzantine Icon Armand

a tender moment which is vague but there you go

sleeping Armand from a fic

hugs (the quiet)

more hugs (abrupt)

more hugs (headphones on, updated)

Daniel gently cleaning Armand's face

some extra somfte quiet gremlin

crack!chibi!Daniel on tees

crack!chibi!Daniel on teefs

sneaky sleepy uncertain hug for another fic

moar tender touch for another fic

beige pillow

the return of the beige pillow

"i see you"

kissing the maker's hand

more tender face-touching, couldn't choose one

Daniel comes to Louvre

Daniel collects art

four pages of Armand running and Daniel chasing

Hug The Gremlin

Hug The Gremlin For He Is Art

Armand as a candle, literally

Armand and magnolia petals (the art)

Armand and magnolia petals (the sculpture)

(slightly off-topic, but) Perforated Heart because ffs Eric knows his shit

good old don't you maître me thing which i keep forgetting to include

Only Fangs Molloy - keep in mind there's a JPEG and a TIFF version in the Drive folder, the TIFF works better if u wanna print it

(+bonus TALK SHIT GET BIT file is also there)

A LOT of traditional stuffs, scanned in 350 dpi for your entertainment

Daniel gently feeding his feral master, which is honestly one of the most tender things i have created

cozy sated hugs on a sofa

a domestic scene of Daniel waiting for Armand to enter his space, i suck at descriptions

trad art bonus! fighting with graphite dust, vol. 1, Luke

trad art bonus! fighting with graphite dust, vol. 2, Assad

an inspired old dogboy Molloy because face it, the world needs more hot aged people

trad art bonus! fighting with graphite dust, vol. 3, Armand

trad art bonus! Salomé Armand (+ vid)

MORE trad art! sculpting dat old hot man

what happens when you use ur own slightly inaccurate sculpture as a ref

EVEN MORE trad art!! Eric vs. watercolours, for his face compels me and his wild ig inspires me (+ vid)

TRAD ART AGAIN, since i found paper that looks like fun base for bookmarks (+ vid and bonus Daniel)

"he is behind my back, isn't he" (+ linked explanation)

tbc🫀

"he is 100% behind my back and i have ideas about it 😈"

[producedbysohyun]

Protective

Squid game x reader hcs

Summary: How the squid games characters would be protective over you

Includes: Thanos, In-ho, Gi-hun, Dae-ho, Myung-gi, Hyun-ju (squid game au)

Warnings: mentions of death, might be a little repetitive because I just feel like they would act similar.

Masterlist

a/n: Mb this is pretty short but I haven’t posted in awhile so I wanted to post something (I might add to this as time goes on) !! Please enjoy !!

Thanos:

Let’s just say that if anyone lays a finger on you, they are dead 🤗

You literally don’t have to worry about dying when you are with him

Always has his arm around your shoulder or waist so everyone knows to not try anything with you

During the night he holds onto you so tightly you feel like you could suffocate

He just really doesn’t want anything to happen to you 😔

If you really don’t want to play the games he will cave and vote X

You mean way more to him than money

No matter how bad his debt is

*cough* 1 billion *cough*

In-ho:

Idk how you would get in the game in the first place cause he definitely wouldn’t let you but

Ya you are not dying

Has full control of the game and will do everything he can to make sure you don’t die

Even if it means playing unfairly

Tells the guards to not kill you even if you didn’t pass the game

Definitely tells the guards to give you extra food so you have energy 😭

You’re basically just gonna be playing the games on easy mode

Gi-hun:

Bro has nothing to lose besides you so he’s gonna do everything he possible can to keep you alive

Doesn’t let you go anywhere alone

Beats himself up about not trying harder to end the games because if he did then neither of you would be in this situation right now

Never sleeps because he knows that fights happen at night and he wants to make sure you’re safe

Would immediately put himself in danger if it meant you would be ok

Makes sure you pass the games before even worrying about himself

Dae-ho:

Does not take his eyes or hands off of you

Is not afraid to defend you either verbally or physically

Even tho he is freaked out about the games as well he doesn’t let it get to him and tells himself he has to be brave for you

Always puts your safety above his

Ends up getting no sleep at night because he’s so scared something is gonna happen to you

Always insists on giving you his food even tho he is hungry

In his mind, you matter more.

Myung-gi:

Wanted to keep playing the games but when he figured out you were there he voted for X as he wanted anything but for you to be dead or hurt

Will literally kill anyone who bad mouths you (that one scene when he killed Thanos because he said something about Jun-hee 🤭 rip Thanos 😞)

Doesn’t let you leave his sight for a second

During the special game where the lights went out and everyone was killing each other he just kept you behind him the entire time

Boy was ready to risk his life for you 😭

If you get separated during a game he will probably scold you out of worry before realizing that he’s literally yelling at you for something you couldn’t control

You better believe he won’t let you get separated from him again

Hyun-ju:

Girl would do absolutely anything to keep you alive

Holds your hand 24/7

You guys are NOT getting separated

Doesn’t care about herself

As long as you’re alive she’s ok

Would absolutely crash out if anything happened to you

If you wanted to join the revolt with them she would tell you no instantly

Because if you ended up dying and it was her fault she would never forgive herself

Can’t sleep because she wants to watch over you pt.2 😢

a/n: I hope you guys liked this!! I know I say that requests are closed rn but I will take requests for hcs !! Not for a singular character but if it’s for multiple characters I will gladly write it !!

[mandalhoerian]

Repost because tumblr's tags were broken yesterday and it ate my post up 😞 Spoilers and translation notes for Rafayel's intertidal zone & analysis because it kinda floored me, I was just as a blank page as he was throughout this. I had to watch it like 5 times to understand what the story was saying and dig into chinese and japanese versions of this to piece together what was really happening. It may be my idiot brain not getting it and maybe it was like the easiest thing to understand for you but. Yeah. I may be just dumb LMFAO AND!!!! There's also a theory of mine into how Rafayel is actually able to read mc's mind/wishes through their lemurian bond, so stay tuned for that I guess

EDIT: correcting some transcriptions of chinese characters and the translations. sorry about that! google couldn't transcribe it correctly. for clarity's sake i will also include original screenshots. please tell me if anything is wrong!

EDIT 2: Check out part 2 to this as well for stuff I missed!

EDIT 3: An Abysswalker connection I found

EDIT 4: Debunking the myths of non-consent & Rafayel hurting MC in the spicy scene

So Rafayel’s whole deal in this memory, I believe, is dependency. Like, too much intensity, too much need, too much fear -- about scaring her off, about what he sees himself possibly becoming in the future, overall just being too reliant on mc and getting scared by it.

Let's begin with this massive fear of being a taker, not just in the “I’m stealing someone’s fries” way, but in this existential, soul-deep kind of way where he’s terrified of turning everything he loves into something he exploits out of demand for his art. And yeah, it’s sad when you first hear him say it, but it’s also really interesting when you look at how this all ties into his relationship with MC and his inspiration source drying up because of her.

Before Rafayel became an artist, he looked at the world in this super pure, wholesome way. Sceneries and nature were just there, things to admire and feel awe over without needing to do anything about it. Like, imagine standing at the edge of a desert, looking at a sea that’s drying up. Sure, it’s tragic, but it’s also kind of beautiful in a raw, heartbreaking way. That’s how Rafayel saw things, he could appreciate them without feeling like he had to do anything.

But then Rafayel started creating, and suddenly, sceneries weren’t just sceneries anymore. They became inspiration. He wasn’t just admiring beauty, he was extracting something from it, its meaning, its pain, its soul, to turn into art for other people. And that made him feel all kinds of icky, because now he wasn’t just looking at the drying sea. He was taking from it. Just as he's using his people's pain in his art as well, that's also a thing.

Now let’s talk about MC. Rafayel loves her like he used to love those sceneries,,, in this pure, untainted way. There's a parallel here. But here’s the kicker, he’s not the same guy who can just admire something and leave it untouched anymore.

And suddenly, this is no longer only about losing inspiration for him.

This happens after he and MC get together, and it’s like all the pain and anguish that used to fuel his creativity just.. ... dries up. He can’t find that spark anymore because now his life is surrounded by love instead of suffering. In fact, his inspiration starts coming from her and it's starting to clash with how he makes art. In the phone call, he seeks her out and says he needs her so bad and she only needs to talk to help him out. This is the first wink wink nod nod of the story.

So what does Rafayel do? He goes on this big, dramatic trip to "find inspiration" (or at least his muse), but it’s not just about his art. He’s not just looking for inspiration, he’s trying to figure out how to be less dependent on her and becoming increasingly more restless over this. The temparature and physical discomfort is making things worse, he's anxiously overthinking, and imagine trying to fight this and the longest art block as of late off when all you want to do is indulge in this special person and be comforted like a lap cat all day every day.

He understands that if he lets himself indulge without restraint, one day his love for mc will turn into pure need. He’ll become more and more greedy, and he doesn’t want that and is afraid of being abandoned because of that growing neediness and dependency.

This is in relation to his art, because as @/dat-silvers-girl put in the comments, he's struggling with "the genuine fear of not being able to enjoy anything in life because all you're thinking about how to use it (as an artist)" . what if he starts doing this to her? to their love and relationship? take from her, and become someone who only takes in every area of life -- like someone who only exploits things by extracting what he feels about them to use it for his art. he's afraid of that, he doesn't like that and possibly doesn't like himself who does it. so why should she? she would leave him for sure, in his head, that's a solid reason to.

The first time around he brings up his anxiety about MC leaving him out of the inner realization of his dependency, the possibility of just what he can become, and fear of abandonment. she effortlessly soothes his worries. It's heavily implied they did it afterwards and after hearing "her life has already been consumed by him" he tweaked out a little bit and his "obsession" seeped through.

After it fades to black, he says ほら……僕もとっくに……君に侵食されてしまっているんだ…… which means "See... I've already been completely consumed by you too" in Japanese instead of the life being made a chaotic mess localization. While I think MC's line was jokey and lighthearted, I don't think this man is joking at all. Rafayel didn't say his life was consumed by her as well, he said HE was consumed. Ouh.

This took the edge off from him for a while but they hadn't gotten to the root of the problem yet, so he was back to square one after the memorial hall, because remember, he's trying to find inspiration as an act of making this dependency of his better. Pain and suffering are all around him here, which his inspiration feeds off of. The dried up ocean he could hear weakening, the skeleton of the whale, the burden of his people and homeland more prominent than before. And what does MC do? Tear through the perspective of pain and introduce a hopeful alternative, "Isn't it a surprise to see an ocean in the middle of the desert?"

This is a place that gave Rafayel the height of helplessness and suffering when he visited by himself before despite momentarily being hopeful after the locals told him such a place existed. But now, she was there to comfort him through his loneliness and pain, hug him, and give him hope yet again. He brings up how he wanted to come here with the most important person to him when he was still hopeful about it before consumed by the pain of it all, and that wish has been granted. That moment has to be so powerful for Rafayel. Literally light at the end of the tunnel.

It had me reeling that he just sat in the car after all that, staring at her for god knows how long until she woke up. He was probably overthinking again, but my interpretation that it was heavily emotional for him (it could have meant so little for MC but the world for him, she doesn't even know) and he wanted to be in that moment with her, just feel and look without restraint. Indulge a little. (I can just imagine him going just a little bit more, I'll go after she wakes up.) And like. His eyes are shining in the darkness is the description here. Perhaps he was feeling so much here. So much love. So much happiness. And he's about to go in for a kiss (heavy breathing and everything) after that, but holds himself back and actively has to pry himself away. He's feeling the neediness again.

That’s why he makes an effort to actively wean himself off and says he'll be okay on his own. What he says to her after MC is like "spoiling him" being all "hey you're sick maybe don't go? or let's go together?" (which is NOT helping Rafayel at all) is even more meaningful in Japanese and I didn't know why they left out this context, but the rearranged line would be "Do you want me to become a sea creature beached on the sand after the sea recedes, unable to breathe on my own ever again?"

Yeah. YEAH. This is about dependency. (He's saying don't coddle me I'll literally become that wolf tearing his shirt meme 😭)

So of course his stubbornness and anxiety force him to do things without MC and distance himself, he can do it. He’s determined to prove to himself that he can endure it on his own.

I also feel like part of the reason he insisted on going to the salon alone is that he’s still worried mc might come to dislike the version of him who's someone he's so sure she will leave, who isn't perfect and he hides behind the persona he's put up just for her. If he truly becomes addicted to her and shows her everything/his true self, and she ends up leaving him, it would completely break him. He's trying to be like "im so normal about her haha" but he's so not normal about her at all. He's literally obsessed I feel like, and perhaps this is him fighting it knowing it's not healthy.

and OOOH about why he ends up coming back from the salon all hot and bothered.

I have strong context that she flicked the bean in there after he left her high and dry in the car ("hot water washes away the stickiness from my body and his stifled breaths still echo in my ears, enveloping me along with the steam in the bathroom. The warmth from his fingertips lingers in the places where he touched me..." is the english. however, in chinese, it goes "熱水洗去身上的黏膩，壓抑的喘息迴盪在我耳畔，和浴室裡氤氳的水氣一起包裹著我." stating "the suppressed breathing" -- which doesn't have any possessive adjectives when I translated it on google and later explicitly asked chatgpt if it had any his/my adjectives involved, just to be sure. it said no but i'd like it if a real chinese speaking person could give their input on this !!! PLEASE DONT LEAVE ME WITH CHATGPT

so um. if the context is in fact the case that he heard her masturbating to him, the intensity with which he attacked her would be normal, I think 😭

I have belief that MC unconsciously shatters his "training himself to be without her" determination through their bond. She just keeps thinking about him the entire time. about him reading her thoughts, though. we still don't know all about the lemurian bond they share. I’d say it grants him some sort of mind/heart reading ability or connects their minds together (when she was thinking about whether she should hug him, he answered “yes”).

At the salon, I imagine Rafayel was already thinking about her like crazy. Then he realized, or perhaps, "heard" she was still worrying about him and thinking of him (as much he thought about her) and decided to go back. Rafayel probably felt that suppressing himself was only making her more anxious and unsettled. She's thinking all about him, unconsciously calling to him to come to her, she didn't want to let him go at all, wanted to go with him, etc...

but even if it was his own decision and no mind reading was involved... uh. If you ask me. He did quite literally hear her after coming back. That's also something that might make him think she wants him as much as he wants her, which made his self-restraint utterly meaningless from the start.

Disregarding this theory of mine proven wrong until a Chinese speaker helps me out here, MC returned to Rafayel's room. A translation omission happened here from what I saw. There are no possessive adjectives in the Chinese text about the room she returns to, and the Japanese one states she returned to the guest room (doesn't specify which one. She was also able to enter Rafayel's room without needing to knock before.)

so uh. she went into rafayel's room y'all. the line "this is my room, you're the one who walked in here" MAKES SO MUCH MORE SENSE. (SO LIKE. NOT ONLY DID SHE GO INTO HIS ROOM, SHE FLICKED THE BEAN THERE AND HE POSSIBLY HEARD IT. SHE'S MORE OF A FREAK THAN HE IS, I UNDERSTAND WHY HE LET GO AFTER THAT LMFAO)

I don't put it past him to get worked up after he finds her in his room post-bath even without my theory lmfao (idk why they put her in a dress when she should be in a bathrobe or something 😭)

His conclusion at the end of this memory that "he finds inspiration in pain and the art of creation is a part of his life. mc made him realize love and art are so alike. even if they don't complete him but burn him instead he wants them (love and art) with every fiber of his being" and MC says she doesn't like that, rightfully so.

So like. There's SO MUCH to unpack in here.

When Rafayel says he finds inspiration in pain and that creation is a part of his life, he’s admitting something raw and essential about himself: pain isn’t just a byproduct of his art, it’s intrinsic to it. For Rafayel, pain and art are intertwined in a way that’s almost inseparable. It’s like his muse isn’t just beauty, but beauty that hurts.

But then he takes this further by connecting art to love. He’s realized that both art and love demand the same from him: vulnerability, passion, and sometimes suffering. They don’t necessarily complete him (he’s not romanticizing them as salvation), but they burn him, wear him down, consume him (coincidentally, this is something he said to MC in the JP dub of this memory, that she consumes him), but also give him life. And for Rafayel, that’s the crux, even if they burn him, he wants them with every fiber of his being.

This is such a Rafayel thing to say. It’s dramatic, it’s tortured, but it’s also deeply SUBTLE. He doesn't spell all of these out, mind you, I got a headache trying to understand him. Or I'm just slow, I don't know. It shows how much he values creation and connection, even if they come at a cost.

MC, on the other hand, challenges this perspective. When she says she doesn’t like that he views love and art as things that burn him, she’s pushing back against the idea that suffering is a necessary part of creation, or love. MC doesn’t want Rafayel to see their relationship as something that requires him to hurt. She’s telling him, “You don’t have to destroy yourself to love me.”

When MC says, “You’ll never have to burn for me,” she’s giving Rafayel an alternative to his destructive mindset. She’s saying that love doesn’t have to hurt, that their relationship can exist without him sacrificing himself on the altar of passion. It’s a refusal to let Rafayel romanticize pain as the price of love.

And I love that Rafayel goes, "Will you help me look for other parts in life outside of pain?" in response. This is NOT about art or inspiration anymore, and the way the dialogue is written is just AUGH. Again I had to rewatch this over and over again for the nuances and subtext.

I love MC's response, she knew exactly what to say. “I’ll always be the one who walks along the shore with you. Of course, diving into the sea bed is fine too. If it can snow in the desert, there will be a day when the ocean returns.”

MC’s response is layered with metaphors, but at its core, it’s about unwavering support and hope::

Walking along the shore: This represents safety and companionship. MC is saying she’ll be with Rafayel in the calm, in the moments where they’re just observing life without diving into its depths. She’ll be his steady presence, his grounding force.

Diving into the sea bed: This is an acknowledgment that life and love sometimes require going deeper and they may go through hardships, into the unknown, the murky, the challenging. MC isn’t afraid of this, she’s willing to go there with him too.

Snow in the desert and the ocean’s return: This is a symbol of hope and transformation beyond being a nod to The Sea of Golden Sand. Snow in the desert seems impossible, just like the idea of Rafayel finding inspiration outside of pain might feel impossible to him. But MC believes in the extraordinary, in change, and in the possibility that beauty and creation can exist outside of suffering.

Her words are a promise: she’s willing to stand by him, to face the unknown together, and to hold onto the belief that a new way of seeing the world is possible.

And Rafayel LOWKEY PROPOSES IN RETURN.

By saying “let’s watch the sea together,” he’s accepting MC’s offer of companionship and hope in the long run. He’s recognizing that life doesn’t have to be about diving into the depths alone, it can be about sharing the experience with someone else, even if it’s just standing on the shore and watching.

“Every sea”: This phrase is key. Rafayel isn’t just committing to one kind of life or one kind of inspiration, he’s opening himself up to all possibilities. Watching every sea means embracing all facets of life, whether they’re calm or turbulent, painful or beautiful. It’s a marriage proposal declaration that he’s ready to explore the world beyond pain, with MC by his side.

So. I love that his inspiration returns after his freak is accepted by MC because he literally feels the acceptance through the bond.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk. This memory DRAINED me. They were just supposed to bang what the fuck happened. Why did I have to go treasure hunting to find what was going on in this card. anyway...

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Doing Time 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, threats, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you try to keep your brother safe in jail but put yourself in danger along the way.

Characters: con/ex-con!Steve Rogers

Note: Since' I'm vibing.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You never expected it to be like this.  

It’s still surreal to you. The frigid halls, the concrete walls, and the bulletproof barrier between you and your own brother. Despite all those troubled years, of him being lost, you just never could think he’d end up here.

On the other side of a window; where you can’t hug him, you can’t hold his hand, you can’t even poke him for being the annoying the little brother. You can only stare at him and grieve. You try not to show it. You try to be strong for him. Maybe it’s a lesson. 

You wait for the guards to bring him as you sit in the stiff chair. As you think past to the days when you and Vaughn were just kids, when his antics were harmless, it’s all so distorted. Like a dream. Like it never was. 

You remember pushing him in the swing at the park, laughing with him about jumping in puddles, but then there are the other scenes stuck on replay. The boys teasing him until he hit them. Until he held them down and filled their mouths with rocks. He wasn’t violent then, not in your mind, he was just protecting himself. Now you see, that was only the beginning of a twisted road. 

The door on the other side opens and closes. You look up and lean in, trying to see around the walls of the booth. Other inmates sit along the row, facing their own loved ones, soaking up those few minutes they can. 

Vaughn is shoved into the seat across from you. The guard hooks the chain of his coughs to the desk and pats his shoulder with an unheard warning. You sit up and grab the receiver. He does the same, reluctantly. He won’t look you in the eye. He hardly can as his left one is swollen shut, his nose is split at the bridge, and he wears a stiff neck brace. 

“What happened to you?” You gasp. 

He pokes his tongue into his cheek. He hovers the phone away from his battered face. His tattooed knuckles clench. You repeat your question. 

“A fight.” He shrugs and wince. 

“A fight? You didn’t think to tell me when I called? How—the guards--” 

“The guards don’t give a shit,” he hisses. “Just the way it is.” 

“Why--” 

“I did what I had to. Some guys in here are just looking for it.” 

“Vaughn, look at me,” you demand and lean forward. 

He closes his eyes and takes a breath. He opens them and meets your gaze. Shame twitches in his cheek. You’re the only person who calls him anything but V. He sighs. 

“I was being stupid. I ran my mouth and... shit, I woulda been killed if it was for this other guy down in Block D. Saved my neck,” he gulps. “Really, he did.” 

You frown and rub your forehead, “he saved you? Didn’t think there’d be much of that in there.” 

“Huh?” 

“Like you said, the way it is. Why would someone help?” 

His eyes dart away. For all his sneakiness, he’s never been able to lie to you. Still, he can’t admit it. 

“Who was it?” You ask. 

“Who? Why? You got friends in here?” He snorts. 

“Well, you won’t tell me why they helped, so I don’t know, Vaughn, give me something.” 

He rolls his eyes; at least, the one you can see. “Okay, okay. He’s got pull in here. He’s... been here a while. Kinda the big dog.” He sniffs and lowers his voice, “he’s got a lot of friends.” 

“You mean he’s in a gang?” 

“If that’s what you wanna call it,” he scoffs. 

“What would you call it? I’m not stupid. Someone like that doesn’t do you a favour out of the goodness of their heart, so what’s the catch? Tell me.” 

“Sis, you don’t get it. You don’t survive in here unless you got someone to watch your back.” 

You drag your hand over your head and sit back, “I know. It’s-- it’s just that sounds dangerous. Vaughn, you said you were going to learn from this.” 

“He’s not the worst,” he says. “The guy, he’s got a code. He keeps people busy so they’re not hanging around sharpening shivs. It is what it is, but it’s better than the alternative.” 

“Still punching each other in the face. Beating each other senseless,” you accuse. 

“Look, it could’ve been worse. You should’ve seen the other guy. And the one who helped me, everyone is afraid of him. I got him in my corner. You want me to make it out, that’s how.” Vaugh shifts and touches the neck brace. “And sure as shit I’m not gonna turn around and spit in his face. I owe him my life.” 

You think. He's right, you don’t know anything about being inside. And you don’t have any other suggestions. At least he has someone looking for him when you can’t. They might even be able to protect him from his own worst enemy; himself. 

Still, new allies mean new enemies. At least, going by the TV shows. You doubt those are accurate. What can you do but let him figure it out. Pray that he does. 

“Tell me who.” 

“What?” He snips. 

“Just tell me?” 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know. I’m curious. What else are we gonna talk about?” You say. 

“Yeah, guess you wouldn’t wanna hear about my cell mate’s shits,” he snickers. “Guys name is Rogers, Steve. Don’t know what got him in here but he can hold his own. He’s like a walking Ken doll. Maybe a bit forgotten but, put together.” 

“Ah, you interested?” You wonder. 

“He’s not my type. You know I’m picky.” He smirks then chuckles only to wince in pain. “Stop making me laugh.” 

“Well, I hate to put an even bigger smile on your ugly face but I did add credit to your commissary. Phone time too. You gotta call mom.” You try to roll the tension from your shoulders, “I won’t tell her about the fight but you promise to call. She’s on my ass.” 

“Thanks,” he deflates, “I... I didn’t mean to hurt her. Or you. Ya know?” 

“I know, Vaughn. There’s time,” you assure him. 

The rest of your thirty minutes is spent trying not to fixate on his bruises. It makes you sick to think about what happened; to imagine him being beat like that. You have no illusions about prison, you’re terrified, and you don’t deny it’s his own fault he’s there. None of that can change that he’s still your baby brother. 

When it’s time, you don’t want to go. The unhook his cuffs from the loop and force him up. You watch him go before you leave, escorted by a guard into the hall. 

You stop by the desk to schedule another visit. You tap the pen on the form as you think. You look up at the uniformed receptionist. 

“Can I get another form?” You ask. It’s a bad idea. 

“Sure,” she’s unfazed by the request and slides another form through the slot. You write in the time and date then pause as you try to remember the name; Steve Rogers. You don’t know his number but hopefully that doesn’t matter. 

You sign and submit both forms under the window. The guard takes them and reviews them with a quick skim of her eyes. 

“Rogers?” She reads aloud. 

“Yeah? Is that a problem?” You wonder. 

“Not my call. Needs to be approved. Even then, the inmate needs to agree,” she puts the forms next to the keyboard and types. 

“Oh, well... I guess I’ll wait and see.” 

“Not saying anything,” she drones. “It’s just... he doesn’t get visitors.” 

“How long has he been here?” You ask. 

“Can’t disclose that,” she rebuffs. “But maybe he’ll agree, just for a change in the days. Board’s the real problem.” 

“Well, thanks. I appreciate the help,” you put the pen down. “Have a good day.” 

“You too, miss.” She responds without looking away from her screen. 

You turn and drag your feet toward the doors. You kind of hope it’s denied. You’re too embarrassed to go and ask her to just shred the form after all. 

⛓️‍💥

The prison calls to confirm both visitations, not so much to your content. The more you think about it, the worse the idea seems. The man is not only a stranger, he’s a convict and a criminal. You don’t even know what he did.

And what are you going to say? Your whole intent is to thank him but now you think he might just laugh in your face. What if you make it worse? 

And you can’t not go now. If he showed up and you didn’t. If he ever finds out it has something to do with your brother, you may have just put him in danger. Oh, why don’t you think things through? Maybe you’re more like Vaughn than you care to admit. 

You drive to the facility. You check in with the guard, they do their usual search, then take you into the visitors’ bay. Your brother looks better than the last time you saw him. In better spirits too. No trouble to report, at least none he will admit. 

Your half-hour goes to fast. You remind him to call your mom, your mind wandering to your next thirty minutes. The guard tells you to stay as they take Vaughn away. You do. For fifteen whole minutes before the door signals another arrival. 

The guards lead the inmate to your booth. You look up at him shyly. He’s tall, thick arms, broad chest, muscled bound shoulders. The jumpsuit clings to him tightly as if they can’t get one to fit properly. His blonde hair is made paler by streaks of silver. His blues eyes are edged with crows feet and his already handsome face defined with the lines of his age. 

He’s older than you expect but no less intimidating. He sits, his posture unwavering, and he stares at you blankly. They hook his cuffs to the desk and leave you. There’s only expectation in his expression. He is not the one who starts conversations. 

Vaughn’s right. He doesn’t look like the typical inmate. 

You wait but he doesn’t move. You grab the receive and put it to your ear. You chew your lip as he tilts his head. He slowly reaches to pick up the one on his side. 

You gulp but can’t find your voice. You stare at him helplessly. You eke out, “hi.” 

His cheek dimples, “wasn’t expecting you. Mostly ‘cause I don’t know you.” 

“Um, uh,” you sniff and shake your head. You fidget with the cord. 

“Take a breath, sweetheart.” 

“Sweetheart?” You echo. 

“Well, you got a name?” 

You clear your throat and give your name. It steadies you, just enough. 

“You saved my brother. Vaughn.” 

He scoffs, “you’re that ugly bastard’s sister? Why on earth are you bugging me?” 

“I just... he told me what happened. I wanted to thank you for saving his life.” 

“Saving his—Is that what I did. Well, rest assured, I didn’t do it for his sake. I did it because I can use him,” he leans forward on his elbows, crossing his arms. He keeps the receiver between his shoulder and ear. 

“He’s still alive because of you,” you argue. His constant stare makes you squirm. 

“He’s alive as long as his mouth isn’t aimed at me. Let me make it clear, I hold not kinship for your brother. In fact, I was five seconds away from smashing his teeth in myself so your visit is entirely unwarranted and unnecessary.” 

You’re taken aback. Not just by his statement, but by his language. He’s eloquent. 

“I... so why did you show up?” 

“Curiosity. Boredom,” he shrugs and sits up as he grabs the phone with his hands. “Not much to do in here, in case that isn’t obvious.” 

“Well, glad I could entertain you,” you adjust the receiver then slowly move it away from your ear. 

“Hey,” his suddenness catches you. You keep the phone hovered an inch away. “Where are you going?” 

You arch your brows, “you said it yourself, this is pointless.” 

“You got time left. Might as well use it,” he counters. 

“I’m not going to sit here and be mocked, Mr.--” 

"Steve,” he chuckles, the first time his expression cracks. “Or you can use my inmate number,” he points to the digits across the left side of his chest. “You wanted this and I didn’t let them drag me here for a measly five minutes.” 

“I don’t have anything else to say to you,” you tilt the receiver away and he shows his palm, a gesture to stop you. You pause and put the speaker back to your ear. 

“We’ll figure that out along the way.” 

“Why?” 

“Sweetheart,” he pauses then says your name, “fine. Can I be honest with you? I’d like to talk to someone who doesn’t piss five inches from my bunk, anyone who isn’t trying to get something from me, who isn’t trying to stab me in the back. I thought you were a reporter, I was gonna say no. I didn’t so please, let’s keep talking.” He takes a breath and lets it out through his nose. “Let’s just have a human conversation.” 

You tweak your lips and think. You did drag him here. He stares back, placid. You’re not sure why you stay but you do. You settle in with the receiver. 

“So, where do we begin?” You ask. 

“Why don’t you? There’s not much going on in here. Not anything you’d wanna hear about.” 

“Um, okay, I don’t know...” 

“You look like a teacher? Or librarian?” He ventures. 

You squint at him. You’re not sure if it’s an insult. “Admin. For a clinic.” 

“A secretary. Close enough. You like your job?” He runs his fingers over the desk. 

You shake your head, “does anyone?” 

“I guess not. Why don’t you like it?” He waits. You have no answer. It’s still awkward. “Come on. It’s the same thing in here every day. Humour me.” 

You exhale, “alright.”

What’s the worst he can do? Laugh about the office drama? You think it’s just as silly. And you are the one who started all this. It'll be a unique experience you hope you never have to think about again.

[rinsoap]

THEM AS YOUR BOYFRIEND!

includes : ken ryuguji and baji keisuke. they are in their late teens/early 20s.

note : UR WELCOME TO THE FOURTEEN REQS IN MY INBOX BEGGING FOR BAJI CONTENT! i was gonna write mitsuya and mikey but i got tired lol

ken ryuguji as your boyfriend.

he loves taking you out on his bike. he likes how you hold him so tightly, and he likes the feeling of your cheek pressed against his back. when you first asked him, he was a little wary at first because he was kind of scared you might get hurt, but who was he to say no to his girl?

the girls at the brothel fucking love you. you exchange makeup tips and self care remedies, they pinch your cheek and tell you how cute you are. "hi love, what are you doing here looking so pretty!? ain't she pretty, kenny? yeahh he thinks so, look at him, he's blushing" "'course i think she's pretty, i'm the one dating her" oh and they love to give you life advice too; men, money, independance, all of it. draken is embarassed by how they act, but you think it's sweet.

he hates being posted to your socials. he's cool with it if his face isn't in the picture, but he values his privacy. his own social media presence is practically nonexistent, other than one highlight with one story from your birthday of you holding flowers he got you. the song he posted to you is my girl by the temptations.

though he likes his privacy, he does like pda. not intense pda, it's not like y'all have your tongues down each other's throats in public or anything, but he likes a lil kiss here n there. his arm around your waist, or your fingers intertwined with his. a kiss on your shoulder, and always one on your lips before you part. and while he doesn’t typically like to make a scene, when he misses you its a whole different story. he loves when you run to him when you see him after being away from each other for far too long, throwing your arms around his shoulders and his wrap around your waist to spin you around, peppering the side of your face with kisses as you tell him how much you missed him through giggles. "missed you too, angel," a kiss on your jaw. "i'm sorry i've been so busy lately," a kiss on your cheek "'m gonna make it up to you though, i promise." a kiss on your lips. yeah, it's that kind of pda.

he will call you so many pet names, it's not even funny. they're out of his mouth before he even realizes it. it's not like he hides his loving side exactly, it's just that with you, he gets to be a whole other type of gushy. his friends make fun of him whenever they get a glimpse of his softer side when he speaks to you, but he does not care!!! he'll never stop calling you his pretty princess or kissing your cheek or holding all your bags when you go shopping just because his friends think he's whipped. he would happily admit that they're right!!

baji keisuke as your boyfriend.

he may come across as cold, but make no mistake, physical touch is his love language. he always finds himself gravitating to touching you, even in public. whether he's holding your hand or resting his head on your shoulder or tracing hearts and stars into the skin of your thigh, he just wants to touch you!!! in private, it is so much more egregious. he'll be on top of you, attacking you with kisses, hands roaming over your skin. he loves when you sleep over because then he can extend his time to cuddle with you. he likes little spoon and big spoon equally, he just wants SOMEONE to be held!!!

he has and will fight someone for you, absolutely no question. he doesn't exactly get jealous, you express how much you love him enough for him to have interalized it, but he does let a threat or two slip out when a man's flirting with you right in front of him. when someone is being creepy to you, yes, he has been known to throw a couple punches. he'll stop when you ask!! its not like he's batshit!!!! when he's finished, you tend to his wounds. muttering about how stupid he is but giving him a kiss to his temple.

he knows how obsessed you are with his hair. he watches you from the corner of his eye, staring lip tucked between your teeth as he puts it up. he complains, but he secretly loves it. "man you treat me like some slut" "true i'm just using you for your hair. one day you'll wake up bald and i'll be half way across the country with a ziploc bag full of your beautiful hair" "i hate you" he loves lying on top of you, cheek pressed against your chest as you run your fingers through your hair. he always ends up mumbling how much he loves you when your fingers find their way into his hair. he also lets you play around with different hairstyles too! his favourite will always be a half up half down moment :p

he calls you bro more than actual pet names tbh. generally, he doesn't use a lot of pet names because he'd rather call you by your name, but when he's being extra sweet or when he's tired, he'll use them. you love how cute he is when he's about to fall asleep, he starts going on and on about how much he loves his pretty girl. "soo sweet to me, love you soo much... my lovely girl... my love" he'll whisper into your neck, not even knowing exactly what he's saying himself as his eyes slowly flutter shut. when he's in a good mood he'll greet you with a lil "hey baby" or "hello perfect beautiful girlfriend" bc he's annoying like that 😞

he can ALWAYS tell when something is wrong. a clench of your jaw or a slight falter in your eyes, he immediately knows. he'll ask about it as soon as he picks up on it. he's surprisingly very good at comforting. he'll listen as long as you need him to, he'll give you a temple kiss, a gesture that quickly became a sign of love and understanding in your relationship. he'll kiss you on one, then the other, and add "to ease your mind." and you laugh because it's corny, and he rolls his eyes and claims he's never doing a nice thing for you again, but he grabs your hand to take you out to eat because he knows food is the best comfort.

[sailorsoons]

Storm Breaker (l.jh)

PAIRING: Jaeger Pilot!Lee Jihoon x Jaeger Pilot! f.reader  

Summary: It’s a known fact Lee Jihoon is one of the best pilots the jaeger Program has. The only problem? He can’t keep a co-pilot to save his life. He thinks you’ll just be another Ranger in the rotation, but you are an unpleasant surprise. 

WC: 23,373

AU: Pacific Rim AU, Forced Proximity, Annoyed to Lovers

GENRE: Smut, Angst

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARNINGS: Jihoon is a bit of an asshole, action/fighting scenes, brief descriptions of blood, mentions of offscreen deaths, brief mentions of sick parents, brief mention of having no family, sexual tension, explicit language, A Lot of Pacific Rim Techincal Terms But They’re Explained, terrible humor, a hint of angst, brief depictions of Jihoon being insecure about his childhood, sexually explicit content including nipple play, biting, a total of one (1) spank, oral (f. receiving), the slightest hint of voyeurism mentioned, unprotected sex (don’t do this), multiple orgasms, a lot of spit and cum, cum eating, vaginal fingering, a lot of biting, Jihoon is emotionally constipated and then lets it all out lmfaoooo

A/N: This is a re-upload from my old blog, since this was one of the stories that got blasted to the moon. Please enjoy PacRim Uji, who I love so dearly.

A/N 2: SPECIAL THANKS TO @daechwitatamic for not only collaborating with me on our little corner of the internet, but beta reading this giant piece and constantly motivating me while writing it. I could not be anywhere without you I love u 

ALSO IN THIS UNIVERSE: Cherry Bomb by @daechwitatamic

MASTERLIST | ASK | PERMANENT TAG LIST | READ NEXT: Cherry Bomb

JIHOON DOESN'T FLINCH WHEN XANDER THROWS HIS HELMET AGAINST THE WALL. The crash is loud, but the reinforced material doesn’t crack under the force of the concrete. It clatters to the floor while Jihoon tucks his helmet under his right arm. Sweat drips down the side of his neck and down his back, but he can’t get to it while in his Drivesuit. 

Just add it to his list of inconveniences.  

Everyone in the room freezes as Xander storms toward the command center and right for the Marshall in charge, his steps thunderous against the metal floor. Instead of following him, Jihoon leans against the doorframe, watching the way his co-pilot rages, imagining steam coming out of his ears. 

“I can’t fucking pilot with him,” Xander screams, stabbing an accusatory finger in Jihoon’s direction. “I refuse to do it. Reassign me.” 

Eyes drift toward Jihoon. He ignores them, watching as Xander stops at the command post where both the Marshall and the LOCCENT Mission Controller who just walked them through their kaiju fight stand. Both of them stare at Xander, who is red in the face, chest heaving. 

It’s a bit of an overreaction, especially for a team who just dispatched a Category Four kaiju. But it doesn’t matter. Xander isn’t Jihoon’s first co-pilot and he won’t be his last. They rarely last long, a cycle of Rangers who cannot stand to work with him for more than a few fights. Jihoon examines the scratches on his suit, thinking that he needs to get it buffed while the Marshall deliberates how to answer Xander’s demands. 

“Ranger-” 

Xander cuts off the Marshall. Bold, if you ask Jihoon. “I’ll leave the fucking program if that’s what I have to do. I won’t pilot with him anymore, I don’t care that we can drift. He won’t trust me, he won’t give up the reins and he refuses to let me in. He’s arrogant and pig headed!”

“Pig headed,” Jihoon mutters to himself. “That’s new.” 

The Marshall sighs heavily, eyes drifting toward Jihoon, who is still leaning against the doorframe. He lifts a single shoulder in a shrug, unsure what the Marshall expected. Pinching the bridge of his nose, the Marshall asks Xander to follow him, gesturing toward the door at the back of the command center that leads into offices. 

Silence blankets the room at their departure. At least, as silent as it can get in the jaeger hub. The beeping of machinery and radar is a constant sound under the hum of machinery and the awkward cough of one of the workers in the room. Jihoon raises his brows as if to ask someone to say something. No one does and he nods, dismissing himself. 

Laughter trails up the stairs followed by loud steps. He looks down to see Chan and Wylie coming up the stairwell, cheeks flushed and hairlines sweaty from their battle with Dreadfury only minutes earlier. Their team had the assist on the kill, and though they hadn’t landed the final blow, their constant offense had given Jihoon and his partner the time they needed to figure out how to move in. 

Chan sees Jihoon and raises a questioning brow, pausing in the stairs. “Lose your co-pilot?” he asks, looking Jihoon up and down. 

“How’d you guess?” 

“Standard,” Chan and Wylie say at the same time. 

They do that a lot, so in sync that despite the fact that they’re two different people, sometimes Jihoon feels like he’s talking to one. Wylie is a little shorter than Chan, but just as furious in personality and attitude. She leans against Chan, cocking her head to the side. It’s not a conscious movement but an instinct, her body naturally attaching to her co-pilot’s. Jihoon knows that level of closeness well. 

“Think they’ll just finally get rid of you?”

“Nope.” 

“Standard,” they both say in unison again. It’s Chan who says, “Must be nice to get away with murder, Woozi.” He continues up the stairs, clapping Jihoon on the shoulder as he goes. Wylie trails behind him, shooting Jihoon a grin. “One day you’re gonna end up on your ass.” 

“That’s fine. You’ll both take me in, right?” 

Both of their voices meld as they howl in laughter, passing him and going into the command center, yelling “Nope!” 

Despite their teasing, Jihoon smiles. He’s known the pair for years and despite their ability to get under his skin, he’s fond of them. They’re good jaeger pilots, scrappy as they come and vicious in the field. Unlike Jihoon, they’ve piloted their jaeger together from the start, syncing like twin flames and sticking to one another. 

It helps that they grew up together, of course. And that they’re in a relationship, one heart, one soul. 

Sighing, Jihoon jogs down the rest of the stairs, tired and sore. He needs a shower, food and a fucking nap. He and Xander had been pulling extra shifts, the kaiju activity having increased with the bad weather. He suspects it was also in an attempt to get Jihoon to bond with Xander more and get him to open up, but that hadn’t happened.

That’s the problem with piloting with Jihoon. The more time people spend with him, the less they can stomach the way he resists them in the mental bridge that connects co-pilots. It isn’t that he’s afraid for them to see what’s in his head - they haven’t earned a right to his privacy.

Privacy is important to him. 

Murmurs ripple through the cafeteria as he enters, rolling his head to the side to try and workout the kink that is formed there. He glances around and fights the urge to roll his eyes. Word spreads fast when you’re secluded in the Shatterdome with nothing but fucking ocean and giant monsters around you. 

As usual, he ignores the stares and whispering. He catches Soonyoung’s eye from afar and shrugs when his friend gives him a questioning glance, earning an eye roll. Not for the first time, Jihoon finds himself wondering why someone like Soonyoung or Wonwoo can’t be his partner. 

Drift compatibility. 

He knows that’s the answer, but he’ll never stop wishing that pairing jaeger pilots together was a little easier. So many factors go into making people drift compatible and yet he’s yet to find a partner he can tolerate - or tolerate him in return. If it were as easy as picking his friends, he’d have settled with someone long ago. 

Brushing away the thought, he heads to his room. It doesn’t matter what he wants. If wishes were horses, everyone would be a rider. He’s pretty sure that one of his former co-pilots had said that - in regard to Jihoon being impossible to work with, of course. 

The dark and quiet of his room brings the peace Jihoon craves. He feels the tension melt from his shoulders. He suddenly realizes how tired he is, feeling like parchment stretched too thin over a rough surface. He peels himself out of his clothes methodically, welcoming the chill of the room against his sweaty skin. 

He trails to the shower, tossing his clothes in the hamper as he does. Leaving the lights on so it’s only the dull orange glow over his bed, he turns on the shower as hot as it will go. It takes a second, but soon steam is filling the room, choking him as he slides under the stream of water, sighing as the heat of it burns away any lingering frustration for the day. 

Tomorrow, he’ll have a new partner. It’s a simple fact and a routine he is familiar with. That’s fine with him - they can keep assigning people to him until they find someone competent. Jihoon isn’t going anywhere. 

He has nowhere else to go anyway. 

-

“I need you to do me a favor,” Kira says before you can finish stepping out of the jaeger. The Marshall of the Sydney Shatterdome looks deadly serious. You scoff under the helmet, reaching up to unclasp it and shuck it off. Fresh air fills your lungs. It’s hot and tastes like metal in the jaeger bay, but it’s familiar. “And I need an answer quickly.”

“Ever heard of foreplay?” you grunt, helping Maya out of the giant mech behind you. She shoots you a thankful grin, taking off her helmet. Her face is flushed pink, hairline sweaty. “You really just dive in dry, huh?” 

“You know my cousin is a Marshall of a Shatterdome overseas?” 

You pause. “Yeah.” 

“They’re asking for a skilled pilot to pair with one of their Rangers. They sent over the drift profile and you’re the only pilot we have that’s a match.” You frown and she holds out a hand to stop your protest, a crease in her mouth. “Just look over the report and the profile I sent you, alright?” 

“I mean, my answer is no. I’m fine here.”

“You are. You’re one of our best teams,” Kira says earnestly, her dark eyes flicking between you and Maya. “But respectfully, your value is needed elsewhere. There isn’t enough activity here to keep a veteran of your status on shift, Blue.”

You feel a flicker of uncertainty. Rarely does Kira use your nickname. It’s too familiar for a military commander of her status, and though you’ve considered her a friend for years, she never uses your nickname on shift. Unless she really needs something from you.  

Licking your lips, you hesitate to answer. You don’t want to say she’s right about your skillset and risk insulting your coworkers and other pilots in the jaeger Program, but it’s an accurate statement. The Shatterdome you report to is old - one of the first built in the beginning. But kaiju activity is mostly unpredictable, shifting with the tides. You barely get them once a month anymore, and there are too many pilots who need the practice.

You don’t. 

You glance at Maya and she offers a soft smile. “Hey, I didn’t think you’d be my co-pilot forever. Hoped, maybe. But I didn't expect it.”

“Oh come on, I’m with you for life, Maya.” 

“Romantic.” Maya’s gaze softens. “Marshall has a point, though. We’re a little… slow here.” 

It makes a pang go through your heart. Maya has been your co-pilot since your mother passed away, and though you didn’t go through the Ranger training program with her, she’s the perfect balance to you. You like having her around, and the thought of changing pilots just because someone wants your experience is… unideal. 

Sensing your unease, Maya reaches out and touches your forearm, squeezing over the metal of your Drivesuit. Her smile is soft. Knowing. Like she knew that being in the drift with you wasn’t forever, and she’s already saying bye. 

“Look,” Kira sighs, bringing your attention back to her. “My cousin really needs a skilled pilot and someone who is a leader and isn’t afraid of working with veteran pilots. They get more activity, and they need someone sharp. Skilled. Strong.” 

“I mean, I’ll look over the papers.” 

“Thank you.” She steps away. “I need to know by the end of the day, though.”

“Jesus Christ, Marshall. End of the day is in like two hours.”

Her smile is firm. “I know.” 

Waving her off, you leave your jaeger behind, Maya trailing after you. She peppers you with encouragement as you walk, steps heavy on the metal catwalk. You don’t respond right away, thoughts trying to catch up with being thrown an offer immediately after slamming a monster back into the depth of the ocean just minutes ago. 

You don’t have to ask why you. Drift compatibility alone is important enough to move jaeger pilots around the world from Shatterdome to Shatterdome in order to make the best pairs possible. There aren’t a ton of pilots - especially among the younger ones - at your base that are compatible with you.

Stubborn, Kira had always said. Finding an equally dominant co-pilot that meshes with you is difficult. You suspect that if you were not extremely talented at what you do and a veteran at your base, they might have moved you to an advisory position a long time ago.

Advising is not for you, though. The grind of metal and the heat of the fight is where you thrive, letting your mind go empty, entirely driven by instinct. Instinct was the reason you were so good at fighting kaiju. Your mom had always said you had the instinct of a warrior, and after putting down as many monsters to protect humanity’s coasts, you had to agree. 

Maya immediately goes to the shower once you reach your shared room. You dive onto the bottom bunk, snatching the tablet sitting on your night stand. Your eyes squint from the brightness, sensitive in the dim room. Clicking through your emails, you find the reporting and profile from Kira and open it, information unfurling before you. 

“Huh,” You muse, raising your brows as Lee Jihoon appears on your screen. “I know your name.” 

His profile is impeccable - and so is his skill. Chewing on your lip, you throw yourself onto your cot and flip through all of the materials provided on your potential co-pilot. Veteran Ranger. Highly skilled in combat. Top of his class in the academy. 

Clicking on the attachments, you watch the attached videos. There’s clips from his fights in and out of the suit. You find yourself hypnotized by his fighting style. There is a beauty to it, but it’s absolutely lethal. Efficient. There are no extra flourishes, no showmanship. Lee Jihoon fights to kill. 

“So why do you need me?” you mutter to yourself, pulling up his past partners. The list is extensive, stretching back to multiple co-pilots over weeks at a time. “Jesus christ. You do not play nice.”

He must not, at least. Half of the pilots assigned to him are only barely compatible. You know it takes more than just matching fight styles, but based on the history glowing at you from the screen, Jihoon’s Marshall was doing anything they could to keep him, even if it meant pairing him with someone who was scoring as low as 54% compatible. 

Pulling up your side-by-side analysis, you whistle. 98% was a good fucking number. You’d only ever had 90% with your mom, and she was genetically linked to you. Still, with as many partners as Jihoon has had in the past year alone, you don’t know that it’s worth it, even if his base has more kaiju activity and looks to be in need of veteran fighters.

Sighing, you close the tablet and throw it on the pillow. Resting your head against the metal wall, you close your eyes, thinking. You’re happy where you’re at. You’re a leader here, and you like Maya as your partner. She’s young and eager to learn - and you like your jaeger. Shadow Stalker is a good suit, though a little older. 

Biting your lip, you grab the tablet again, opening the jaeger details on Jihoon’s profile. Newer model. Built for endurance. Equipped with multiple blades, suited for pilots who prefer sword-style fighting. She’s painted gray-blue like the deepest part of a storm - blue like your mother’s first jaeger, which makes you grin. 

Storm Breaker. It’s a good name for a jaeger and it matches the profile. She’s built to withstand the brutal waves of the deep ocean and the onslaught of a high-category kaiju. Your interest is piqued, curious about Storm Breaker and her brutal pilot. 

Closing the tablet again, you stare into the distance, thinking. “What’s your deal, Lee Jihoon?” 

-

Jihoon hates sparring with Chan almost as much as he hates sparring with Wylie. Chan doesn’t scratch at Jihoon like a feral cat like Wylie might, but he does bite, which is exactly what he does when he can’t get out of Jihoon’s hold. 

“You fucker,” Jihoon hisses, letting him go. Chan slips out of Jihoon’s grasp and rolls to his feet a few feet away, crouched low and ready to go again. Despite years of being a jaeger pilot, Chan nor his co-pilot have fallen out of their scrapy upbringings, fighting like two street orphans. “What, are you going to bite a kaiju if you can?” 

“Of course not. I just don’t like losing to you.”

“Too bad.” Jihoon straightens and lifts his fists, planting his feet firmly. Sweat slicks the back of his neck, wispy pieces of hair escaping his hair tie and sticking to damp skin. “No more biting.” 

“No promises.” 

Somewhere behind him, Jihoon hears Minghao shriek. “She bit me!”

Scratch that. Maybe Wylie does bite. 

Chan comes at Jihoon again. He’s a good fighter and he’s ruthless. It’s one of Jihoon’s favorite things about him. But there’s always an opening, always a moment between fluid movements that reveals itself that Jihoon can take advantage of. 

He does exactly that, going on the defense, watching and waiting for the moment. When it reveals itself, Jihoon strikes lightning fast, catching Chan in the chest hard and taking him down to the ground. Jihoon feels the wind leave Chan’s lungs as he coughs hard, head smacking the mat. 

Behind them, Jihoon hears the collective wince. Chan is dazed for a second, groaning underneath Jihoon’s hand pressed to his chest. He can feel the hammering of Chan’s heart, a little faster than his own. When it’s clear Chan isn’t going to claw at him, Jihoon stands and offers him a hand.

With a heaving sigh, Chan takes it. Jihoon claps him on the back, grinning as Chan tries to catch his breath, rubbing the back of his head. “That hurt.”

“Oops.” Chan looks over Jihoon’s shoulder and grins, causing him to turn around and follow the younger’s gaze. Wylie sweeps her feet under Mingho’s, knocking him to the mat. She pounces like a creature from hell before he can react, pinning him down. “Well, at least one of us didn’t get our ass beat today.” 

“Stop biting, Dino,” Jihoon says as they trail off the mat, a warning. Chan has the decency to look chagrined, bowing slightly to his superior. Jihoon adores the kid, but he will not serve as a chew toy. 

Grabbing a water, Jihoon sits down on the floor with Seungkwan, Soonyoung and Seokmin as Junhui and Minghao trade places. Minghao is nursing a scratch on his neck from Wylie’s nails, muttering about her being a demon straight from hell as he sits. Wylie gives her new opponent a wicked grin, taking her place on the mat and beckoning Junhui toward her. Jihoon shakes his head, gulping down water and leaning back on his hands. 

“Fresh blood,” Soonyoung notes, gesturing toward the training room entrance as the Marshall leads a group of people in. “They’re holding trials for the two new mark fives tomorrow. Wanna go?” 

“No.” 

Soonyoung laughs. “Come on, they might be looking for another partner for you too.”

“Don’t care.” 

“You can’t keep going through partners, man.”

Jihoon doesn’t react, eyes scanning the group of cadets. They all look fresh-faced and in awe as they’re led around the mats, wide eyes glued to the sparring pilots as they go. His eyes settle on you, though, pausing. 

You don’t have the same awestruck wonder as the other cadets, trailing behind them as your eyes scan the structure, the fighters and the equipment around you. Calculating. Critical. You’re a little older than the other cadets too - not in looks but in aura, chin lifted, gaze sharp. Experienced. 

Soonyoung follows Jihoon’s line of sight and straightens. “Woah. Who is that?” 

“My new drift partner,” Seokmin sighs dreamily. Soonyoung and Seungkwan smack him at the same time, offended. They’re one of the few triple pilot groups, operating a massive piece of machinery made for slaughtering and hammering down on high-grade kaiju. “What? Look at her!” 

“You shouldn’t fuck your co-pilot,” Seungkwan mutters. “Look what happened to Seungcheol and Cherry. She’s still at that training facility in Alaska. Didn’t come back after their drift glitched.” 

A collective hum goes through them. All of them recall that situation, but no one says a thing. The weight of Cherry’s absence sits heavy on them - even Jihoon misses her a little. 

“I don’t know,” Soonyoung notes cryptically, eyeing Wylie. She’s managed to get Junhui off his feet, slamming him down with a rattle of mat and springs, pinning him with a savage growl. Wylie Coyote indeed, Jihoon thinks, smirking. “Seems to work for Wylie just fine. God, look at Chan, he literally has heart eyes. Disgusting.” 

It’s true. The pilot in question sits at the edge of the mat, elbows resting on top of his knees as he watches his girlfriend with his mouth open, lips upturned a little. His eyes are dazed, focused on Wylie as she holds onto a thrashing Junhui. There’s so much love in his gaze that Jihoon averts his eyes, worried he’s observing something sacred and private.  

“Not everyone is like them,” Seungkwan shoots back. “They share a brain cell.” 

“We’re literally drift partners. We basically do the same thing.” 

“And yet I don’t want to fuck you, Hoshi.” 

Soonyoung cocks his head to the side. “You know, that brings up a valid question-”

“No,” the other three say at the same time, cutting him off before he can get going. 

Still, Seungkwan’s point is valid. The drift is something that is so intimate that it isn’t uncommon for copilots to have a romance or some sort of tension. The neural handshake makes you become one, unable to hide anything. It is inviting someone else into your head to see everything you see, everything you have seen. Memories, feelings, thoughts - nothing is yours anymore. 

Jihoon hides it all from his co-pilots. He knows he’s not supposed to - openness and being honest and true with your partner makes for a better drift. But the intimacy of the connection makes him uncomfortable, and he’s not ready for anyone to see him - really see him. 

So he hides in the drift. Knows how to bring nothing to it, to give only the parts of himself he has to in order for his partner to fight alongside him. Jihoon gives nothing more. And they don’t need it, frankly. 

The Marshall leads the new recruits back out of the room. He watches you go, wondering what your deal is. As though you sense his eyes on you, your eyes flicker over to his, catching his gaze. He’s unsure why, but he pauses, the room stilling for a split second. Then you’re grinning wickedly, vanishing from the room. 

He brushes it off and turns his eyes back to his friends. 

-

Lee Jihoon is prettier in person. You don’t know why it’s the first thing you notice as you watch him walk across the training center. He’s dressed in fitted cargo pants and a racing jacket over a t-shirt, emphasizing his broad shoulders. His hair is bleached and pinned into a low bun, some of his bangs hanging in his dark eyes. He doesn't notice you watching him as he nears an empty mat, shedding the jacket. 

He’s compact. Small, but toned, muscles rippling as he begins to go through a series of stretches. You know he’s a good fighter from your observations the day before. Everything about him screams efficiency. You can’t put your thumb on it, but the way he carries himself is methodical.

Lee Jihoon is the perfect jaeger pilot on paper. 

It’s the partners that he has a problem with. He’s had eight co-pilots in the last year alone, which is more than anyone has the right to. Before that, he managed to keep someone for six months before they requested a transfer to a different location. 

You sense Jihoon’s gaze, realizing he’s picked up on your staring. His expression is as neutral as it was yesterday, as though he has zero interest in whoever you are. He must not - he turns away and gets back to what he was doing, the moment passing without fanfare. 

Everyone in the room is paired with their pilots, going through fight sequences. You watch the different pairs, noting those who exhibit high-drift compatibility and others who are still learning. You note how many talented pilots this base has, likely due to the high activity. 

As though the thought summons the very creatures from the depths of the ocean, an alarm goes off. You don’t flinch, used to the kaiju alert system. It had gone off the day before, though. You look up at the screen as it flashes the names of the pilots on duty, calling them to report to the drop bridge. 

A few shouts of good luck draw your attention to the center of the room where two of the younger pilots head out. You’d seen them sparring earlier, so in time with one another that you weren’t sure where one began and one ended. The man looks at the girl and gives her a smile so full of love that you look away, startled at its intensity. 

While romantic connections between pilots aren’t totally uncommon, you’re not used to it. Most of the Rangers at your old base were family members and childhood friends, connection deep and intimate but not like that. You wonder what it must be like, if it makes love any easier to be that deeply connected. 

“So are you my new co-pilot?” a soft voice startles you and you turn to see that Jihoon has snuck up on you. His eyes are darker in person, entirely consuming as he looks down at you with a cocked head. His blonde hair sticks to his forehead, pale skin covered in a sheen of sweat. “You must be, right?”

“What makes you think that?”

“You’re not a cadet. And you’ve been watching me for the better part of two hours.” 

You shrug. “You can learn a lot from watching veterans.” 

“You could at least offer to spar to see if we’re any good together.”

“You mean to see if I’m good enough for you.” He lifts a shoulder, not disagreeing with you. Wiping your palms on your knees, you stand up. Even though he’s small, you’re still a little shorter than him, nearly eye level. You stick your hand out, giving him your name. “But you can call me Blue.”

Instead of taking your hand, he nods and turns on his heel, striding back to the mat he occupied earlier. You stand and stare at the newly vacated spot, hand held out in the air. “Alright,” you mutter to yourself, dropping your hand and going after him. 

Eyes follow you. You can feel them as you trail after him, watching his smooth, even gait. Everything about Jihoon is refined and controlled, even down to the minute expressions as he steps onto the mat and turns to face you. Sliding your shoes off, you join him, feeling the spring beneath your step and the softness of the floor.

Jihoon heads to a rack of bo staffs, picking one up and tossing it to you. You snatch it, spinning it lightly to test the weight. The balance is near perfect, a slight weight to the left side. You adjust accordingly, grip firm. Jihoon does the same, spinning his staff and rolling his shoulders.

“Who were those pilots called to make the drop?” you ask, conversational. 

“Dino and Wylie.” 

“Good pilots?” 

He takes his stance. “Excellent. They’re terrors. It won’t be a problem for them. Are you right handed or left handed?”

“Ambidextrous.”

“Good.” 

You don’t know why, but his assessing gaze bothers you suddenly. Like you know that even though you know you’re an excellent fighter, it still won’t be enough for him. The thought that you’ve lost before you even begun pricks a nerve and you strike first. 

It’s immediately obvious why you’re compatible. Jihoon knows your next move before you know what it is. You feel him move like an instinct, imagining his attack and defense before it happens. It isn’t a fight, but a dialogue, two skilled fighters communicating in a pattern only familiar to them. 

Sweat slicks the back of your neck and back. You barely register it, losing yourself in the rhythm of Jihoon’s movements. The sound of the training gym fades to the background and you barely hear the crack of your staffs as they meet over and over again. You hardly see him, vision fading to a narrow point of instinct.

This is how you fight. Muscle memory, driven by intuition.

Your intuition tells you that you’re perfectly matched, fighting style so similar that it’s hard to get a hit in - you won’t get a hit in, too in sync with him to out maneuver him. 

So you deviate. 

Instead of dodging a smack to the ribs, you let him hit you. His surprise is so apparent that he breaks his concentration and you strike, foot sweeping behind his ankle and pulling, knocking him from his feet. Jihoon goes down hard, breath leaving his lungs as you pounce, pinning him.

For a second, it’s just the two of you. His heart pounds, chest heaving in time with yours. Even your breaths are evenly matched, a tempo that is deeper than most human understanding. Drift compatible. You feel it the same way you feel the spark of his skin even through the fabric of his shirt. You’re so aware of it that you don’t hear what he says at first, his mouth moving but no sounds coming out.

“What?” 

“That doesn’t count,” he asserts. “I hit you first. The fight is over after that.”

You frown. “The fight doesn’t end until there’s a killing blow. A swipe to the ribs wouldn’t do it.”

“That isn’t how that works.” 

“There are no rules of engagement in the ocean.” 

He scowls. “There are basic principles to fighting. You lose when you get hit first.”

“Do you lose when a kaiju hits you first? Or do you keep fighting?” 

Jihoon huffs underneath you, shaking his head. You’ve still got him pinned, your palm pressed to his chest and your knee planted in his stomach. He glances away from you and you become aware that everyone has stopped to watch the two of you spar.

And you’re still on top of him. 

Clearing your throat, you climb off of him smoothly. You offer a hand to help him up but he doesn’t take it, getting up on his own. He’s flushed, cheeks tinged peak and mouth twisted in frustration. You watch him as he gives the room around you a cutting glance, making everyone immediately turn back to what they were doing. 

Jihoon puts his staff back and you watch him. He looks minorly irritated on the surface, but you can see it rippling deeper than that. He’s unsettled and it makes you grin. 

“This won’t work,” Jihoon says as he turns back to you, crossing his arms over his chest. You ignore the way his biceps flex and blink at him in confusion. “You can’t be my partner.”

“What? We’re compatible. That was one of the best fighting flows I’ve ever had.”

“We’re too different in principle.” 

That gets a frown from you. “I don’t think so at all. You let your instinct guide you. So do I.” 

“You deviate.” 

“I let the natural dialogue of the fight lead me.”

You let silence fall between you. You can see why so many other pilots had issues with him. Jihoon approaches every statement as though it is the absolute truth, a fact that cannot be disproven. He speaks with the authority of someone who knows he’s right often, and frequently goes unchallenged.

Instead of letting him get a rise out of you, you switch topics. “Are you hungry?”

He pauses. “What?” 

“What part of the question didn’t you understand? Are you hungry?”

Jihoon is perplexed. You’re sure that by now, mostly people have visibly grown upset with the combative dialogue. You don’t mind much, watching as he thinks on your question. You take the opportunity to appreciate the gentle slope of his nose up close, the delicate curve of his mouth, the contrast of feminine and masculine features that make an exquisite face. 

Then Jihoon unfolds his arms and walks past you. You turn to follow him but he says over his shoulder, “I don’t want to have lunch with you. We’re not friends.” 

There’s no room for argument in the way that he says it. You watch him as he leaves, never once turning back. 

-

You are vexing. 

There isn’t another word to describe you. Jihoon hasn’t the slightest idea how you’ve managed to so thoroughly irritate him at your first encounter, but he can’t stop thinking about how frustrated he is when he slams his tray down on the table. 

It’s a little early for lunch, mostly engineers and staff going on shift soon filling the room to eat quickly. The giant clock above the entryway to the cafeteria resets and Jihoon relaxes a little, confirming that Chan and Wylie are fine. He knew they would be - a Category Two kaiju is nothing for a pair like them.

Jihoon finds himself thinking of you. Of what you must be able to do in a jaeger.

Curious, Jihoon looks up your name. It rings a bell - you were pretty renowned at your homebase. Clicking through videos, he sets his phone on the table as he eats, eyes glued to the screen. Your drops are easily accessible to him, clicking through them as he eats. 

There is something hypnotizing the way you and your old co-pilot Maya Veliz fight. You’re efficient and without flashy moves, which he can appreciate. But there’s a speed at which you make decisions and take risks that has him shaking his head. 

Yet, there is something vaguely familiar. He pauses his meal to watch closer, realizing what it is. There is a brutality to your fighting that he recognizes in himself, a need to kill. You fight to win, willing to take a little damage if it means you can deal the final blow.

The thought unsettles him. Your fighting style is so similar to his that he would be lying if he tried to say otherwise. There is logic and calculation to your moves, but then there’s always that deviation. That random blip in your pattern that is unexpected and dangerous. 

“Will watching my drop footage make you like me more?”

Your voice startles him. He drops his fork and it clatters against the table, loud in the soft din of the cafeteria. You’re leaning over him, a smirk on your face and a devilish glint dancing in your eyes as you look at his phone screen where you successfully put down a kaiju. 

“Deathclaw wasn’t very impressive. It was pretty small. My mom and I took out Umbraxis my first year, though.”

Jihoon snatches his phone and locks the screen, putting it face down. He scowls down, feeling his heart flip a little. Your scent drifts over to him at your proximity, a mix of amber and jasmine. It’s already familiar to him, having caught the scent when you pinned him down earlier, hand pressed to his heart-

You sit across from him and he looks up at you. His mind goes blank, staring as you unwrap your silverware picking up a fork to stab a piece of chicken and pop it into your mouth. You hum happily, totally unaware - or maybe unbothered - at his increasing irritation. 

“Tell me about your jaeger,” you demand - not ask. Your eyes find his, two pools of curiosity that have his tongue heavy, words sticky. “I want to know all about her.”

“You’re not going to make the drop with me.”

The curve of your mouth is wicked. “Tell me anyway.”

For a few minutes, Jihoon doesn’t answer. He waits to see if the silence will push you away or make you anxious. It doesn’t seem to. You keep eating without saying anything else, occasionally glancing at him with a cocked brow as if to suggest you have all the time in the world. 

“She was re-outfitted two years ago,” Jihoon says slowly. He doesn’t know why he’s answering you at all, but he continues, “Mark-5 now with the new outfitted tech - she’s still nuclear-driven to avoid any EMP attacks. Outfitted with GD6 steel-obsidian chain swords on each arm, but there are also smaller, detachable blades for hand-to-hand fighting, along with some projectiles. She’s also got a lightning strike powered by the nuclear-core but it can only be used once, and only as a last resort. It obliterates local wildlife in the water.”

“What’s the suspension look like?”

“Gyro-stabilizers to stay fluid when fighting and L-10 locks on all of the joints to strap in and withstand damage. She’s built to take a lot of blunt-force and melee attacks, but she’s top heavy if she loses footing.”

“Have you only been in Storm Breaker?”

He nods. “Since my first drop.”

“She’s beautifully built.” 

Jihoon doesn’t respond. It does bring him a small sense of pride to know that you admire the jaeger he fights in, but he doesn’t thank you. He suspects you notice but doesn't say anything, which surprises him. You seem like the stubborn type who doesn't like to back down from a fight, and yet multiple times this morning you’ve conceded to him, refusing to get upset. 

It bothers him. He can’t tell if it’s because you’re a people pleaser or if you think you're gentle-parenting him, and he doesn’t like it either way. 

So he doesn’t talk to you. He lets the conversation die there, despite sensing your amusement from across the table. He feels the grip on his fork increase, metal biting into his palms as he tries to ignore you. He can smell the jasmine and amber of your perfume, which makes him feel more insane, and he can’t help but steal glances at you and dart his eyes away.

You’re pretty. He’s had attractive co-pilots before. That’s not new, nor has it ever bothered him. Something about you draws the eye, though. He thinks it’s the aura of confidence you give off, effortlessly comfortable in your skin and your situation, despite Jihoon not making it any easier on you.

“Hi,” The raspy voice interrupts Jihoon’s thoughts and he looks up as Wylie slams her tray down on the table. She’s sweaty, freshly peeled from her Drivesuite and offering a hand to you as she gives her full name. “You can call me Wylie, though. Everyone does. Are you Woozi’s new co-pilot?”

“Yes,” you answer at the same time Jihoon says no. “Though I didn’t know that was the name he preferred.” 

Wylie shoots him a sly grin and sits down next to him. He curses and scoots over, the younger girl nearly on top of him as she leans her elbows on the table. “He doesn’t prefer it, which is why it stuck. He's a very cranky cat, but he’s nice once you get to know him.” 

Jihoon scowls, turning to her. “Did I invite you to sit down with us?”

“No.” 

That’s it. That’s the end of her statement. Jihoon watches as she settles happily, opening chocolate milk and chugging it back like it’s water. Jihoon cringes and readies to lob an insult her way when he’s interrupted again, another tray slamming down next to hers. 

Closing his eyes, Jihoon summons all the gods he doesn’t believe in to give him the god damn patience. Chan is wearing a shit-eating grin as he leans across the table, offering his hand in the same, chipper manner his partner had moments before. 

“I’m Chan. But you can call me Dino.”

“Why Dino?” 

“I step on everyone.” 

You raise your brows, amused, eyes flickering to Wylie. Sensing your question, Wylie says around a mouthful of mac and cheese, “Like Wylie Coyote because I’m a menace who doesn’t stop attacking.” 

“How was your drop?” 

“Easy,” they say in unison. 

Jihoon focuses on his plate, feeling grouchy. They start to talk like he’s not even there, and though that is typically how conversations go around him, he’s suddenly bothered by it. Especially when you seem so smug that at least someone likes you. 

He wants to tell you they don’t count. Chan is one of the nicest people in the Shatterdome and will talk to anyone, if they give him the time of day. Wylie isn’t exactly nice but she’s in love with Chan and is happy to be nice to anyone who is being nice to him. The pair are relatively easy to win over. 

It only gets worse for him when Soonyoung and the others start sitting down. Everyone seems eager to ask you questions, a new shiny toy for his friends to play with. He chews on the corner of his lip, feeling stormy in the corner of the table as Seokmin peppers you with questions and exclamations at your answers. 

A shift in tension makes Jihoon look up. Seungcheol sits down at the table slowly, as though trying not to be a distraction or catch any attention. He’s three seats away from Wylie and out of her eyeshot, but Wylie is a born predator, sensing him like a hunter. Her eyes cut over to Seungcheol and she bristles, shooting up to her feet to grab her tray and storm off. 

Chan sighs, muttering a brief apology before grabbing his things and going after her. Jihoon glances at Seungcheol, watching the way his jaw ticks at the interaction. Surprisingly, you don’t ask any questions. You lean over to Soonyoung and ask him about some of their earlier fights, shifting the energy at the table from tense to light in a second.

Seungcheol relaxes, and though he doesn’t introduce himself, he’s not unkind to you. Jihoon feels a pang for the pilot, knowing that the last year has been difficult for him. Cherry left Seungcheol adrift without a partner, and he’s been unable to find someone to replace her. 

He thinks about offering you to Seungcheol as an alternative. 

Jihoon does learn a little bit about you while listening to everyone talk, though. You've only had two co-pilots in your life where Jihoon has lost count. He wonders what growing up piloting with a parent feels like, and though you smile as you talk about growing up working with your mom, there’s a tightness to your mouth, a look in your eye that he can’t place.

Feeling his gaze, your eyes shift to him. Jihoon realizes he’s been staring at you. He stands and leaves the table abruptly, Seokmin’s voice apologizing on his behalf drifting after him. 

Thankfully, you don’t follow him. He dumps his tray and leaves it in the discarded pile for the cafeteria staff and immediately begins the climb to the command bridge where the Marshall’s office is. His thoughts race but go nowhere at the same time, an echochamber that he can’t untangle. 

Before Jihoon can knock on the entrance to the Marshall’s office, the military commander looks up and waves Jihoon in. “I was about to call for you. Shut the door, please.”

Jihoon does so without comment and sits down. He glances around the office, distracting himself as the Marshall finishes what he was working on. The office is orderly and tidy, every ounce the professional and uptight officer that sits in front of Jihoon, leaning back in the seat to sigh heavily and level Jihoon with a stare. 

Before Jihoon can open his mouth to list all of the reasons you shouldn’t be his pilot, the Marshall speaks. “You’re on probation.” 

“I - what?” 

“For the next three months, if you lose your co-pilot, you will be reassigned to administrative work or to a new Shatterdome.”

Jihoon opens his mouth. Closes it. The weight of the Marshall’s words don’t quite sink in, though Jihoon can tell they’re heavy. Real. “We’ve given you plenty of chances to effectively remain a pilot for Storm Breaker, but the board feels as though the trade off has become an issue.”

“The trade off?”

“You’re costing us money. And cadets. People want to train where they can potentially see themselves become a pilot. When we have open spots and jaegers coming up on retirement, it bolsters recruitment.” The Marshall levels him with a tired stare. “But when we have a pilot who no one can partner with, it puts us in a bind to send cadets where they will fit elsewhere.” 

“Look - “

“No you look, Lee. You’ve been a pilot here for six years. That’s considered a veteran in this field. But the higher ups grow tired of even veterans when they’ve been unmanageable for the last two of those six years.”

Heat flashes up the side of Jihoon’s neck, equal parts embarrassed and angry. He’d been the first in his class to suit up, selected as Haneul’s co-pilot to fill in for their partner that had retired. Jihoon remembers how proud - and nervous - he was and how easy it had been to partner with Haneul.

He didn’t have that anymore, the safety net of the only parental figure he’d ever known gone. 

“The pilots you’ve paired me with have no business being in a jaeger,” Jihoon says matter of factly. “I don’t respect them.”

“Well good thing we’ve given you someone to respect.”

Jihoon shakes his head. “I can’t fight with her.”

“You can and you will. Your drift compatibility is 98% and you have similar fighting style and come from similar machines. You’ll start Conn-pod training tomorrow.”

“Don’t make me partner with her. I don’t like her.”

The Marshall stands. “One day you might learn that if you give people a chance, you’d like what you find.” 

“Marshall-” 

“That’s all, Ranger.” 

The air feels heavy as Jihoon leaves the Marshall’s office. He stops on the command deck, his eyes flickering over to the windows. The glass is floor to ceiling all the way around, giving the tower a 360-degree view of the pacific ocean. Blue stretches out as far as the eye can see, backdropped by the shining silver of the city. 

Boats bob on the water, shifting back and forth on the dark surface. Air teams go back and forth, working in the aftermath of Chan and Wylie’s successful kaiju destruction. Jihoon can see the toxicity on the surface of the water, an oil slick that he knows the exact pungent smell of. 

Trailing to an observation window, he stares with unseeing eyes. How many times had he stood up here and provided commentary to his friends during a fight? He didn’t frequent the command deck, but sometimes it gave him perspective. Or he was a little worried about his friends, especially when they were taking on higher category kaiju. 

Jihoon chews on the side of his lip. He’s talked Wylie and Chan through plenty of bouts before. He remembers sharply the terror of the fight that had changed all of their lives over a year ago, watching as the hull of Fang Striker was breached, the screams of terror as Wylie took a talon to the stomach, nearly killing her. The aftermath of Chan’s grief.

A chill breaks out over his arms. Jihoon knows he isn’t cut out to sit through something like that again, to try and get a panicking pilot to focus and get to safety. He’s not made for an advisory role. Not built to watch pilots come and go, completely operating out of his control. 

Death is easier to process in the heat of battle. It gives him an excuse to be distracted, to hide from the immediate pain of losing a pilot during a fight because he’s too busy protecting himself, protecting the city. He’s not made to watch it from afar and take the full weight of it.

Turning away from the window, Jihoon descends back down to the ground floor. 

Probation period. Three months of having to stomach you or he’s out. Flexing his fingers, he heads to his room, needing the silence. If Jihoon is going to do this, he knows he needs to keep himself in line. Can’t push you away like he has the others. 

And he hates you for it.

-

Music bleeds through the metal door out into the hall. You wonder how any of the neighboring rooms let him get away with it. Then again, Lee Jihoon seems like someone most jaeger pilots don’t go toe-to-toe with often, if they can help it. At least it’s classical music, the swelling sound of Mozart sweeping into the hallway as you open the door, propping it with your hip to haul the box in your arms through. 

Jihoon’s eyes snap open immediately. He’s lounging on the bottom bunk of the bed in the far corner of the room, face lit by the glow of the muted screen in the corner showing the rain and ocean spray beating against the Shatterdome. Nothing disturbs the seas at the moment, though you wonder in a hotspot like this how long that will last. 

A scowl twists his mouth. You let the door shut behind you, setting the box down on the media table by the doorway. “Mozart?” you ask, arching a brow. He glares at you, sitting up from where he had been lounging with his hands tucked behind his head. “A bit cliche, don’t you think?” 

“What do you know about music?”

“Enough to know that someone with balanced compositions that orchestrate total control and logic in its make is… not surprising for you.” He blinks in surprise. “I like Tchaikovsky. There’s something more mercurial to his compositions.” 

“Tchaikovsky was inspired by Mozart.”

“I didn’t say one was better than the other.” You smirk. “You don’t like differences of opinion, do you?”

“I always value opinions. Some more than others.”

“Mhmm. Where can I put my things?”

Jihoon closes his eyes and lays back on the bed. His blonde hair is undone, fanning around him in a silvery-white halo. “The trash chute, preferably.” 

“Wherever I want, got it.” 

He ignores you. You suppress a laugh and move into the room proper. It’s small, filled with only the essentials to house two people to eat, sleep, and shower. A small kitchenette sits to your left, hidden in darkness with all of the lights off. You spot a shelf filled with dry goods - mostly protein bars - and coffee. There is a sad excuse for a sitting area with a tiny table and two chairs next to the TV screen, a bunk bed with a wardrobe next to it, and a tiny bathroom.

Cozy. 

Pulling open the wardrobe, you see that there’s room for your things. You shoot Jihoon a sidelong glance. He certainly hadn’t moved his things over to take over the full wardrobe after his last pilot left. You wonder if he���s just used to being unable to use the full space or if he had made room for you.

You doubt it’s the latter. 

Ave Verum Corpus plays in the background as you unpack the tiny box that is your life. You hum along, shutting the wardrobe and padding over to the bathroom. Jihoon could be asleep for all you know, but you suspect he’s not. When you glance over at him after shutting the medicine cabinet, you see his foot tapping to the beat of the music.

“What other kind of music do you like?” His foot stops tapping at your question.

Turning off the bathroom light, you move to the door to break down the cardboard box you brought your things in. Jihoon doesn’t answer at first, his frame rigid with tension, as though he had forgotten you were there until you spoke. You suppose that’s entirely possible, if not a little unlikely. 

Just when you think he’s not going to answer, he mutters, “I like ballads.”

“Romantic.” He frowns but doesn’t say anything further. “What’s your favorite one? Or artist?”

“Go play twenty questions with someone else. I’m not interested.”

“I’m going to find out anyway.” He opens his eyes then. They’re dark, pupils blown as his face twitches in an almost snarl. “It is an inevitable fact that we will have to drift. I recommend making peace with that now.” 

“I’m going to bed,” he announces, flopping over on his side and crossing his arms.

You let Jihoon be mean. It does you no good to fight with him when you eventually need him on your side, and you can sympathize with him to a degree. He didn’t choose you as his pilot and he’s backed into a corner, a do or die situation that he can’t back out of. The only way is forward and it’s against his will. 

As he pretends to sleep, you occupy yourself on the top bunk with your tablet, sliding headphones over your ears so he doesn’t bitch you out. Flicking through online channels, you familiarize yourself with your fellow jaeger pilots at the Shatterdome, watching fight footage and interviews. 

You come across a set of popular pilots, only one of them familiar to you. You recognize the man from dinner earlier - he had sat down and the tension around the table had increased tenfold. Wylie had immediately clocked his presence and stormed off, Chan trailing behind her with an apologetic look.

Tapping on their information, you hum in interest to yourself. Seungcheol. You recognize the name, vaguely. He piloted Duellona Fury with his copilot, a woman you don’t recognize but that has a bright smile. They make a good team, totally in sync and feeding off each other’s energy. You wonder where she is now, assuming she’s the source of the tension between Wylie and Seungcheol.

You wonder what you and Jihoon will be like as drift partners. So far he seems to hate you, but he does tolerate you. It’s a start, if not ideal. You won’t start drifting right away - not for real anyway. Practicing combat drills and learning more about one another is the first step to any partnership, followed by practice drifts.

In the drift, there’s no room for hatred or enmity. Trust is paramount, but almost as important is respect. Respect for what you see in the thoughts and feelings of your partner, respect that they’re good at what they do and that they’re the best person for the job, respect that they are your equal. Too many partners get lost in trying to save the other, losing sight of being equally capable or feeling like they know better. 

Jihoon doesn’t seem capable of that. Not right now, anyway. It doesn’t matter, though. You’re his only option to stay in the jaeger program, and though he hasn’t said anything about it, you’re pretty sure he knows. 

“Can you shut the tablet off?” Jihoon grunts from below. You sigh heavily, tucking it to your chest. “The glow is fucking bright.”

“The TV is also glowing, Jihoon.” 

“Yeah, so your tablet adds to the general light in the room.”

“Close your eyes.”

“It isn’t helping. Go under your covers.”

Closing your eyes and taking a deep breath in, you lock the tablet and shove it under your pillow. “Better?”

“Yes.”

Weather the storm, you think to yourself. Jihoon is angry and capricious, but it’s more to do with his situation than it is to do with you. And despite his snappy nature, there are flashes of him willing to work with you by answering questions, albeit with attitude. 

You can do this. You can make Lee Jihoon like you. Maybe even respect you.

-

You are not a morning person. Lee Jihoon, however, is a morning person. Which is why it takes everything inside of you not to launch your pillow at him when you hear the classical music wake you from sleep in the morning, making you lift your heavy head to look around the room, vision blurry.

Heat from a fresh shower drifts from the bathroom only a short distance away. You stare in confusion, blinking rapidly as Jihoon walks out of the bathroom. He’s brushing his teeth furiously with one hand, looking at his phone with the other, blue light making him look like a phantom in the dim light. 

And he’s dressed in nothing but a towel slung low on his waist, making you nearly go catatonic. 

It’s not like you haven’t seen a body before - it’s just a body, and soon enough, you’ll be in his head. It’s important to get any weirdness out of the way because in the drift, you’ll bare everything. But for some reason the image of his small, compact body scrambles your brain this early in the morning.

Jihoon is built like a weapon, all sleek lines and hard muscles. He stands in the kitchen, setting down his phone as he opens cabinets and starts to make coffee, toothbrush still in his mouth. The muscles in his back flex as he moves, skin pale and smooth as the moon. 

“Are you a coffee person?” he asks, because he knows you’re awake. Of course he does. You don’t answer for a moment, stuck between eyeing the narrow taper of his hips and the question that implies he’s willing to make you coffee. He turns, arching a brow at you. “Now you shut up?” 

That brings a scowl to your face. “Yes, I drink coffee.” 

“Great.” 

He goes back to what he was doing, ignoring you entirely. Dragging your eyes away from him, feeling flushed and overwarm, you throw the covers back, scrambling from the top bunk. You land with a soft huff, feeling the chill of the concrete floor as you dart to the wardrobe to pull out clothes. 

“What time is it?”

“You have eyes, look at the TV.”

Got it, you think. He’ll make coffee for you but not do something as simple as answer what time it is. You do look at the TV, seeing the darkened feed of the churning ocean breaking against the walls of the Shatterdome. There are multiple camera angles, weather radar and Dome messages that break up the screen into sections. The time is in the top corner, flashing 5:13 am. 

“Ji, it is five in the morning.”

“Five-thirteen. And don’t call me Ji. I’m not your buddy.” 

Taking a deep breath, you mutter curses under your breath. “I’m going to shower.”

As expected, you get no response. 

The great thing about living in a billion dollar buildinding with hundreds of people is that there’s no shortage of hot water. You’re grateful as the steam fills the room, hot water making your coiled muscles melt the second you step under the shower. You let the frustration from the morning fade away, the rush of the water and the feel of it sluicing down your back-

A loud knock on the door breaks your reverie. You hear it open. Jihoon grunts, “I wasn’t done brushing my teeth. I need the sink.”

“Then use the sink.”

Jihoon shuffles into the bathroom. You hear the faucet turn on and you go back to tilting your head backward under the stream of water, ignoring the sound of him going about his morning routine. In a way, it’s sort of peaceful, the sounds of him softly opening and closing cabinets and the clinking of jars against the counter soft in the background. 

He’s back in the kitchen by the time you’re out of the shower and wrapped in a towel. You venture out into the main room in kind, deciding that if he is going to walk around in nothing but a towel, so will you. He barely gives you a glance from his bottom bunk, lounging around in low-slung sweats with no shirt, blonde hair splayed on his pillow. You ignore him in favor of the lone mug of coffee sitting in the kitchen steaming.

Gripping it and bringing it up, you let the ceramic warm you from your palms upward, inhaling before taking a tentative sip. It’s bitter but it helps you wake up. You glance at Jihoon from over the lip of the cup. He scrolls on a tablet mindlessly, as though he’s forgotten you’re there.

Neither one of you speaks as you finish your coffee. Turning to the sink, you start washing the cup out. You notice his used mug sitting in the bottom of the sink and pick it up, wash it and put it in the drying rack next to yours without thinking about it before returning to the bathroom to dress fully.

Once dressed and out of the bathroom, it’s almost six. Jihoon is bent over by the door, his boot on the coffee table as he laces it. Now fully dressed, his long hair is pulled back in a bun, a few silver whisps escaping and falling across his face. Again, you’re struck by how beautiful he is for a moment. 

He straightens and looks at you, raising his brows. Instead of answering him, you hurry to the wardrobe, pulling out your boots to slide them on and head to breakfast. You half expect him to leave you behind, but to your surprise, he lingers with the door open, dark eyes clocking your every movement. As soon as you’re done tying laces, he’s out the door and charging again, leaving you to scramble behind him.

Silence follows you into the cafeteria, which has the quiet atmosphere of an early morning. Workers and pilots ending their shifts sit at the table, scarfing down breakfast for dinner. Early shift workers hurry to grab a bite before heading off to the different parts of the Shatterdome. It’s not nearly as loud as lunch or dinner, but the soft din is inviting as you go through the line, following your new co-pilot wordlessly. 

None of the friendly faces from yesterday are in the cafeteria, so the two of you sit alone. Jihoon is methodical as he sets up his breakfast, each move calculated and precise. He eats the same way, finishing something entirely before moving on to the next time. 

His obsession with organization and control is almost fascinating, if not a little worrying. Instead of asking about it, you eat in silence, humming delightedly at the cheesy hashbrowns made available that morning. He casts you a single annoyed glance when he notices you enjoying your meal. 

Breakfast goes without a fight, though. Glancing at the large clock above the entrance to the cafeteria, you realize you only have a few minutes left before your day of training starts. Jihoon seems to be on the same wavelength, pulling out his phone to scroll through your schedule. 

“Meditation first,” he murmurs. He shoves his phone in his pocket and stands without preamble. “Do you think you can manage meditation?”

“Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but we haven’t spoken for over an hour.”

Confusion crosses his face, quickly followed by astonishment. He hadn’t realized that most of your morning has been spent in silence. His brows pull together, mouth turning slightly as he works over your words. It seems to make him unhappy. He narrows his eyes and his mouth twists before he turns and marches away from the table, leaving you behind. 

Mouth quirking, you follow quickly, not wanting to lose your way to wherever it is you’re supposed to report to. He walks faster this time, determined to keep you moving and on your toes. Wherever the studio designated to you for the morning feels like it’s halfway around the world. Jihoon leads you down a series of halls and stairs, never slowing his pace once.

By the time you get to a small, soundproof room, your calves are burning. 

“You need conditioning,” he mutters, noticing the way you’re a little out of breath.

“You basically just took me on a light jog,” you protest. “I think it’s fair to be a little winded this early in the morning.”

“It doesn’t matter what time it is. What will you do if we make the drop at four in the morning?” 

Jihoon doesn’t wait for you to answer. Instead, he goes to the middle of the room and sits down on the floor, and crosses his legs. Instead of taking his bait and picking a fight with him, you sigh and stride into the room. He positions himself, ready for you to sit in front of him. Instead, you circle around him, sitting down behind him. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, twisting toward you.

“Meditating. Turn back around so we can be back-to-back.”

“What? Why?”

“Just trust me.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, try. It’s easier to feel your breaths and your heartbeat this way. Plus, there's less pressure if you don’t have to look directly at me.”

“Thank god for that,” he mutters.

You roll your eyes at the barb but grin when Jihoon listens, twisting back around to face the front. He lets you settle against him, the warmth from his back melting into yours. He is rigid, his spine solid as it digs into yours for a second. You lick your lips, feeling electricity shiver down you at the contact, like there’s a spark. 

The hum of the air condition is the only sound in the room. You close your eyes, leaning into Jihoon so that you fit flush together. You match your breaths with his, feeling your breathing slow down. Your heart slows to, like it’s trying to let him catch up, both of you melting into the same rhythm. 

Behind you, Jihoon relaxes. The back of his head rests against yours, both of you leaning into the touch, becoming the equal opposing force holding the other up. 

Balance is imperative in co-pilots. Jihoon needed to bring to the fight what you lacked and vice versa, the two of you making something whole, something complete. It’s a balance that’s not easily achieved, and though you’d always been a good pair with your mother and then maya, you know instinctively that it’s nothing compared to Jihoon’s counterbalance. 

A timer goes off in the room, startling you with how quickly time has passed. You blink your eyes rapidly, letting the room swim back into focus. For a second, neither one of you moves, content to lean against the other until Jihoon seems to realize he’s still pressed against you. He scrambles to his feet unexpectedly and you fall backward, losing his counterweight immediately. 

Thunking against the floor, you glare up at him. He smirks, looking down at you as he wipes dust from the back of his pants. “You should never let a co-pilot fall,” you huff, hauling yourself to your feet. 

“Good thing we’re not really co-pilots.”

“Yet,” you supply. You get up, stretching and feeling your joints pop. “Even you can’t deny that it was a great first meditation session.”

“Let’s go. We have sparring.” 

-

Jihoon doesn’t like you. 

He doesn’t like you, but he has to admit you are a perfect fit for him. You are loud where he is quiet, you make light when he remains serious, and you deviate when he’s planned. Yet somehow, you manage to mesh with him in your training, the perfect opposite force to him.

For the most part, you leave him alone. He can tell you’ve figured out when to bite back and when to eat your words. It’s become a game to him, throwing insults your way to watch whether you’ll riposte back or swallow your pride. 

The amount of times you swallow your pride impresses him, unfortunately. His original assessment that you are unpredictable and uncontrolled was wrong. He can see the way you actively meet his cold winter with warm summer, trying to melt him. 

He doesn't like giving you credit for your control, but he does so begrudgingly. 

Worst of all, he realizes that it’s not you he dislikes. It’s his situation, it’s knowing that you’re his lifeline and he has to accept you, and it’s knowing that despite his initial dislike, you’re a mirror that he can’t look away from. It doesn’t help that you live two feet away from him at all times, occupying every moment of his life just a reach-of-a-hand away. 

Training is tiring. It feels like he’s a rookie all over again, going through the exercises as the two of you learn to fight together, moving through meditation sessions, sparring, talking sessions - which don't really involve a lot of talking on his part as much as yours - and drop simulations. 

Drop simulations are the most exhausting for him. You bring everything to the drift. It’s nearly overwhelming at first how much you’re willing to show him. From the moment the mental bridge connects the two of you through the simulation software, Jihoon is shocked at the way you lay yourself bare. You hide nothing from him, letting him roam around your thoughts at his leisure. 

He feels everything you’ve ever felt. Elation when you make your first real drop with your first co-pilot, your mom. Sore ribs after a particularly difficult sparring match when you were a teeager in the training program. Pride when you finish the top of your training program. Terror when a fight goes awry and your mother overwhelms you in the drift, taking the full neural load of the jaeger to protect you. Rage at her doing so. 

“What happened here?” he finds himself asking, sticking near the memory. 

He thinks you won’t answer him, but of course you do. Unlike him, you’re open for the taking. “The hull was breached in my first year of fighting. My mother panicked because it was on my side of the jaeger and she tried to take on the neural load.” 

Jihoon says nothing. Piloting a jaeger alone overwhelms the nervous system and the brain, which is why each jaeger has two pilots in the first place. It can be done, but the risk for damage is always present. He senses where your conversation is going.

“We only piloted together for three more years after that. She was starting to struggle to make the drift, so we paused to get her examined. They discovered lesions on her brain and linked it to the damage from that day she tried to pilot alone.”

“She wanted to protect you.”

“She did, but it doesn’t make up for what she did. I was her equal, not someone she was supposed to protect.” You look at him and he looks at you, surrounded by your memories in the drift. “I am deserving of treated like an equal.” 

He understands what you’re really saying, that he should treat you like an equal too. Instead of responding, he busies himself with studying other parts of you that you let him have. 

There is a melody to your mind that he enjoys, though he’ll never tell you so. The more you drift together, the more Jihoon realizes that you are exactly like a Tchaikovsky piece. There is an organized chaos to you, a mathematical formula that is logical and measurable, but that deviates from the norm once in a while. 

Every drift, you remain open to him, your thoughts for the taking. You don’t even hide the moments you’ve thought of him - both in occasional attraction and irritation. Irritation at him bringing nothing to drift, opening no part of himself to you. Irritation when he’s mean to you. Hesitant fondness when he does something nice. Confused attraction when he walks around in just a towel. 

Water sluices down his back. Jihoon’s thoughts are still foggy from three weeks of nothing but practice and drills. He also finds it harder to sleep sometimes in the room, his dreams filled with the scent of your amber and jasmine and the lively sound of Tchaikovsky acting as the soundtrack to his dreams.

You’re still asleep when he exits the bathroom. He’s made sure to turn the light off before opening the door, steam billowing out after him. He scoops headphones from the nightstand as he heads to the kitchen, towel snug around his waist. He pops the earbuds in, the sound of Mozart starting his morning as he begins to make coffee. 

Jihoon has quickly learned that the longer he lets you sleep in the morning, the less whiny you are when you wake up. Instead of playing his music out loud, he lets you sleep until he’s made two cups of coffee, adding a spoonful of brown sugar and milk to yours. He sets it on the table and walks back to the bathroom, one of the requiem pieces carrying him through his routine. 

On the way to the bathroom, he stops by your bunk. He hesitates for a second, drinking you in as you sleep. Nestled in that top bunk is the only place you’re as peaceful as you are in the drift. Your features are smoothed out as you slumber, mouth open a little, drool sticky on the corner of your mouth. Jihoon’s lips twitch a little and he shakes his head before reaching out to tap the ankle hanging off your bed. You mumble in response. 

“Get up,” he says gruffly. “You’ve slept long enough.”

He returns to the bathroom and shuts the door to get fully dressed. He knows you’ll be standing in the kitchen looking dazed and confused sipping coffee until he comes out and frees the bathroom for you to shower. 

The alarm for a kaiju alert goes off. He hears it blaring over his music and he pulls the earbuds out, opening the door half dressed in just pants as he looks at the screen flashing red. A Category Four kaiju has been sighted in the bay. His heart skips, knowing that Cat-4 kaiju are dangerous even for the most skilled pilots at the Dome. 

Assignments flash across the screen. Solar Saber and Fang Striker have been summoned to drop. Nervousness flutters in Jihoon’s stomach. He snatches a shirt and yanks it over his head, moving quickly around the room to grab boots. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, leaning off the counter. 

“Heading to the command deck. Come or don’t.”

“I’ll come.” 

You dump your coffee in the sink, jumping to action as you peel off your pajama pants, searching for cargos. Jihoon hardly realizes you’re changing in front of him - he’s seen it all in your head anyway - as he laces his boots. He doesn’t know why, but he starts to explain himself, “Dino and Wylie have a… history with Cat-4 kaiju.” 

“You want to be an extra set of eyes and ears.” He nods at the accurate assessment. “Got it. Run me through Solar Saber drop stats if you know them.”

Jihoon does. He fires off what he knows about the team. Their stats are fine, but a Category Four kaiju is new for them. They have a good jaeger. It’s on the newer side, nuclear powered with plasma cannons and a massive plasma sword that burns brighter than the sun, earning the machine its name. It’s piloted by a set of twins, which produce some of the best drifts in the jaeger program.

But there’s a nervousness in Jihoon’s stomach that he can’t place. Everytime his friends drop, he knows they’ll be okay - but he also knows the level of danger. Perhaps it’s because of Chan and Wylie’s accident last year or because they’re dropping with a team Jihoon doesn’t trust, but he suddenly wants to tell the Marshall to let Storm Breaker do the drop.

A hand brings him out of his thoughts. Your gaze is as calm as the surface of a lake, piercing. “We’re ready, if we need to be.” 

Of course you know what he’s thinking. Despite his best efforts, you seem particularly good at stitching the tiny threads that escape through Jihoon’s wall of ice.  

You drop your hand and grab the room keys, heading toward the door with top speed. His arm is warm where your fingers were a moment ago, burning like a brand. He shakes it off as he follows you out, both of you jogging up to the top level of the Shatterdome to observe. 

Crew races around the dome. Jihoon sees Seungkwan and Vernon rushing up the stairs to the command deck. He follows suit, you quick on his heels. People fill the room, talking over one another as they shout into headsets and screens flash different camera angles. 

The Marshall stands in the center of it all behind the LOCCENT Mission Controller who will walk the pilots through the fight. Jihoon doesn’t recognize the man giving them instructions, but he joins the wall of people standing behind him to observe the screens, taking a place next to Vernon and Seungkwan. 

You glance at Vernon and back to Jihoon, a question in your gaze. “This is Vernon,” Jihoon says in response. “He’s currently a jumphawk pilot. Could be a jaeger pilot if he could figure out the drift but he’s too screwy up top.” 

“Thanks, man.”

“You can call me Blue,” you offer. Your eyes drift to the screens. “Friends of the pilots out there?”

“Wylie is one of my best friends.” 

Instead of telling him something like they’ll be alright or offering words of comfort, all you do is nod. Jihoon respects that. Anything comforting would be a potential lie and useless in a world of blood and metal, salt and fire. 

The entire room falls into a steady cadence. Jihoon crosses his arms as he focuses on the screen. He’s mutely aware that you’re standing so close to him he can feel the heat of your arm, hands shoved in your pockets as you watch the screens, brows furrowed in concentration. 

On screen, Solar Saber churns the water toward a towering kaiju in the bay. The creature is straight out of a nightmare, a barbed tail whipping across the surface of the ocean, misting water as it does. From what Jihoon can tell, it’s got four legs, each equipped with long talons. Rows and rows of teeth reveal itself as the kaiju opens its mouth and roars, the vibration from the sound so deep that it vibrates underneath his feet. 

“I don’t like that tail,” Vernon mutters next to Jihoon. 

“It’s like a manticore.” Jihoon glances at you. You’re not looking at them, but your head is tilted in curiosity as you point to the screen. “Four legs, a curved tail with a barb. The webbing around its neck suggests it might have a frill.”

“Strike teams, confirm positions,” the LOCCENT controller says into the mic. 

“Fang Striker in position two miles north of kaiju and Solar Saber.” It’s Wylie’s raspy voice that crackles over the shared radiowave with the jaeger teams. “Perimeter is set.”

“Solar Saber ready to engage,” a female voice comes over the speaker. Jihoon recognizes it as one of the twin co-pilots, Jezzi. 

“Permission to engage.” 

As Solar Saber engages with the kaiju, the command deck goes quiet. People guiding the helicopters and ground teams speak softly into their mics, a level of tense calm washing over as everyone watches the fight ensue.

Solar Saber is beautiful to watch fight. The armor is painted radiant gold and the glow of the sword is magnificent against the stormy waters as it slashes at the kaiju. Jezzi and her sister Yaz are calm throughout their bout, their voices clear and communicative as the kaiju batters them. 

“Cut off the tail,” you mutter under your breath. “It’s going to-”

Jihoon sees what you do as soon as you say it. While trying to kill the kaiju with a direct blow, Solar Saber has forgotten about the tail. The tip of the tail shivers, reminding Jihoon of a cat ready to strike, and it does. One moment, Solar Saber and the kaiju are locked in a wrestling match. Next, the tail is hammering the hull of the jaeger, striking over and over again like a scorpion.

Chaos explodes on the screens. Jihoon holds his breath as red flashes across the screens as the tail breaches the hull of Solar Saber. A tingle settles over him, the buzz of nerves as he watches Solar Saber take a knee, ocean water surging around the jaeger as the kaiju’s tail continues to hammer the jaeger’s head open. 

Jihoon grabs the LOCCENT Controller’s chair and yanks him backward out of the way, jamming his finger against the button to speak. “Don’t let it force you under the waterline,” he barks. “Cut off that tail, Solar Saber. If it forces you down, you’re going to take on water and drown.” 

“The right panel is damaged from acid from the tail,” Jezzi yells over the comes. “Sword arm cannot engage.” 

“Then disengage, Solar Saber. Do not let it force you down another knee.” 

Yaz screams back something incomprehensible over the comms. The left arm of Solar Saber lurches, reaching for the kaiju’s tail. It catches, yanking at the appendage hard. The kaiju screams as the tail breaks where Solar Saber has it gripped. The kaiju frenzies, screaming wildly as frills - just like you’d predicted - shake to life by its head, vibrating back and forth in a threat display as its dismembered tail whips back and forth, spraying ichor. 

“Fang Striker engaging,” Chan’s voice comes over the comms.

It’s the Marshall who answers. “Fang Striker, hold the perimeter.” 

“Fuck the peremiter,” Wylie seethes. 

The Marshall turns to you and Jihoon. “We’re ready,” Jihoon says at the same time as you.

A string of curses leaves Marshall’s mouth. “Fang Striker, assist Solar Saber with the intent to disengage. Storm Breaker dropping in ten.” 

Heart hammering, Jihoon turns to follow you out of the command center, footsteps like thunder as you sprint to the jaeger bay. He doesn’t even think twice about dropping with you, any reservations about you vanishing as the fighting instinct takes over. 

You’re an entirely different person when you step onto the catwalk, your team already scrambling with pieces of your Drivesuit. There is an eerie calm about you. You meet his gaze head on as your team fits armored pieces of Drivesuit onto your arms. Jihoon sees himself reflected so clearly that he’s startled. 

“What?” you ask, sensing the bewilderment. 

“Show me what you’re made of,” he says simply. 

Your mouth curves in a wicked grin and you nod once, understanding. 

Storm Breaker is beautiful. The fondness for her sweeps over him as he steps into the cockpit. The screens come to life, casting blue and red glow all over as he steps into the Conn-pod. He sheds any reservations he has as the team helps him connect. You’re only a few feet away, stepping into the left side of the Conn-pod. 

Jihoon’s world shifts to screens and canned voices in his headset as the shield of his helmet closes. It’s Seungkwan he hears over comms saying, “Engaging pilot to pilot connection protocol sequence.” 

“Do the pilots always take over the LOCCENT Controller’s here?” you muse, just to Jihoon. 

His lips twitch. “What can I say? Seungkwan knows I’m a control freak.” 

“Engaging neural handshake in three… two… one…” 

The world around him goes mute for a moment. Jihoon’s vision flashes white for a second. He feels you then, your thoughts and feelings becoming his. They’re not overwhelming though. He feels focus and determination from you with an undercurrent of ferocity. All of your memories and other feelings are there too, but they exist in the background. You’re a seasoned pilot, Jihoon doesn’t have to worry about you chasing the rabbit and falling down a hole of memories. 

“Neural handshake holding and strong,” Seungkwan calls. “Initiating drop in three… two… one…”

Jihoon’s stomach flies into his throat as he falls away from the world. The world is nothing but freefall for a few seconds. He feels the thrill that shoots through you and smiles - he can’t help it. Bending at the knee, he braces for impact. You do the same, and the cockpit lands on the jaeger’s mainframe with a metallic clang.

“Calibrating right hemisphere,” Jihoon announces, feeling the machine start to power to life. “Calibrated.” 

You repeat on the left side, the full machine powered on and ready with both hemispheres locked in.

“Storm Breaker ready to pursue,” Jihoon says. He looks up at the screen where Fang Striker is engaging the kaiju. Outside of Storm Breaker, he might feel his heart race with panic. Solar Saber is overturned and he has no idea if the pilots are inside of it as it takes on water. “Two miles out from contact.” 

“Pursue.” 

Your first step as a team is perfect. Fluid. Jihoon knew it would be. He hates to admit that he was wrong, but he knows it is. There is a thread of satisfaction bleeding over from you as Storm Breaker charges into the ocean, water rising rapidly around the waist. 

Ocean water slams against Storm Breaker’s chest as you charge toward the fighting. Fang Striker’s comms are patched in, but Wylie and Chan are silent as they rip at the kaiju, pulling at one of its wings that it unfolded from its back. Fang Striker looks tiny against the hulking mass of the monster, but its team is doing what it does best, savaging the creature a little at a time.

“Storm Breaker half a mile out,” you announce, voice like steel. “Ready to engage.” 

“Engage at your discretion.”

“Storm Breaker,” Chan says over comms. “Try and restrain this motherfucker. We’ve got a loose plate in its armor to exploit but it keeps shaking us off.”

“Heard.” 

As if hearing Chan, the kaiju flings Fang Striker off. Fang Striker’s red body crashes into the ocean, Wylie cursing the kaiju straight to hell and about fifty other foul places. 

Storm Breaker engages, both you and Jihoon plunging into the fight. The kaiju swipes at you but you both duck together, dodging the swing as you punch hard from the left in tandem. You knock it hard, it’s head snapping to the side. As a team, you use the opening to wrap the right arm around the kaiju’s neck, squeezing it toward Storm Breaker’s chest in a headlock. 

Stabilizers and locks click into place. He grits his teeth, as though feeling the actual strength it takes as the kaiju roars and claws at Storm Breaker, trying to free itself from the headlock. Together, you put the left arm around it, adding to the force to keep the kaiju from slipping from your grip. 

Clawed blows hammer down on Storm Breaker. Neither of you gives way, tightening your grip on the creature and ignoring the way the talons scratch against the hull. Storm Breaker is built to withstand, and neither one of you flinches as furious blows rain down on you, fists hammering. 

“It looks like that kaiju is playing you like a bongo,” Wylie’s voice comes over comms. “Hey Woozi, do you feel like it’s composing one of those songs you like?”

“Oh sure,” he shoots back. “Take your time, Wylie. It’s not like it’s trying to crack us like an egg.” 

“Ugh,” you sigh. “Don’t talk about food. I didn’t eat breakfast. Hey Seungkwan, can you ask Joshua to save me some hash browns? He’s always at the cafeteria first.” 

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “You’re all insane. Any day now, Fang Striker.” 

Fang Striker appears from the sky like a creature from hell, a red streak of death as it falls. They land on the kaiju’s back, the force of the landing vibrating through Storm Breaker’s frame. The kaiju tries to twist in Storm Breaker’s arms, but you and Jihoon tighten even further. Fang Striker’s sword glints in the sunlight as it unsheathes. 

“Don’t stab us,” you say at the same exact time that Jihoon has the thought.

They almost do. Fang Striker buries the sword through the back of the kaiju, the tip of the blade peaking through its chest, almost scraping against Storm Breaker’s stomach. The monster thrashes wildly for a few minutes, clawing at Storm Breaker’s hull. Fang Striker hits the release on their sword, leaving it embedded in the kaiju’s back to stand and fire into the kaiju with plasma cannons. 

Jihoon feels the tremor of the shots land. There’s a final kick from the kaiju before it slumps, putting all of its deadweight on Storm Breaker. In unison, you and Jihoon throw the creature off of you. It lands with a crash, water surging around the creature as its weight drags it down before buoyancy pulls it back up.

Storm Breaker straightens, standing in the open water with a battered Fang Striker a couple of yards away. Panting, Jihoon looks across the Conn-pod where you’re already looking at him, shield on your helmet up as you grin at him. There is unguarded happiness there, nearly as bright as the sun that glints off Storm Breaker’s helm. 

“So,” you ask the group. “Can we get hashbrowns now?”

Jihoon realizes at that moment he doesn’t dislike you at all. 

-

“Would you slow down?” Jihoon asks, setting his tray down next to you roughly. He plops in the seat next to you, giving you a severe side eye. “You’re going to throw up the second you hit the treadmill eating that fast.”

“I want to get more bacon before they run out,” you whine. “They won’t make more once it’s gone.”

Uncovering the top of his tray, Jihoon reveals a heap of bacon slices. You oggle as he sets it between the two of you, shaking his head and scoffing. “Yeah,” he huffs. “I know. I brought more, so slow down.”

Affection for your co-pilot warms you. The affection is certainly one-sided, but you don’t mind. In the four months you’ve been co-piloting with Jihoon, he still hasn’t opened up to you.

Despite having made the drop five times together, Jihoon still brings almost nothing to the drift. You catch pieces of him, tiny snippets of memories or emotions or thoughts as you become one. You slowly use them to fit together the pieces of the Jihoon puzzle you’ve been working on every day. 

It helps that you live in such close proximity, too. Jihoon’s habits speak far more for them than his words ever could. Like the way he wakes up at the same exact time every day and tries to be asleep at the same time every night, or the way he meticulously cleans your shared living space every Sunday, or the way he starts every sparring session with the same eight-stretch sequence.

He still doesn’t talk about him in your time slotted for getting to know one another. It’s not therapy exactly, but every pilot team has designated time daily to talk things out. To work through things that are bothering them, or to talk about themselves. The more pilots know one another, the better they fight.

You know virtually nothing about Jihoon. He doesn’t talk about himself during sessions, so you talk for him. You tell him about your childhood, about piloting with your mom, about how much you miss Maya. He eventually starts asking questions. Provides responses.

“We’re on the drop schedule tomorrow,” Jihoon notes, flicking through his tablet on the table next to him. “It’s graveyard shift. Do you want me to ask Mingyu and Wonwoo to switch to the day shift?” 

“Nah, I’ll be fine.”

He gives you a critical look. “You’re awful in the mornings.” 

“Not when I’m fighting.” You snatch more bacon. “Would you rather me or Mingyu in a jaeger at two in the morning?”

“Point taken.” Both of you know the only person more miserable than you in the morning is Kim Mingyu. Jihoon nudges you with your elbow and gestures to the bacon. “Finish up. We have to workout soon.” 

“Ugh.”

He smirks. “Cardio day.”

“Ji, no.”

He ignores the nickname. “So much running.”

Now you know he’s doing it on purpose. There are few things in your training schedule that bring Jihoon joy like torturing you during scheduled workouts. He had started slating them each day, determined to harden your conditioning despite the fact that you’re already in decent shape.

Decent is a word in his vocabulary. He only expects perfection and even then, you’re pretty sure it’s unattainable. Still, you finish your breakfast and let him lead you to the gym, peppering him with whining and protests the entire way. He ignores them with a placid smile, hands linked behind his back as he walks. 

When you get to the gym, there are other pilots and workers using their free time to exercise. There’s only a single treadmill open, which Jihoon gets on easily. You start to edge your way toward yoga mats with the intention of not working out at all when he leans over to look at the time on the treadmill next to him. 

“You’ve been on it for an hour,” he grunts at some boy who looks like a cadet. “Off you go.”

The cadet scrambles off, almost forgetting to turn the treadmill off before he does. He bows in respect before shooting off like a frightened school of fish. Jihoon turns to you, grinning as he pats the machine. “For you.” 

“Thanks,” you deadpan. “Just what I’ve always wanted.” 

Jihoon’s grin only grows when you step onto the treadmill as he leans over the rail and turns it on, pressing the incline and speed buttons until you’re walking at a warm up pace. Which, for Jihoon, is a solid jog. 

As you jog, you fish out headphones from your pocket. You pop them in your ears, careful not to trip as the sound of classical fills your ears. You’ve taken to using Jihoon’s playlists, despite originally making fun of him for it. You find that it distracts you more than you thought it would, and it helps that you feel like a character in a fantasy movie running to an epic soundtrack.

You’ve adopted a lot of things that Jihoon does. It happens naturally, especially the more you drift. You find yourself putting on Mozart instead of Tchaikovsky or taking your coffee black on accident or scolding others in the training room for not being precise and perfect. 

Ghost Drifting is what some call it. You don’t think you’re quite there yet, being that Jihoon still hides half of himself away. But sometimes, even outside of the drift, you feel him in your mind like a phantom presence. 

After your workout, you go through the same day you have everyday: meditate back to back, sparring, and your talking session, which mostly consists of you both sitting next to one another looking over your drop footage and noting areas for improvement. 

Jihoon’s shoulder is pressed against yours, his eyes focused on the tablet in your hands, tracking the slowed down movement of the video. He taps the screen, pointing to the right side of the jaeger that he pilots. “I was a bit slow here.” 

“It’s not your reaction time, you’d never punch that slow. That’s the arm that took damage two fights ago against Razorbill. Let’s talk to the J-Tech team and see if there’s a delay in the receptor. It might be a split second off.” He snorts and you glance sidelong at him. “What?”

“You don’t think I’d punch slow?”

“No.” 

Jihoon raises his brows. You can feel his surprise at your seriousness to his question. He obviously expected you to turn it into a harmless jab, but you mean it when you say, “Your reaction time has been perfect for the last sixteen drops you’ve made. If there’s a delay, it’s the machinery. Not you.”

He looks away from you, nodding once. The tips of his ears are red and he mutters, “Thanks.” 

Instead of pressing the matter like you want to, you smile and hit play again, both of you focusing on the screen once more to talk through the remainder of your allotted bonding time. 

In your room, Jihoon turns on the speakers, the sound of Pas de Deux from the Nutcracker floods the room. You pause by the wardrobe where you’re shucking your boots off, gazing at Jihoon as he moves into the kitchen silently, taking out two mugs, a box of peppermint tea and a kettle. 

He doesn’t feel your eyes on him, going about making tea for the both of you. He hums along to the song - you don’t know when he became so familiar with it, his movements comfortable. Practiced. Relaxed. A swell of affection overtakes you, realizing you don’t know when he started making you tea. Or putting on Tchaikovsky for you. Or not biting at you every two seconds. 

Sensing your gaze, he turns to look at you over his shoulder. You turn away from him, busying yourself with your boots to spare him from making an excuse as to why he’s making you tea. Because you’ll know he’ll give one, provide you with some sort of excuse that it isn’t a favor or because you’re friends, but rather something like the tea bags are too large for one or I have to boil the water anyway. 

When you’re done changing for bed, he’s standing next to you, mug extended. He doesn’t look at you, instead finding interest in the cameras outside the Shatterdome. You take the mug from him and say nothing, knowing he’d rather you not thank him. 

Mug in hand, you climb carefully into the top bunk, crossing your legs as you nestle the mug next to you, pulling out your tablet to read. He gets into bed without a word, both of you existing in comfortable silence, just like Jihoon prefers. 

-

Alarms wrench you from sleep. You’re thrown forward in your bed, red flashing on the TV as the kaiju alert system wails. You wipe sleep from your face as you haul yourself over the edge of the bunk, landing next to Jihoon who is pulling off his sweats in favor of cargo pants as quickly as he can. You feel dizzy and off balance as you do the same, shoving one foot in your pants and hopping on one leg as your foot catches while trying to shove in the other.

Jihoon grabs you by the elbow, holding you steady as you shove your foot through the leg of your pants and shoot him a grateful look. He nods, letting you go to finish zipping his pants and digging around for a shirt. He can’t seem to find one, cursing under his breath as he roots around. You toss him one of yours instead, grabbing a pair of socks and throwing yourself onto his bunk to yank them on, quickly followed by shoes. 

“Fuck,” Jihoon mutters as he looks up at the screen, the red painting him in hellish light. “We’ve got a Cat-4. They’re dropping Emperor’s Mandate and Fang Striker with us.” 

“Dino and Wylie weren’t even on rotation.” 

“They’re not making the same mistake they did with Solar Saber.” He pulls out a tablet, squinting against the glow. “We're the last line of defense. Hao and Jun will take point with Fang Striker.” 

“Got it. Let’s go.”

You take off at a jog, easily keeping pace with one another as you go. There are jaeger teams moving about the building getting ready, the alarms still sounding as you navigate to the jaeger bay. Your team is already there and ready to fit you into Drivesuits, sliding each piece of armor on with practiced care. 

Jihoon catches your eyes from where he stands across from you, letting a team member slide his hand into a metal glove. His eyes are dark as the stormy sea outside, a bottomless well that you can’t seem to dive down into, but want to. His lips twitch a little and he gives you a nod, which you’ve come to understand is Jihoon for I trust you. 

Screens blink to life as you enter the Conn-Pod. Closing the front shield of your helmet, you immediately turn on open comms, listening as the Marshall and LOCCENT Controller on duty - you think it’s Nainsi - talking Minghao and Junhui through their neural handshake. 

The spine of your Drivesuit connects to the Conn-pod, your heads up display coming to life. You feel the metal whirring and clicking into place, rotating your shoulders and flexing your fingers as your jaeger team finishes connecting Jihoon to the Conn-pod before exciting and shutting the door firmly.

“Storm Breaker ready to drop,” Jihoon announces. 

“Engaging pilot to pilot connection protocol sequence,” Nainsi answers. “Engaging neural handshake in three… two… one…”

It’s like jumping off a cliff into freezing cold water. You feel the flash of cold, vision going white for a split second before you feel Jihoon’s calm flow through you. He’s steady like an icy river, his thoughts, feelings and emotions hidden down in their dark depth where they can’t bother either of you.

You’re like rapids, rushing thoughts and feelings, pouring everything through the drift at him. He takes it in stride, used to the white-capped rush of information he gets from you each time you connect. Jihoon adjusts easily, already hitting buttons on his screen as images from your day flash through your mind - including you watching him make you tea in the kitchen.

Jihoon says nothing about that. He says nothing about the gentle wave of your embarrassment either as Nainsi says, “Neural handshake strong and holding.”

Chan’s voice crackles through comms. “Fang Striker on standby for neural handshake.”

“Copy. Storm Breaker prepare for drop in three… two… one.”

Dropping feels like falling through the core of the earth. For a few moments, it’s a flightless feeling as you fall through the Shatterdome. Then you land, knees absorbing impact as the head of the jaeger falls into the neck socket, locking in.

“Calibrating right side,” Jihoon announces. “Calibrated.”

“Calibrating left side. Calibrated. Ready to engage.” 

Nainsi confirms calibration and directs, “Storm Breaker, take north point defense two miles from the shoreline. Hold that line. Fang Striker, engaging in pilot to pilot connection protocol sequence in three… two… one.” 

You tune out the rest of Fang Striker’s drop as you and Jihoon behind to charge into the bay. The windshield in front of you immediately froths with sea salt and wind, battering down on the jaeger as the night sea surges against Storm Breaker’s legs. You cut through the water like a knife, carving your way toward the defense line as the jumphawk team flies into place. 

“Five minutes until surface breach.” 

“Oh! Hi, Vernon,” you chirp. 

“Sup?”

“Would kill for a coffee right now. And like, a bagel. Or hashbrowns?” 

Vernon groans. “Mood.” 

Jihoon snorts but says nothing. Minghao’s voice comes over the comms, soft and cool. “Blue, everytime I drop with you you’re talking about food.” 

“Have you considered that Ji doesn't feed me?” 

“So it’s Ji now, huh?”

“Don’t get her started,” Jihoon grunts at Minghao’s teasing. “One mile out from the line of defense.”

Chan joins the conversation, voice chipper. “Fang Striker ready to pursue. Also, good morning everyone!” 

Everyone groans in misery collectively instead of greeting him back. Wylie’s voice cracks like a whip as she spits out, “Be nice to him.” 

Everyone greets Chan after that. Jihoon shakes his head, amused. “Fang Striker, escort Emperor’s Mandate to engage. Four minutes until surface breach.” 

Black ocean ripples outward in front of Storm Breaker as you move. You near the defense line, the city lights like a sea of stars at Storm Breaker’s back. Air support circles overhead, monitoring kaiju activity and helping with positioning. You see the spotlights glinting on the surface, waiting for a kaiju to surface. 

To the east of your position, Fang Striker and Emperor’s Mandate cut through the water. Fang Striker’s red paint is violent against the night, but her build is small next to the towering white fury of Minghao and Junhui’s jaeger. 

“Storm Breaker in position,” Jihoon calls. You both stop moving, your jaeger coming to a standstill as the water sloshes around your waist. 

“Standby, Storm Breaker. Kaiju breach in one minute.” 

“Emperor’s Mandate and Fang Striker in position. Ready to engage.” 

“Engage at your discretion.” 

Comms go silent as the strike team waits for the kaiju to appear. It’s the calm before the storm, the silence pregnant with tension. You feel a tentative brush of Jihoon’s thoughts against you. You turn and glance at him, surprised. 

Jihoon is watching you with a stormy expression, thoughtful. “You thinking about letting me in that big ass head of yours?” You tease, just in your personal comms. 

He smirks and shakes his head, breaking eye contact to look out the front of Storm Breakers cockpit. “Not a chance.” 

It’s a lie. You know it's a lie because you feel it is as sure as you feel your own glittering satisfaction that he’s thinking about it. That Jihoon is considering opening the door for you, even a fraction. 

Your satisfaction only lasts a second as the kaiju breaches the surface in front of Emperor’s Mandate and Fang Striker. You watch in strained silence as the jumphawk team begins reporting what they can about the makeup of the kaiju.

Emperor’s Mandate engages immediately, their metal saber chain shooting from the right arm and punching through the shoulder of the kaiju. An electromagnetic pulse goes down the chain and it goes taught like a sword as Junhui slices upward, attempting to sever the kaiju’s arm. 

The kaiju lands a hard punch to Emperor’s Mandate in the middle, sending them backward into the ocean as the chain-turned-sword pulls out as they fall. Fang Striker is there before the kaiju can attack again, charging and tackling the kaiju at the waist. She’s not built for heavy fighting, but Chan and Wylie are vicious, clawing at the kaiju with their metal claws. 

“Fang Striker, roll!” Minghao orders. Fang Stricker does, using the kaiju as weight to rock themselves over and under the creature, vanishing beneath the water’s surface as Emperor’s Mandate lands a punch to the kaiju’s back with a plasmacaster, turning the night blue as the sparks flare. “Push and we’ll pull.”

Salt spray mists the windshield as you and Jihoon watch in silence. The kaiju is a massive, hulking beast with spikes down its spine and a nasty club tail that catches Fang Striker in the knees, taking her down. The two jaeger teams work in flawless tandem, punching when the other ducks, tackling with the other falls. 

In a way, it’s beautiful to watch the fury of what a jaeger can do. Your lips twitch upward as the fight starts to go their way, Emperor’s Mandate severing the leg of the monster as Fang Striker pounces on it, sinking both clawed hands into its shoulder blades and tearing through its hide. 

“Storm Breaker-” Vernon’s panicked voice gets cut off as your world turns upside down. 

You feel yourself slam against the restraints of the Conn-pod connecting you to the jaeger. A surprised shriek escapes you as you flip head-over-feet in Storm Breaker, crashing into the ocean with a violent slam. A kaiju raises itself from the water, rearing its head like a cobra as it shrieks, the sound shaking the entire hull. 

“What the fuck?” Jihoon screams over comms. Storm Breaker rolls as the kaiju strikes like a snake, barely missing you as it hits empty water. “Where the fuck did that come from?”

“There was no reading!” Vernon yells back. “The signature appeared a half second before it attacked like it had some sort of stealth mode!” 

“Kaiju don’t have fucking stealth mode, Vernon!”

“Maybe it got an iOS update man, I don’t know!” 

There’s no time to care about why or how a kaiju isn’t appearing on the reporting team’s screen. Whatever level it is, it’s fast. You and Jihoon get to your feet just as it strikes again, fangs striking at the windshield. It doesn’t crack, but the sound of kaiju bone against the glass isn’t promising.

Storm Breaker stumbles back a few steps before regaining footing. You both strike with your right fist, slamming into the neck area of the beast as it winds up to strike again. It looks like a massive cobra, coils and coils of kaiju body gathering each time it tries. 

A shudder vibrates through the jaeger as the punch lands, sending the kaiju back several hundred yards. You don’t give it a moment to recover, both of you charging as you equip short swords perfect for close-combat fighting and slicing. 

“I think it’s too fast to pick up a reading,” you shout over comms. “It moves so quickly!”

Fighting is a careful rhythm. You and Jihoon find it immediately, tuning out the sound of the other fight as you zero in on your target. It doesn’t matter that the kaiju took you by surprise, it doesn’t matter that Jihoon still hasn’t let you in, it doesn’t matter that somewhere, you have other friends in just as much danger.

What matters is this. The feeling of rage that flows from Jihoon - or maybe it’s you - as you both savagely plunge a sword in the serpent body of your enemy. What matters is the way you and Jihoon flow, two rivers with the same curves and dips, sliding around the kaiju as you strike again, spraying ichor into the sea. 

Storm Breaker’s sword extends from the right arm, reflecting the city lights briefly before you cut sideways. The blade slides clean through like a knife through paper. You and Jihoon both scream savagely in unison as the head flies separate from the body, sailing in the air for a moment before crashing into the surface as blood spurts from the main body. 

It flails for a moment longer before crashing under ocean froth and water. Victory surges through you and you look across the Conn-pod where Jihoon is grinning at you, stars in his eyes. You feel a moment of elation, laughter bubbling to your lips as Nainsi recalls you to the Dome, Emperor’s Mandate and Fang Striker standing victorious.

“That’s kill number six?” Jihoon asks, voice delighted. “We’re on a fucking roll.” 

“I guess I’m not so bad a co-pilot after all, right?” He rolls his eyes but you get the feeling the tips of his ears have turned red. “Come on, Ji. Tell me I’m a good co-pilot.”

“No way.”

“Come onnnn.”

He levels a look at you, dark eyes churning. He licks his lips, opening and closing his mouth before he finally murmurs, “Can I show you instead?” 

The left foot of Storm Breaker is yanked from under you. You go down screaming, feeling the impact of the seafloor as you go down in the shallows hard. Pain shoots up your left arm as you slam against the restraints keeping you attached to the Conn-pod. Lights flash in your heads up display and a sensor starts going off, the left arm of the jaeger going dead as it loses connection. 

Jihoon is screaming your name over comms as you grit your teeth, and gather your bearings. You suck in a sharp breath as you both scramble to get Storm Breaker on her feet. “Left arms gone cold,” Jihoon yells over comms. You manage to get Storm Breaker to her feet as you both throw out your right arm, bracing for impact as the kaiju’s head strikes again. “It grew back two fucking heads!” 

“Fang Striker pursuing!” It’s Chan voice over the comms. “Three miles out from contact.” 

One of the heads strikes at the helm again, knocking into Storm Breaker hard. Your world rocks as you shove with the full force of the right side of the jaeger, thrusters turning on as you launch the kaiju and its twin heads backward. 

“How the fuck do we kill this thing?” you screech, charging toward the creature as it slides through the water, coiling to strike again. “If we cut off its head again, it’s just going to grow another.”

“Stab it through the head? I don’t fucking know!”

Snatches of panic and anger and concern seize you for a split second, it feels like your own but you realize it’s not, Jihoon’s feelings bleeding into you like a fresh wound as you strike at the kaiju again. Its tail loops around the left leg again and Jihoon’s worry spikes, so raw and unfamiliar that when he lifts his foot, you don’t lift yours. 

Storm Breaker stalls, filled with mechanic screeching as the two of you clash in the drift in a moment of indecision. A storm of emotions batters down on you. Your lungs squeeze as you feel yourself torn away from the fight and into Jihoon’s memories, each one flitting by so fast you can barely resonate with them. 

A little boy bullied by bigger kids. A woman being torn out of a home screaming in the hand of a kaiju. The sound of Mozart drowning out the screams of destruction. Young Jihoon crying in his room alone, nursing bruised ribs and knees. Teenage Jihoon fighting back. A man named Haneul that has seen all of Jihoon’s scars. 

“... out of alignment!” 

Words crash through you as you feel a tremor go through Storm Breaker. Jihoon’s thoughts are like a hurricane tearing at your foundation. 

Hatred when he meets you for the first time. Pride when he makes his first successful drop. Grief when Haneul retired. Resentment when he’s reassigned to a new pilot. 

Jihoon screams your name but you are drowning in him. Jihoon’s emotional dam has broken and years worth of who he is comes out in a torrent.

Jihoon joins the pilot program because he wants to get away from the home. The smell of books and oil lanterns. Greasy fingers and fumes. A blue mat rushing up to meet him as he falls. 

“Emperor’s Mandate two miles out. Preparing to engage!” 

Bitter coffee. Celebrating Haneul’s birthday. The sting of Chan biting him mid spar. Pretending he didn’t hate his childhood. Hiding the scared little boy behind a controlled exterior. 

“She’s chasing the rabbit!” 

Chasing the rabbit. You hear the word and vaguely realize you’ve fallen down the rabbit hole of Jihoon’s memories and emotions, completely unused to them in a space where you’re connected intimately. You try to gather your bearings, shutting down the images flashing across your mind that don’t belong to you as Storm Breaker gets rocked again. 

“Shit,” Jihoon swears. “Blue, come on. Come back to me. I’m sorry. Don’t chase my memories!”

A kite against a blue sky. Two paper boats on a lake. Your smile as you hang upside down off the bunk bed. Soonyoung giving Jihoon a birthday cake. Wylie in a hospital bed. Jeonghan and Joshua accepting pilots of the year. 

“I’m sorry,” Jihoon whispers, both in your mind and outloud. “Come back.”

You can do this. You can withstand the storm of Jihoon’s consciousness. You shake him out of your head, sorting out your thoughts and his. It’s nearly impossible to understand where you end and he begins, but you manage to hold back the wake of his uncontrolled consciousness.

Blinking, you come back to the present. There are lights and warnings going off as Storm Breaker takes another strike from the kaiju. Fang Striker is taking on its other head, the kaiju splitting focus between two jaeger teams as it tries to split open the top of your jaeger. Wylie and Chan are yelling in comms and Emperor’s Mandate is in pursuit to help you disengage. 

The left arm of your jaeger is still cold, totally disconnected from the rest of the machinery. You run through a list of fighting options with one arm down. The right side of the jaeger is fitted with a sword, explosive and a plasma caster in the first of the hand. But the jaeger overall- 

“Light it up,” you tell Jihoon. His relief crashing into you like a tidal wave. He understands what you want to do immediately. You feel his agreement rather than see it as you both start to tap controls on your control panels. “Fang Striker, prepare for lighting strike!” 

“Fry this motherfucker!” Wylie screams. “I fucking hate snakes!”

The nuclear reactor at the core of your jaeger starts to charge. From the top down, your jaeger begins to power down, lights flickering out and screens going dead. Your heart hammers as the kaiju slams into the head of the jaeger over and over again, trying to crack the helm wide open. Storm Breaker takes the savage blows as all but the nuclear core shuts off.

A low hum begins to sound at the heart of the machine. You feel the vibration tingle in your spine as all of the energy flow focuses in the center of the jaeger, slowly charging and pulling electricity from everywhere else. It’s a slow process, the kaiju beating down on you as the core winds up. 

“Fuck,” Jihoon swears at a particularly harsh strike. “This fucking bitch!”

“We’ve got it,” you tell him. You look across the Conn-pod at him, his face pale behind the shield of his helmet. “She’s not going to break, Ji.” 

You feel your words resonate in him. His affection is startling. He hides nothing from you now, every thought he’s ever had of you, every moment his eyes lingered on you too, every second he realized he didn’t dislike you at all - it’s all there for you to see. His soul laid bare. 

“She’s ready!” Your smile is like the sun. “Light her up!” 

Jihoon hits a button on his panel and the air turns to static. A ripple of energy passes through you, only lasting a split second before a bolt of white lightning explodes from the center of the jaeger. The world turns white, forcing you to shield your eyes as you hear the crack of deafening thunder. 

Ears ringing, you lower your hand as the light fades, blue sparks of electricity zapping across the ocean in a mile-wide radius. Smoking, the kaiju falls backwards, ocean spraying up on either side as it hits the surface of the sea. You can barely hear Fang Striker over the sound of the high-pitched whine in your ears.

You wait, but the kaiju doesn’t rise again. The jumphawk team circles above, waiting for another kaiju signature, but none comes. 

Sagging in your Conn-pod, you glance over at Jihoon. “Does that count as one or two kills? I’m so fucking over monster fighting today. I want a goddamn grilled cheese.”

-

Jihoon is a wreck. Not only does he visibly hover near your medical bed as the attending medic tends to your arm, ensuring it’s not broken, but you can still feel him like he’s attached to you in the drift. His concern is touching, but there’s also anger there. Not at you but at himself, boiling under the surface of his newfound worry. 

“So she’ll be okay?” he clarifies again, looking at the doctor with a hard stare. The man tending to your arm looks nervous under the sharp gaze of a jaeger pilot. “You’re sure it’s not broken? It better not be broken.”

“Jihoon,” you say gently. He crosses his arms over his chest, not taking his eyes off the doctor as he stares him down. “I’m fine. It’s just some bruising.”

“Just some bruising. Your arm practically fell off.”

“It did not. Let the doctor finish, Ji.”

He softens, turning to sit on an empty cot as he sulks. You watch him with muted amusement. His bottom lip juts out slightly, put out by you not letting him baby you. Cute, you think. 

Thankfully, the arm isn’t damaged. You’d bruised it pretty severely when Storm Breaker went down and you slammed against your restraints, but otherwise you’re unharmed. Some pain meds, ice and rest should do the trick, so you and Jihoon leave the medical bay with the doctor’s advice in hand and Jihoon muttering under his breath.

Back in your room, Jihoon sits you on his bottom bunk to examine the arm himself, holding you carefully as though he can break you at any moment. You let him have this, watching as his eyebrows crease and mouth twists while he rotates your arm delicately.

He has pretty hands. You’ve always thought so, but now you watch his slender fingers brush over your sore arm with care, feeling a shiver threaten the base of your spine. 

“You should ask for a reassignment.” Jihoon’s words land like a brick. You look up at him, eyes flashing with confusion. “I nearly killed you today. It was unprofessional and shameful as your co-pilot to knock you out of alignment like that. You don’t deserve that.”

“It happens, Jihoon. Fighting in a jaeger isn’t always perfect.”

“Well I am. And today I wasn’t. Request a new pilot, the Marshall will understand. People don’t last with me, it’ll be no risk to you.”

“I’m not requesting a new pilot. You’re who I want to drift with.”

He starts to pace. “Why? I’m obviously still that scared little boy who used to hide in his room alone.” 

Even without having felt his emotions in the drift, Jihoon makes so much more sense to you now. You reach out to him, taking him by the arms to stop his pacing. He won’t look at you, averting his eyes elsewhere. Your heart squeezes knowing that the reason Jihoon kept you out is because he didn’t want you to see who he was before he was the controlled, perfect jaeger pilot. 

“You’re not, Jihoon.” You squeeze his arm to emphasize your words. “But even if you were, I trust that little boy too. He was empathetic and kind.” Jihoon glances at you, unsure. “Don’t run away from me now that you’ve let me in. I’ve seen you and I still want you. Unless you don’t want me.”

“Of course I do.”

“It’s hard to tell with you, you know?”

His gaze drops down to your mouth. “I’ll show you, then.” 

Without another word, Jihoon grabs you by the waist and pulls you to him fully. Your arms slip around his neck, holding onto him for balance as he crashes his mouth to yours. His lips are warm and soft in contrast to the ferocity he kisses you with, fingers digging into your hips, mouth hungry. 

You meet him with equal fervor, fingers tangling in the long hair at the nape of his neck. He grunts when your nails scratch against his scalp, biting into your lower lip. He presses his tongue to the seam of your mouth and you let him in, sighing as his tongue brushes against yours, eager to taste you.

Kissing Jihoon is like standing in the eye of a storm. He’s brutal and calm, sharp and soft. His heart beats against yours, his chest heaving when he pulls away from your mouth to press wet kisses to the shape of your jaw and down your throat.

One of Jihoon’s hands slides up your back, fingers dancing along your spine until he reaches the base of your neck. He grabs you firmly, pulling your head back to give him better access to the softness of your throat. You let out a breathy sound and he groans low in his throat. 

“Don’t make that sound,” he whispers, biting your neck gently and chasing the sting with his tongue. “I’ll fucking crumble.” 

“So crumble.” 

“Fuck.”

Jihoon starts pushing you backward, your steps a tangle of feet. It might be the most uncoordinated the two of you have ever been, caught up in the heat of each other’s mouths as he kisses you feverishly again. It’s messy and spit-slicked, making you light headed. Your knees hit his bottom bunk and you crash backward, Jihoon on top of you. 

Your hands seek the warmth of his skin, sliding under the hem of his shirt over his flexing stomach to his firm chest. He lets you rake your nails across him as he settles on top of you, his hands planted on either side of your head and a knee slotted between your legs. 

Having him this close is everything. Months of not being able to have him entirely or the way you want has made you ravenous for him. You pull at his shirt, nipping at his lip and whining. He laughs darkly, leaning up from you to grab the back of his shirt and pull it up over his head. 

He lets you do what you want, content to let you run your fingers over the ridges of his stomach, the narrow shape of his waist, the firmness of his chest. He dives back down to attach his mouth to your collarbone, pulling the neckline of your shirt out of the way for access.

“Just take it off,” you complain, shivering as he continues his assault.

“Mmmf - difficult.”

This is not the composed Jihoon you’re used to. This is the raw, unedited version of him you’ve been begging to see. This is the storm letting loose because he knows you can take it - want to take it.

Jihoon does get tired of your shirt, growling as he grabs it firmly and tears it up and over your head. You laugh as he does, loving the way he scowls and presses you back down, biting your jaw as he does. He palms your tits over your bra, pinching your nipples through the fabric. You squeal and arch into him, head pressing into the mattress.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he huffs, mouth trailing butterfly-soft kisses toward your chest. 

“Sensitive?” you jest, dropping a hand between your bodies to press against the front of his pants. He hisses, hips twitching as you press against his cock. You grin wickedly as he pants raggedly against your skin, letting you squeeze him. “Yeah, you are.” 

Jihoon drags his knee up the bed, pressing between your legs. A bolt of pleasure surges through you and you whimper, making him smirk against your chest. “What was that?” 

“Nothing.”

He drops a hand down to your waist, squeezing. “Didn’t sound like nothing. Come on,” he urges. “You know you want to.” 

So you do. You roll your hips forward, pressing your clothed cunt against his thigh. The layers of clothes block too much of the sensation and you press harder, desperate for stimulation. A whine drips from your mouth as you grow frustrated. You feel the curve of Jihoon’s smile against the curve of your left breast as he places a wet kiss there. 

“Having a hard time?”

“Jihoon.”

One hand stays fixed on your hips, urging you to continue to grind into him despite it not being enough. The other slides up your front, his fingers light as feathers. He hooks a finger in the cup of your bra and pulls downward. He drags his mouth downward, giving your nipple a playful flick with his tongue. 

“Jihoon.” 

He hums thoughtfully, circling your pert bud with his tongue. A tremor goes through you and you squeeze your eyes shut. He closes his mouth on you and sucks gently, making you gasp. You continue to roll your hips into him as he scrapes his teeth against you gently. 

Cool air hits your spit-slicked chest as he kisses sloppily over to your other breast, repeating his ministrations. It feels so good you feel like you’re going to lose your mind. His skin is hot against yours and you’re desperate to feel more of him, hands pulling at his shoulders as he sucks wet marks into your chest. 

“More,” you whisper. “God, please more.” 

He knows what you mean when you say more because of course he does. He rids you of your bra entirely, throwing it somewhere else in the room. He works the buttons on your pants next, deft fingers moving quickly before tugging them down your thighs. He lets you pull his cargos down and throw them, but it’s as far as you get before he’s lavishing attention to your tits again. 

“Try now,” he pants. 

His knee is pressed right against the apex of your thighs. You don’t care that he can feel the damp cloth against his skin. You slow grind on his knee, feeling the pressure infinitely better with just a thin layer of underwear between you. A sigh of relief escapes you and he grunts, pleased as you keep going, thighs shaking. 

You could drown in him and not care. He smells like spearmint and soap, his hair soft as silk as it slides between your fingers. He gives a sound of approval everytime you card your hands through his hair, especially when he gives you a sharp bite and you tug. 

A tingle settles in the depth of your stomach. You feel like you could almost come this way, getting off with just his leg between your thighs and his mouth sucking greedily at your tits. You feel yourself tighten, hips pressing further but it’s not quite enough.

He reads you like a book. Jihoon slides his knee back and replaces it with his hand, fingers delicately pressing against your clit. It makes you see stars, going rigid in his grasp as he gently circles it a few times before dragging his fingers back down to press at your core through your underwear. 

“So god damn wet,” he lets go of your nipple with a pop. He hooks a finger through your underwear and pulls them to the side, his knuckles brushing your sticky folds. “So pretty for me.” 

His compliment makes you shy. You hide your face behind your hands and he laughs darkly, letting you. He’s already seen all of you in the drift, but this is different. More personal. Real. 

The press of a finger into your cunt is slow and maddening. You immediately want more, desperate for it. He doesn’t give it to you right away, taking his time as he busies his mouth with your chest and neck, content to finger fuck you at a leisurely pace. 

When he hooks his finger and presses right into that soft spot, you seize up. He grins, finding exactly what he was looking for. His mouth catches yours again, a tangle of tongue and teeth as he presses another finger in. You squirm against the mattresses, pinned under his weight. The heel of his hand presses into your clit, adding pressure as he strokes your front walls rhythmically. 

You’re greedy for him. You suck his tongue into your mouth and he moans, letting you do what you want. The wet squelch of his hand between your legs only spurs you on, his name dripping from your lips in a whine as you cling to him, feeling the start of your orgasm.

Jihoon knows it’s coming. His pace is more intent and he shuffles up the bed to get a better angle. Your toes curl and you writhe against the sheets, feeling the way they stick to your balmy skin as he works you closer and closer to an orgasm. 

He presses a soft kiss under your ear, chaste compared to the mess he makes of your cunt. “Come on,” his voice is husky and gentle. “Let go for me.”

It’s his for me that sends you over the edge. Your legs squeeze around his hand but he keeps at it, pressing tender kisses to your collarbones as you twitch under his touch. Your orgasm starts to wane and turn into overstimulation, your panting turning into whimpering, nails digging into the back of his neck, unsure if you’re trying to push him away or keep him there.

Jihoon retracts his hand slowly. You feel the way you drip down the curve of your ass as you pant, staring up at the bottom of your bunk trying to gulp down air. He nudges his nose against your jaw, bringing your attention back to the present as his dark eyes look up at you.

Your voice comes out rough from use. “Want you.”

The corner of his mouth lifts and he nods, lifting himself off you to let you peel your underwear the rest of the way down as he works his briefs down his thighs. You let out a squeak when you look up to see him using the cum on his fingers to stroke himself, head tilted back a little, eyes heavy. 

“What?” he murmurs, dropping his gaze down to you. His eyes are fucked out just from getting you off and it drives you insane, this visual of him blotchy with warmth, hair sticking to his forehead.

“You’re so hot,” you blurt and he pauses, raising a brow at you. “Don’t stop.” 

“You like when I touch myself in front of you?” You nod, chewing on your lip as you stare. He grins and starts stroking himself slowly again, squeezing his flushed tip as he does, beads of precum dripping over the edge. “I’ll give you a show later. If I don’t fuck you in the next five minutes I will nut in my hand.” 

“I mean, I wouldn’t hate it.” 

“Oh? You want me to cum in my hand instead of that pretty pussy?” You purse your lips, staring back at him with a pout. “Didn’t think so.” He laughs and shuffles on his knees toward you, shaking his head and groaning when your legs fall open automatically for him, revealing the mess he’s made. “Can’t believe I made myself wait for this.” 

“How stupid of you.”

Your stomach flutters when Jihoon lowers himself, cockhead pressing at your entrance. You ache for him - in more ways than one. Jihoon feels it too, hanging his head and letting his hair cascade around his face like a silvery halo as he slowly presses in. 

His name falls from your mouth as you gasp, feeling the pressure of him as he sinks into your cunt slowly. You feel full and overwhelmed and perfect all at once, a myriad of feelings peppering your senses until he’s fully sheathed to the hilt. 

Jihoon’s breathing is ragged for a moment as you clench around him, throbbing. He sucks in air sharply between his teeth, one hand going to your hip to press you into the mattress while the other lands next to your head, bearing his weight. 

“Thank you for waiting for me.” You almost don’t hear him when he says it, his voice so soft. “When you didn’t have to.”

Your arms loop around his neck, pulling him closer. His nose brushes against yours and you feel your adoration for him grow. “Of course I did. You were meant for me.” 

Prompted by your words, he nods and pulls his hips back slowly. The glide is easy with how wet you are. He thrusts back in with a hard snap, stealing your breath. The ability to string together coherent words vanishes as Jihoon sets a punctuated space. 

“Fuck,” you whisper. 

Fuck is right. Jihoon angles his hips perfectly, kissing your spot with each thrust with a deadly precision you’ve only seen in battle. Of course he fucks like he fights with absolute accuracy, driving you right toward an orgasm within a few minutes. Your fingers tangle in your hair, mouth pressed against his forehead where it rests against you. 

His hand slides from your hips to your thigh, slipping under it and hiking it upward. It deepens the angle and you let out a loud sound, unable to catch your breath as sparks fly behind your eyelids.

“Holy shit, like that.” You’re a mess under him and he knows it, driving his hips faster as you continue to fall apart. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck.”

“Yeah?” he asks, almost taunting. “Gonna come like this?”

“Yes, please don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t. He keeps going, driving you to the edge until you’re coming around him with enough force to knock heads with him. He mumbles something that sound like ouch but you’re too far gone, squeezing the fucking life out of him as you come before going boneless. 

Jihoon pulls out and flips you, your world spinning as you land face first in his pillows. They smell like him and you love it, sliding your hands up to grip at the pillows as he drags your knees up, ass toward him. Sweat slicks your back and you try to take in a few ragged breaths, turning your head to the side to watch him sidelong. 

His dark eyes dip to your ass and he curses, shifting backward so that he can lean down, hands prying your thighs apart to make way for his tongue as it slides up your pussy. 

“Oh shit,” you wheeze. 

He practically purrs against you, tongue licking slowly back and forth. The grip on his pillows tightens, one of your hands shooting back to grab his hair, holding him to you. He laughs, the vibration going straight through you as he sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking over it. 

“I love when you pull my hair,” he admits, panting as he takes a breath. 

His tongue dives back in, pressing against your clenching hole. It is maddening the way he works you with his mouth. You feel like you’re coasting to another high. He knows exactly what to do, knows when to slow down, knows when to speed up. Jihoon has had access to you for months and it shows, navigating your body like it’s second nature to him.

“I’m gonna come again.” It comes out as a whine, fingers twisting in his locks. “Shit.”

“So come again.” 

You do. It’s not as hard as the first one but it’s just as good, your orgasm shivering through you. Warmth floods you and you bite into his pillow, muting the loud sound that spills from your lips. 

Jihoon doesn’t give you a second to recover before he’s up on his knees and pushing back into you. His hand cracks across your ass and you let out a startled yelp, earning laughter from both of you. Spent and delirious, your hand finds purchase on his wrist, holding on to him as he fucks you fast and hard. 

He lets go of where he holds your hip to lace your fingers instead, pressing your linked fingers against the curve of your ass as he drills his hips forward. Somehow the hand holding is more intimate, your throat screwing shut as Jihoon chases after his own high.

With a muted murmur of your name, he comes. His thrusts turn messy, each press of his hips against your ass met with a wet sound. You don’t even care about the slick running down your legs, absolutely spent and sweaty and tired and a little in love with the man behind you.

Slowly, he lets go of your hand. You drop your arm to the mattress, suddenly aware of the ache in your shoulder at the angle. Instead of pulling out, Jihoon leans forward, pressing his sweaty chest to your back, mouth brushing softly against your shoulders. 

“Thank you.” 

You’re so close to sleep that you barely register what he’s saying. “For what?”

“Withstanding the storm,” he laughs. “Withstanding me and waiting me out.”

“You’re worth it.”

“I hope so. I want to be.” 

With care, he detangles himself from you. You make a pitiful sound and he tuts at you, rolling you over on your back so that he can see your face. His eyes swim with more affection than you’ve ever seen, kick starting your heart. You lift a hand and tuck his bangs behind his ear, fingers lingering to brush across his cheek.

“So I’m kind of like your Storm Breaker, right?” 

He groans. “Don’t start.”

“What? You literally just said I withstood the storm or whatever.” 

“Come on, we’re showering.” 

“No way, I am not moving right now.”

“You are not sleeping covered in cum.”

“Ji,” you whine. 

He grins and kisses your head, getting out of bed. “Come on then, storm breaker. Withstand me a little more.” 

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[bubblegumgothglados]

This is a RACK focused best practice guide to doing a drowning scene, more specifically a scene where you're repeatedly forcing your victims head under the water. These are my suggestions based on extensive research but they are only theoretical i haven't got to do this to anyone yet. If you have actual experience id love to hear from you please.

Pre-scene setup

Learn CPR. This is the single thing that I'm going to say is mandatory, everything else is just a suggestion this isn't. If worst comes to worst and your victim is drowning you need to be able to save their life.

Learn your victim. How do they react in pain, when they're scared or panicking, where are there mental breaking points. Especially helpful to have done breath play with them before, how long can they hold their breath, how hard will they fight, what are their non verbal cues. Are they the type of person who will push their limits past the danger point, are you comfortable shutting the scene down when they're begging you to continue.

Figure out your nonverbal communication. A safeword is important but not nearly enough for a scene like this. Their head is going to be underwater most if the time and they'll probably be struggling and fighting. What signs can they make to tell you to stop or slow down under these conditions. I would suggest giving them something to hold that can make noise, a squeaky toy or a clicker or something similar, with which to signal you.

During the scene

Use warm water. Cold water adds a whole plethora of new problems significantly increasing the risk. I'm not sure of the exact temperature but I think it should be either room temperature so your victim doesn't feel a temperature difference between the air and the water, or body temperature so the water doesn't change their core temperature. (If you'd like to use cold water or even ice water, if that's part of the appeal, ill happily figure out the additional risks in exchange for a video of you drowning your victim ^.^)

Watch their face. Like any other form of breath play hypoxia is a major risk. This post isn't about breath play, I'm assuming you know all those risks and how to manage them before you do something like this.

Start slow. Put your hand on their head but let them submerge themselves and then come back up when they're ready. This will get them used to the sensation and you used to the rhythm. Slowly increase pressure and intensity until you're forcing their head under and pulling it up against their will.

Have the person fill their lungs to capacity before submerging them. The reason being they will have to breath out before they breath water back in so as soon as you see the first sign of bubbles you can pull them out.

After care

This scene will be intense so the aftercare needs to be too. Again this post isn't about proper aftercare I'm assuming you know how to do that if you're doing something like this. But in addition to the usual.

Have a plan for monitoring your victim for the next 72 hours. There are two major complications that can occur after a drowning incident and both can take days to present themselves. The first is when a persons throat spasms and closes, this is supposed to happen when they initially inhale water but can happen much later. The signs to look out for include persistent coughing, irregular breathing, dizziness, confusion, and foam around the mouth and nose. The second is when water gets deep into the lunges it can cause fluid to build up which inhibits gas exchange causing the person to slowly suffocate. The signs to look out for can include coughing up blood, excessive sweating, anxiety, pale skin, and a crackling sound when breathing deeply. If your victim shows any of these signs get them to a medical professional asap, don't risk it these will both cause very painful death.

Enjoy ^.^

[chaaistained]

hi chaai! do you have any ideas on where to shift to?

ideas on where to shift .*+

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we’ll get the obvious out of the way, there are many different locations you can shift to anon !! and i personally don’t know what your interests and hyperfixations are :( but ! i still want to help in any way i can ≈ so here are a list of general ideas and suggestions and maybe some inspo into different realities to which you (any of you!) can shift !! and ofcs you can tweak it all to your liking xx

sink into self indulgence …

—» shifting at its core is self indulgent and the first example i can think of is your favourite childhood books, movies and shows — the kind of self indulgence where you go back to what made your life sparkle as a child, what made you believe in the impossible, what made you wish the impossible was real, whether it’s fairies, dragons, mermaids, or monsters going to high school, you should take a trip down memory lane and figure out what had you rushing to finish your meal to go watch the latest episode, or work hard at your homework so you could buy the next edition of the game. there’s also the media consumed in your teenage years, the kinds of media that helps you feel like you were escaping and yet at the same time like you were understood

examples include : hogwarts , narnia , my little pony , monster high , ever after high , how to train your dragon , percy jackson and the olympians , h2o , pixie hollow , barbie fairytopia/mermaidia , hilda , bridge to terabithia , wizards of waverley place , minecraft , power rangers , tmnt , disney princesses , little women , gilmore girls , studio ghibli , etc.

—» there are also the realities where you play a part in the bigger picture, you are a significant piece in a vast and intricate puzzle, you stand among your peers, your friends, as someone to be recognised, maybe you’re looking for some thrill? some excitement? some sort of battle or mystery or revolution where you can fight for the underdog or reclaim some form of power — be careful if you do choose to explore these places, but i’m sure you’ll handle it just fine

examples include : marvel/mcu/the avengers/spiderverse , dc/justice league/the arrowverse/smallville , the hunger games , the walking dead , arcane , supernatural , teen wolf , the maze runner , the vampire diaries , pretty little liars , gossip girl , mean girls , outer banks , criminal minds , brooklyn nine nine , the rookie , dune , star wars , avatar: the last airbender , james cameron’s avatar , jurassic park/world , pirates of the caribbean , twilight , etc.

—» conversely, your dr doesn’t even need to be fantastical, sometimes, the things that bring us comfort are in fact the most relaxing, they slow our lives down for whatever time we spend engaging in them, they let us unwind and unravel any burden we’ve unknowingly put on ourselves, the dr doesn’t even need to be based on some form of media, it could be your dream life and/or career

examples include : better cr (HIGHLY RECOMMEND) , cafe/barista , librarian , farmer , florist , artist , museum curator , boarding school , summer camp , bookstore owner , writer , painter , photographer , chef , designer , animator , game developer , director , etc.

—» but maybe you would like a career in the spotlight, where you can finally show the world what you’re capable of, the talent and skills that you know are innate to your being and you just need the opportunity to showcase it

examples include : actor , pop star , band member , kpop idol , youtuber , broadway singer , talk show host , dancer , professional athlete , model , travel vlogger , socialite , royalty , etc.

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when all is said and done, shifting is inherently a form of self love, you’re picking yourself and you’re choosing to shift and experience a reality that will fulfil you in some way !! the ideas in this post are not the limit, there is no limit, [cue mean girls’ “the limit does not exist” scene] so let your creativity take control and let yourself indulge in what makes you happy

cuppa queries; order in — ask responses

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