#Really. Its a LONG post. You were Warned.

[ktownshizzle]

Love & Lullabies | Part 5

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: What begins as a simple favor for your best friend Namjoon soon pulls you into the rhythms of Yoongi’s life—afternoons spent caring for his son, late nights filled with candid conversations, and a connection neither of you thought you needed. You’re just fresh out of a long-term relationship with an ex who didn’t want a family with you, so did you really just stumble into a life you’ve always dreamed of? (Thank god Namjoon isn’t the only one who’s clumsy.)

✎ ˎˊ˗ Alternatively: It’s 2025 and BTS is prepping for their comeback. All members seem to have gained muscle weight from their time at camp. But Min Yoongi has gained a different kind of weight—an 8-pound baby and a fuck-load of responsibility. (Thank god you’re there to help him.)

✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, idol!au, Acquaintances to Lovers, Reader is Namjoon’s bestie

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Yoongi is a DILF (!!!) That’s it.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter warnings: Sex. Minors DNI. Also, barely proofread, sorry for any mistakes!

✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 3.8k

✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: February 1, 2025

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Sorry it has taken me a while to get this part out. But I think you’ll like it. *fingers crossed* FULL TAGLIST TO FOLLOW. Sorry, I'm in a rush today. This is inspired by an ask/prompt sent by @yoongznme. 

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part 4.5 | Part Five | Masterlist

A fancy hotel takeout sits untouched on your kitchen counter, the smell of roasted garlic filling the small space. You glance at the clock—6:47 PM.

Yoongi promised to take you to dinner, but given the circumstances, a quiet night in felt more appropriate. Safer for him. After all, the media has been relentless since the Dispatch scandal dropped close to midnight like Cinderella’s kitten heel at the ball.

You’re kind of pissed, actually. Scratch that—you’re furious. Just when it felt like you finally had Yoongi—finally had the chance to explore whatever this was between you—this bullshit had to rear its ugly head. A photo of his kind of ex leaving his building was enough to set the internet on fire, and now it felt like the flames were creeping dangerously close to your life.

You’ve talked to him once today, and even that conversation was clipped. A text from him at 5 let you know he was about to leave HYBE and swing by his place first. “Be there by 7,” he’d said.

You stare at the pristine takeout containers, willing yourself not to spiral. You’re not that person anymore. You’re not the insecure girl who lets her emotions run wild over things she can’t control. You’ve done too much good work to let this unravel you.

“You’re fine. You’re fucking fine,” you mutter under your breath, pacing the kitchen.

Your phone vibrates on the counter. Namjoon. Always coming to your rescue at the right time.

“Hello?”

“You doin’ okay?” Namjoon asks, his voice calm but laced with concern.

“Define okay,” you quip, though your voice wavers slightly. “It’s been a lot.”

“I figured,” Namjoon says gently. “That’s why I’m calling. Just wanted to check in. Yoongi’s been swamped today, and I know how this stuff can mess with your head.”

You exhale slowly, grateful for the concern but also acutely aware of the simmering emotions just beneath the surface. “I’m trying, Joon. Really, I am. It’s just… exhausting. The waiting, the overthinking, the noise. I just want to know where I stand with him, you know?”

“He’ll tell you,” Namjoon assures you, his voice steady. “Just… don’t let the noise get to you.”

You swallow hard, his words striking a chord. “Thanks, Joon. Really.”

“Anytime,” he says warmly. “And hey, take it easy on him tonight, okay? He’s under a lot of pressure, but trust me, you’re his priority.”

“Will do, dad,” you tease, and for the first time all day, you feel a flicker of lightness.

“Bye.”

You set the phone down, Namjoon’s words lingering in your mind as you glance at the clock again. 

You think about Yoongi and the kind of pressure he must be feeling now. You can take care of him tonight. He deserves it.

You’re rearranging the pillows on the couch, trying not to glance at the clock again for the hundredth time. It’s not even about tidying the place anymore. It’s about occupying your hands, distracting yourself from the swirling mix of emotions in your chest.

Then, the doorbell rings.

7:01pm. 

You take a breath, smoothing your sweater. Calm. Casual. You’re fine.

You open the door.

And there he is. Yoongi stands in the dim light of the hallway, a dark jacket zipped up to his collarbone, a black mask shading his face, somehow directing the focus on the exhaustion in his eyes. But what caught your attention is his hair—slicked back with a little sprout of inky locks on top.

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking bashful at the heat in your gaze.

Christ. He looks good. Criminally.

He steps in. “Hi,” he says softly, his voice carrying that calm rasp you’ve missed.

Your heart clenches. “Hi,” you reply, your tone quieter than intended. You clear your throat, stepping back to let him in. “Come in.”

He steps inside, pausing in the entryway as he glances around. 

You then notice the bouquet in his hand—gorgeous white roses and baby’s breath wrapped in brown paper. 

He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes flick over your face. Something in your expression must’ve softened, because he quickly averts his gaze.

“I brought these,” he says, holding them out a little awkwardly.

Your chest tightens, a strange warmth spreading through you. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

When you reach out to take the bouquet, your fingers graze his, and the contact lingers for just a second too long. Impulsively, your free hand rises to cup his cheek. Maybe it’s too much for whatever the hell this is between you, but the moment feels too honest to stop yourself.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly.

Yoongi freezes under your touch, his dark eyes widening ever so slightly. Then, as if the tension in his shoulders breaks all at once, he leans into your palm, just a fraction, and the smallest, most heartbreaking smile tugs at his lips as his eyes flutter close.

“I am now.”

You head to the kitchen, busying yourself with a vase to give the flowers the best chance to survive. You do not have a green thumb, so you pray to the gods the beautiful arrangement does not wither overnight.

“Hungry?” you ask, not turning around. “I bought chicken, shrimp fried rice, and some random banchan.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Yoongi replies, his voice closer than you expect. You glance back to find him leaning against the counter, watching you with an unreadable expression.

You place the vase on the counter and fold your arms. “So,” you start, forcing lightness into your tone. “Survived the day?”

“Barely,” he admits, a tired smirk tugging at his lips. “Had to dodge more cameras than usual. Sat in meetings for a couple of hours. Si-hyuk personally called Sung Kyung’s agency. They assured me that they will investigate thoroughly. I couldn’t eat. I get home and there’s still press camping out. So yeah, shit day and I almost didn’t make it out alive.”

“That’s the longest response I’ve ever gotten from you.” You tease. “You really must be stressed out.”

Yoongi chuckles and for a moment, it feels like the tension that’s been hanging over you both all day melts away. 

You go around the counter and stand facing him where he’s sitting on your bar stool. He parts his legs and you immediately take that space, crowding him a bit more by placing your hands tentatively on his shoulder.

His eyes, warm like molten chocolate, meet yours. “How about you?”

You hesitate, suddenly feeling a little exposed. “I’m fine,” you say, though the tightness in your chest betrays you. “I mean, it’s not like this is new territory for you, right?”

“Doesn’t mean it’s easy,” Yoongi says quietly. “And I don’t like that you’re sort of affected by it.”

“I can handle it,” you reply, trying to sound more confident than you feel, projecting strength since he looks a little broken right now.

Yoongi’s lips press into a thin line, like he’s not entirely convinced. 

“I kinda knew what I was getting into when I knocked in your studio yesterday,” you say softly. “And I’d do it again. For you.”

His eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across his face at your admission before it softens into something else. Something deeper. “For me?”

You nod, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “Yeah. For you.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s trying to figure out what to say. Then he straightens up from his slouch, taking one of your hands from his shoulder, pressing his lips softly against your pulse point.

“Dinner first,” he says. 

“Then what?” you challenge.

Yoongi just grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

As you sip the last of your drink, you steel yourself to ask the question that’s been bugging you all day. “So,” you say finally, broaching the topic. “Sung Kyung.”

Yoongi pauses mid-bite, his eyes flicking to yours. He sets his chopsticks down carefully, leaning back in his chair. “What about her?”

You take a steadying breath, forcing yourself to look him in the eyes. “Namjoon told me you’re co-parenting. But I need to hear where you two… stand?”

Yoongi exhales slowly. “Yeah, we’re co-parenting. That’s it. I don’t have any intention of getting back together with her. At all.” His voice is calm but firm, leaving no room for doubt. “I want Haneul to know his biological mom, but she and I—we’re done. That’s been over.”

Relief washes over you, but before you can fully settle into it, you notice the shift in his expression. His jaw tightens, and his eyes dart briefly to the table before returning to yours.

“There’s something else,” he says quietly, the words heavy with hesitation.

Fuck. You don’t like the sound of it, but you ask anyway. “What is it?”

Yoongi sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “A few weeks ago… she kissed me.”

Your stomach twists, and the room feels suddenly colder. “What?”

“I put a stop to it immediately,” he says quickly, his tone insistent. “I told her it couldn’t happen again, that if she wanted to keep seeing Han, she had to respect that boundary. And she has. She knows where we stand.”

You don’t respond right away, staring down at your plate as you try to process his words. 

Oh my god. This is so fucked up. You knew Sung Kyung’s reappearance wasn’t as harmless as it seemed, but hearing it confirmed still stings.

“I just thought…” you start, but the words trail off.

Yoongi’s voice is soft but steady. “You have every right to be upset.”

“Do I?” You think out loud. “We’re not…” You nod slowly, pushing your chair back. “I… need a minute.”

When you get to your bathroom, you release a long steadying breath. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, hands gripping the counter tightly. Fuck. You’re okay. This is–

A knock sounds at the door, startling you.

Yoongi’s voice is muffled as he says your name, but it’s gentle as can be. “Can I come in?”

You glance at the lock and realize, too late, that you forgot to turn it. The door creaks open, and there he is, standing in the doorway, his expression a mix of concern and something softer.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him and his arms immediately slide around your waist. The warmth of his touch seeps into you, and you meet his gaze through the mirror.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your hair. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You lean back against him, the tension in your shoulders easing but just slightly. “I just… I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“That’s fair,” he presses his lips to your temple. 

“But I need you to know–” presses another on your cheek.

“That I don’t want anyone else–” presses the last where your neck and shoulders meet. 

“Just you.”

Your heart clenches at the sincerity in his voice, and when your eyes meet again in the mirror, the tenderness there leaves you so breathless.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you turn in his arms, your hands sliding up to his face as you pull him down for a kiss. His fingers tighten on your waist as he deepens the kiss, pulling you flush against him.

You walk back to your bed, lips fused with his, your fingers tangled in the soft strands of his hair. The urgency between you grows as you push him down onto the mattress, his back hitting the sheets with a quiet thud. You follow immediately, straddling him, your body molding against his as you capture his lips again. The kiss is deep, consuming, his hands gripping your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you.

You stay like that for a while, tongues teasing, breaths mingling, drunk in the taste of each other. Then, a sharp pull of his lower lip between your teeth has him groaning into your mouth.

You’re driven by lust, and something else. A possessive demon seems to be overriding your better judgment, thinking you’ve been timid with your feelings for long enough. No woman, not Sung Kyung, even if he is Han’s mom, can take what you and Yoongi have been building up to for so damn long.

“You’re in your head,” Yoongi says, nudging his nose against yours.

“Did she kiss you like this, huh?” The words leave you before you can stop them. Your lips return to his, sucking greedily, staking your claim.

Yoongi’s breath shudders as you pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “No, baby.” His voice is rough, lips pink and swollen.

Your fingers slide under his shirt, pushing the fabric up and over his head, tossing it aside before your hands explore the newly exposed skin. He’s warm, toned beneath your touch, and the way his muscles tense under your fingertips only spurs you further. You lean down, lips dragging along his jawline, open-mouthed kisses trailing down his throat. He tastes sweet, salty, and entirely intoxicating.

“Did you fuck anyone else when I left?” you mumble against his skin, your teeth grazing the sensitive spot beneath his ear.

His breath hitches, “No, shit. No.”

“Good boy.” You hum in satisfaction, your lips venturing lower, your tongue flicking against the hollow of his throat. He groans, head pressing back into the pillow.

“Baby, you’re making me lose my shit right now,” he grits out, his voice strained, desperate. His hands now get braver, sliding underneath your top to fondle your tits. 

Maybe you’re delirious. Maybe you’re too turned on to think straight. Or maybe—maybe this is exactly what you’ve wanted since the moment you saw him again.

Your hand drifts down, fingers tracing the outline of his hard length through his trousers, feeling the way he twitches under your palm. 

“You’re mine, okay?” you whisper, nipping at his bottom plush as your fingers give his dick a squeeze.

He exhales a shaky laugh, his lips curving under yours. “Yours.”

He lets you revel in your greed for a few moments, allowing you to do whatever you pleased as you lose yourself in the heat building between you.

He ruts up towards your hand, grunting slightly. Honestly, he’s so hard, it’d be a mercy to release him from the confines of his jeans. So you do, helping him unbutton, unzip, and undress, until his cock springs free and flops on his stomach.

What a pretty dick. Literally lickable—solid, girthy, veiny, a bead of white pooling at the slit. You take him in your mouth, tracing the tip with your tongue, the taste of pre-cum coating your throat. You let drool cascade down his length, slick fingers pumping his shaft while your mouth suctions his mushroom head.

His hand goes to the back of your neck, guiding you in a bit more. “Mmm… that’s it, baby.” 

Yoongi moans your name as you go faster. You feel him twitching inside your mouth. He’s so hard but you don’t want him to cum yet. You pop him off to lap at the base, before your tongue travels upward to trace the thick veins on the underside of his cock. 

Jaw slack, his eyes are dark, dark as he observes you while propped up on his elbows. “Come up,” he says when you reluctantly pull away. “Wanna eat you out.”

Your clothes are yanked off your body as you take his place on the cushions, not a single piece of fabric now separating your skin. He takes you by the hip and adjusts your position so he can get his face close to your mound. Before you can mentally prepare yourself, he shoves his hot tongue against your folds, locating your clit in 0.001 seconds and you know you’ll be careening off a cliff in no time.

“I—Yoongi, that’s… shit that’s nice.” You can’t help it. It does feel nice.

You reach for the little ponytail on his head, gripping it for dear life. He hums against your bud when you pull, the vibrations only driving you more insane.

“You taste so good baby,” he mumbles.

“Yeah?”

“I can eat you out for days, make you cum,” he vows, delirious just like you are. “Over and over… my favorite fuckin’ snack.” 

“Oh my god, Yoongi…”

He feasts, and feasts, and soon enough, you’re shuddering in ecstasy, hips bucking in the process, as he slurps all you give him. He wears your cum like a gloss as he comes up for air, a lazy but proud smile on his face.

You reach for the drawer on your nightstand and pull out a new, sealed, and unopened box of condoms shoving it on his chest. He holds it in one hand, nose scrunching as he suppresses a laugh.

“Someone prepared…”

You shrug as he plucks one and unwraps it quickly, “What?”

“Nothing. You’re too cute for me.”

“Shut uppp.”

He rolls the condom on his dick, propping one hand by the side of your face as he uses the other to rub his blunt tip against your entrance. Your pussy is drenched and he slips right in and bottoms out with a grunt against your ear. He’s thick and big against your walls.

A smack against your ass cheeks makes you clench. “Ah, shit.” And another one lands before he soothes it with a gentle massage. 

You’re going crazy but you need him deeper. Sensing your needs, Yoongi pushes the back of your knees higher and snaps his hips with more force, pounding your pussy as your bed creaks against the wall. Your lids are heavy but you keep your eyes open long enough to see how fucked out he looks, cheeks flushed pink with a coat of sheen on his forehead, teeth caging his lower lip.

“You’re so hot. I wanna ride you,” you declare, stuttering a bit from his thrusts.

“Yeah?” He pants, slows the roll of his hips, waiting for your confirmation. 

When you nod, he slips off with a wince and you feel your juices trickle down your skin. You reverse positions, mattress dipping as you shift your knees on each side of his hips. 

“Do your thing, baby,” he urges, lacing his fingers behind his head, elbows bent outward in a relaxed pose.

Your smile is watery as you use his tip to prod against your clit one or twice before you sink him inside your wet heat. You moan in unison when you're fully seated, the feeling of him snug and warm and so full inside you driving you mad.

You tip your head back, palms planted against his chest as you swivel your hips in a slow dance. 

You look down on him, hair cascading over your shoulder, and you think how much you like this view. And how you won't mind this view everyday, actually. Seems the possessive streak from earlier still has not satiated. 

“Shit—you’re so hot like this.” 

You rock against him, clit stimulated deliciously as you ride his cock. He’s got a cocky little grin as you use him. You throw your ass back, and he has a front row seat and VIP access to your bouncing tits, his tongue slack on the side of his lips. He cups your tits with both hands, the wet pads of his thumbs rubbing against your nipples.

“My turn,” he grabs hold of your waist and thrusts upward so roughly your eyes roll back in pleasure.

He pistons into you, finger digging on your skin to keep you in place and a long moan rips from your throat when he jerks up particularly hard.

Your hands slip to his shoulder as your body bounces by the force of his movements, tits sliding against his chest. His thighs must be burning and when he slightly lets up, you dip your head, shamelessly to lick the side of his face, moaning his name against his ear. 

“Baby—” you beg, not really saying what you need, but he knows.

He uses a sweaty hand to guide a tit in his mouth, suckling at it with a bit of teeth. 

Not a moment later, he’s fucking you again from below, deeper, faster, and when rapidly presses into your sweet spot, you’re a goner.

“I’m close, Yoongi. So close…”

“Me too, baby,” his voice is rough as he lets go of your bruised nipple, brows furrowed in concentration like he is fully intent to give you the orgasm of your life. He pushes into your depth relentlessly, 

White hot heat is blooming inside you, and you feel his cock throb, abs tightening, before he spills his seed in the condom, groaning with his eyes shut to savor the intensity of his release. It’s the pure unadulterated pleasure painted on his face and his deep delicious moan that tips you over the edge, too, clenching against his solidness as you slip into the sinful pleasure of your orgasm.

Chest to chest, you rest your full weight against him, softening dick still nestled inside you. You press your lips against his neck, feeling the vibrations of his throaty chuckle. Then he asks, “Was it good?”

“So good.”

“Mm.” He hums, nosing the side of your face so you’d look at him. “Did you really mean what you said earlier?”

“Which one?”

“That you, uh, despite everything, you’d do it again, for me.”

You start to feel a bit shy, but then you remember you’re literally naked. On top of him. And he is still inside you. The point of bashfulness is long past. It’s time for the truth. “Yeah.”

“Bold of you, no?”

“Dumb, too.”

He pushes an errant hair behind your ear, eyes still glazed from the sex, but fond. “You know I really like you, right? If it isn’t painfully obvious.”

“Me too, Yoongi. Since Stan. Maybe even earlier.”

“Will you be my girl, then?”

Yoongi watches you carefully, waiting for your response. The earnest curve of his lips, the slight scrunch of his nose, the way his fingers still rest on your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away—it’s all so achingly real.

You study him for a moment, letting yourself take it in. Everything about him—his caring nature, his tenderness, his immense love for Han, his ability to drive you absolutely insane and still make you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

The outside world is still in chaos. The scandal, the noise, the questions that neither of you have all the answers to yet. But here, in your little apartment, wrapped in the warmth of him, none of that feels as important as this.

“I will,” you finally say, voice steady.

His breath catches, just for a second. Then, his lips spread into the softest, gummiest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, almost like he’s making sure he heard you right.

You nod, “Yeah.”

Your lips meet for a gentle kiss that feels like a promise and the rest of the world falls away. For now, no matter what comes next, it’s the two of you—finally honest, finally sure, and finally together.

:]

A/N: YASSSS. Our babies have finally figured it out. How do you feel right now? Would love to hear your comments! 

Thank you for reading, you lovely, beautiful human! Xo

P.S. Am gunning for 1,000 followers before Yoongi’s birthday. :) I think I’ll get there with your help. Feel free to reblog the story if you like, and that can help more people find our lovely L&L couple.

Love you!~

Permanent Taglist (Part 1)

@wonh0oe @hyukaluve @glossdebut @kiki-zb @kookiewithluv

@agustblog @maryhopemei @perfectiondazesworld @kimsaerom @kam9404

@00-sleepdontweep-00 @tea4sykes @mggv97 @marnz1990

@whydoeyecare @pastelmin @tarahardcore @minjenna @chimmchimmm

@aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @tinytan-gerine @vesperbells @butterymin

@eve1633455 @baechugff @lilkittenjenjen @wobblewobble822 @coffeedepressionsoup

@futuristicenemychaos @jadestonedaeho7 @granataepfelchen @whoa-jo @annyeongbitch7

@chimmisbae @sexytholland @idkjustlovingbts @kpophosblog @tinyelfperson

@yoongicatagenda @codeinebelle @parapiop7 @diame93 @janeelizabeth1216

@withmuchluv-tannie @abadiimm @angellekookie

The rest to follow in a reblog.

[thefrontmanscockwarmer]

Cigarette Smoke (p2)

Sang Woo x reader [SMUT]

Masterlist <- comment on this post to be added to the Taglist

Part 1

Tw: smoking

Sang Woo pressed his lips on yours. Surprisingly gentle for a man like him. He tasted like cigarettes and minty toothpaste. There was a hint of liquor on his tongue. Delicious. You thought.

“I’m sorry.” He said. “I shouldn’t be doing this. Your dad is my best friend and- god you’re so hot but he’s my-“ he stumbles over his words. You pressed your lips on his again. Making him shut his mouth.

“Shut up.” You tell him, taking a finished drag off your cigarette. “A kiss wouldn’t kill anyone” you say.

“Yeah, but you’re his daughter. Not just anyone” he says, putting his cigarette back in his mouth thoughtfully. Move to straddle his lap. His eyes wide, he was no longer calculated nor deliberate. He was a feeling and reactive human. You took his cigarette out of his mouth, pressing your lips against his again.

“His daughter, is going to deliberately make out with you” you whisper. He held you close to him, pressing his lips to yours again. Forcing his tongue inside your mouth, entwining your tongues you moaned into the kiss. The sinful sound making his cock harden in his bottoms. He trailed hot kisses down your neck, and to your collarbone.

You ground your hips down onto his member, making it throb. His hand found its way to your hair, pulling your head back so he can better access your neck. You ground faster on his clothed cock, seeking friction to now satisfy your aching pussy.

“Are you really trying to fuck me on your stairs?” He chuckles lowly, the rumble of laughter from his chest satisfying your ears.

“I’ll fuck you anywhere” you whisper.

“Let’s go to your room then” he lifts you off his lap and sets you down, following you quietly through the house and into your room. You locked your door, before pulling him down to kiss you again. He lifted you off the ground, wrapping your legs around his waist, not breaking the kiss. He walked to your bed. Laying you on it gently.

He pulled your hoodie off, realizing that there was nothing underneath. He lead his kisses down your neck and to your stomach, stopping just above your waist band. He pulled his shirt over his head, you scooted back on your bed, allowing him to crawl between your legs, setting his hips on your thighs.

“Your kisses are fucking addicting” he growled lowly in your ear, taking his glasses off and setting them on your bedside table.

Your hands drifted down his arms as he held himself above you. His cock begging to be let loose. He pulled your pants down, seeing a sheer thong. His groaned with arousal,

“Holy fuck” was the only thing that left his chest. He let you pull down his pants, no boxers on, revealed a long thick cock. He made easy work of your thing, discarding it with the rest of your combined clothes on the floor.

“I might never want you to leave” he warned.

“I don’t want to leave you” you ignored the warning tone, only caring about feeling the man you now so desperately desired. He entered into you. Sinful sounds arising from the two of you. He fucked you slowly, relishing the feeling of a pussy he shouldn’t even be indulging in, but he didn’t care.

“Oh my god” he groaned quietly. Before quickening his pace. He buried his face in the crook of your neck so he could hear those angelic sounds you were making.

“Sang Woo” you moaned as he fucked you. He hitched your leg up under his arm, better hitting your g-spot. Making you lose your mind. “That feels so good” you said too loudly. He put his palm over your mouth. Which his free hand, he grabbed your other leg, slinging them both on your shoulder. His deep groans making you wetter as you wrapped around his cock.

“Fuck don’t stop” you pleas quietly. He took both legs off his shoulders, spreading them out further as he placed himself deeper between your legs. His large hands gripped your ass, slamming into you as he brought you up to meet his thrusts. He fucked you like you were going to disappear the next day.

“I’m going to cum” he tells you. “Fuck I’m going to cum” he brought his head down and bit your collarbone, leaving a deep purple mark as he released deep into you, not bothering to stop.

“Oh my god, you feel so good” you whimper. He pulled out and laid beside you, pulling you close to him. He put his fingers into your throbbing pussy, moving them rapidly in a motion you’d never felt before, but fuck did it feel so good. You clenched around him.

“Cum for me” he coaxed. “Come on angel, cum for me” he moved his hand so fast you couldn’t handle it anymore. You squirted on his hand, letting out stiff moans as you did. “Good girl” he praised you, gently finger fucking you until you met your release. You two laid in the afterglow of your high, you small body illuminated by the yellow glow of your bathroom light. He rubbed your back gently before reaching for him pants, grabbing a cigarette and a lighter from them.

“Opened the window a little.” You say. “It better ventilates the room” he nodded and opened the window. You laid next to him, rubbing your thighs together as your mixed cum seeped from your slit. He looked down at you and smiled.

“Hey, don’t go fucking other guys when you go to that program.” He orders.

“If you promise me you won’t like, hook up with some chick and get married while I’m that far away”

“Well for one, I already told you, I’m hard to deal with. And secondly, I don’t want to share you with a bunch of other guys”

“You didn’t say that you wouldn’t hook up with another chick” you smirk.

“I won’t go hook up with another chick”

“Or?”

“Or get married” he softly grabbed your neck, pulling you to kiss him. “I promise” he snaked his arm around you to grip your ass. Putting out his cigarette in the ashtray by your bed, and reaching behind you to grab the blanket and pulling it over you,

“Your dad won’t-“

“Nope. My bed room door is locked and thjs bathroom connects to my room. The bathroom door is closed and he won’t enter without knocking. He has his own bathroom.” You cut him off. “Don’t worry, if he comes looking, just walked into the bathroom and close my door and when he does start calling for you just walk out” you add.

A quiet breath he was holding was let out into the silence. He kissed the top of your head and wrapped another protective arm around you.

“Good night, angel” he says.

“Good night, Sangie” you reply. Sangie? He said to himself. A nickname he now had that only you could ever call him.

Taglist:

@nakiio5775 @christinamadsen @sebbymybaby21 @xcinnamonmalfoyx @player279achlys @watasinekoru @galaxygurlll @angelofthorr

[coichii]

winter ✭

—(🎧)—> when han realizes something’s wrong with you before you realize it yourself

pairing - newbf!han x fem!reader

genre - comfort, cheers to me failing a test !! ☻

word count - 0.8k

warnings - implied seasonal depression & post hiatus writing

Maybe it’s the winter air, maybe it’s the warmth of the beach being replaced with snow fall of small ice crystals in the sky. You don’t know, but it’s making you feel off.

It’s a feeling quite indescribable, but if there were a you could equate to it, it would be numbness. The source? No idea.

It always comes and goes during the cold, a shiver cold air radiating through your body as the feeling of winter does.

It’s hard to stick to a routine during the winter. Getting up at 7:00am, taking walks, exercising, drinking water? You can pretty much say those are all in the garbage.

The only sense of consistency left in your life is Han, and even that is a fairly recent addition. Knowing him isn’t, but kissing him and cuddling him? Yeah, that’s different.

It hurts so say the feeling doesn’t go away with him. It definitely gets lighter and fades away, but it’s still there lingering.

It could be school too, and you’ve already noticed the A’s slowly fading into B’s, into C’s, and slowly but surely, D’s.

To say it’s taking a toll on you would be an understatement.

< —— >

Fuck. No no no.

31% is what the computer screen infront of you reads. A final score for a critical quiz in your major class.

A buzzing starts in your head, one that rings your ears like a gong had just been hit next to them. One that is so heavy that it begins to blur your vision alongside the fresh hot tears in your eyes.

As if it couldn’t get worse, a faint knock is soon heard on the door of your college dorm room. You begrudgingly get up, groaning as you quickly shut your laptop and wipe the moisture from your eyes.

God I swear. I can’t deal with my roommates right n-

“Y/n? I’ve been wondering why you weren’t answering my text. It’s been days.”

Definitely not who you were expecting to be on the other side of the door.

“O-oh hi. Come in.” You usher, pointing him and softly closing the door behind him.

“I didn’t know it’s been that long, I’m sorry, Hannie.” You say half heartedly. You did genuinely feel bad, but you can’t muster up the energy.

You move to peck a small kiss on his lips, but he places his hands on your cheeks to stop you. He places his forehead on yours, eyes staring into yours as if he’s trying to read what your lips won’t give up.

“Is everything ok?”

You can feel a sting make its way through your body, but you ignore it. You have to ignore it.

“Yeah, I am. I promise I’ve just been b-“

“Baby, don’t lie to me. I’ve known you for long enough to know when you are. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s been building up for so long, or it’s the look on his face or the tone of his voice. Whatever it is, it’s coming out.

“I-I really don’t know. I’m sorry Han, I don’t even know what I’m feeling.” You choke, a feeling of helplessness escaping its way from your heart.

“It’s like everything that I’ve been working for is falling apart in front of me, and it’s scary.” By now, he’s already wrapped his strong arms around your body, enveloping you in a comforting scent of lavender and love.

“I know. I know it’s scary. But you want to know something?” He proposes, and you sniffle and look at him, eyes filled to the brim with sincerity.

“You’re doing so well. You’re so smart, so strong, so independent. It’s okay to take breaks, it’s ok to struggle. Especially, it’s okay to ask for help. It’s okay to have moments where you feel like every thing is falling apart, but it’s important that you know it’s not.”

Have you ever felt a feeling like an immense weight being lifted off your shoulders? A feeling like a deep breath even though there’s no oxygen? If not, that’s surely what you’re feeling now.

“I love you. I’m sorry I’ve been ignoring you.” You sniffle, scrubbing dripping tears off with your fist.

“Don’t say sorry. I forgive you. Forgive me for not coming sooner.” He says, rubbing the silk of your hair in a comforting manner.

“You have nothing to be forgiven about.” You mumble, clutching a fist onto his shirt where you hold yourself, still in the same area from where he had come in.

“Now you know how I feel when you keep saying sorry.” He teases, a small chuckle coming out as well. “Cmon, let’s get you something to eat and I’ll help you with anything you need.”

“Ok” you nod, following him as he opens and walks out the door of your room.

That’s what it will be. Everything will be okay when you have him.

[bonefall]

the ShadowClan talk made me look through Brokenstar's BB Tags, and. a) is Lizardstripe still related to Finchflight, if you are keeping Finch-Dawn as a couple (with Dawncloud's age redux)? b) i keep seeing stuff about Snowtuft and killing kits, but i cant find anything actually detailing on that on the blog, and one of the older posts also mentions that Blizzardwing is either his son/grandson AND that Lizardstripe's mother was the kit he couldn't kill. what is all that about, im dying to know.

This is info that's scattered across a bunch of different posts, plus more deets and changes I haven't had a chance to dive into. Snowtuft committed an atrocity which would torment his victims and descendants for generations, for both its legacy and its trauma.

SO I wanna put as much of it as possible into one place for now, so you don't have to go guessing based on older posts. Especially since some of those posts are long outdated, but I haven't contradicted them yet.

To start the story of the two families, it begins with Snowtuft and the bloody end of the Crusade Era.

CONTENT WARNING; this is one of BB's darkest tales. It involves depictions of xenophobic violence, child murder, war crime, PTSD, abuse, and kidnapping. BB!Snowtuft's a bad kitty!

SEE: Kitten Stealing

(Also: After writing it out, I kinda realized this would be great as a BB entry on its own. I should come back and clean this up someday.)

PART 1: THE LAST CRUSADE

Cedarstar inherited the Crusades from Houndstar, continuing them more out of respect for her legacy than true zealotry.

He had actually been chosen as a deputy because he would run the Clan while she was off gallavanting.

He wasn't a pushover or anything, just prefered logistics. Him and Pinestar were tragically ahead of their time.

...but like other cats of his time, he was from a culture that didn't extend personhood beyond the Clans. So, he continued the Crusades.

Even though they weren't getting easier.

Crystal of Chelford had already used a new tool to carve a red future for the cats of the town...

and what were once defenseless little targets began to unite into organized, armed response teams.

Non-BloodClan "zones" got rarer and rarer.

The territory and underlings of an influential cat named Jay were among the last holdouts, so it's where most of ShadowClan's raids were launched.

And on one of these raids... it happened fast.

Snowtuft turned an alley and was ruthlessly attacked. He defended himself.

In the confusion, another assailant ran towards him. He acted swiftly.

It was reflex! Instinct! He couldn't tell what was coming at him. It was a split second decision.

He couldn't undo what had happened. The kitten was dead, next to its mother.

And the others were screaming, crying, terrified.

Snowtuft doesn't remember what he did next. He doesn't want to.

But Puffballburr does.

She used to see it every night.

She remembers her name, too-- Pixie. And her mom. And her littermates.

And the look that washed over his eyes when he realized the ragged flesh at his feet was a kitten.

Raw shock, electrifying shame, the dawning horror of knowing you've definitely done something that you're going to get punished for.

And when his white, blood-splattered face turned slowly towards her and her wailing siblings, she recognized that emotion too.

It's a very childlike response, really.

He needed to cover up his accident.

And he almost did, too. It was dumb luck that stopped him as he grabbed her tail and dragged her out from her hiding place. One of his clanmates heard the awful racket, and Pixie had survived just long enough.

PART 2: ONE OF US

They took her away, just like any other "honor kitten," but the Clan cats believed this was different somehow.

Something about the naked horror of what Snowtuft did, maybe. Impossible to ignore.

But it's not like he faced any real justice for it, not that Puffballkit could remember seeing. So clearly it wasn't very different at all.

His mate left him, and the older warriors regarded him with a distant sort of "shame." He was ostracized from many circles.

But Puff's siblings had not been "clan cats" so the Warrior Code did not apply to them. He faced social dishonor, not legal.

Ever-merciful Cedarstar did not want to "ruin" more lives.

"Not when the kit is far too young to even remember what happened," he said. But she did remember.

And her name. Her mom. Her littermates. That face.

She just knew, growing up, that she couldn't know about it.

Because Snowtuft was always right there, just around the curve of the den, just behind the cover of the rose bush thorns, listening.

They're ALL Snowtuft.

To admit she remembers it is to admit she isn't one of them. And if you're not one of them, the law does not apply to you.

As a kid, she couldn't articulate it. But she understood it.

Deep down to her brittle, kittypet bones. Her filthy, stillwater blood.

The ungrateful heart that beat in her chest.

Fear expressed as a constant, calm obedience of authority. A permanent dread, as if living in a pack as a sheep in wolf's clothing

So she was quiet, notoriously so.

Whoever her foster was, Puff was like a little white shadow. It's where the warrior name came from, eventually-- a puffball clinging to someone's fur. (after writing this though, half of me wants to start calling her Lambfur or Lambfrost.)

ShadowClan plunged into the Campaign Era with Heatherstar's invasion of the Mothermouth Moorland, and the massacre of some kittypet family became awkward history. Those old enough to remember still kept a distance from Snowtuft... but war took its toll.

War means death and those older members of the Clan are not replaceable.

Younger cats weren't there to see the horror of what Snowtuft had done... and time would make him bolder.

Finding growing sympathy in his apprentices, spurred on by the hardening of the culture in tandem with the official birth of Thistle Law, Snowtuft started to change history.

The official Educator of ShadowClan (still unsure who this was) had one story, and Snowtuft had one too.

"Details" were quietly changed in his. They weren't "kits" but "young cats." They charged out to aid their mother. Then maybe she wasn't their mother. Who knows.

Pullball's name was left out of these stories, on both sides. No need for the kittens to know that she wasn't one of us.

And if she was? That's a good thing for her. Living the life of a Clan cat.

He wouldn't share if "he wasn't asked," but all of his actions, his language, was a silent plea to be asked.

He wanted to forget the whole thing, because of his nightmares, his constant shame and punishment, how hard the whole ordeal made his life-- but he couldn't so it was constantly coming out of his mouth.

There was a deep resentment on his end, towards Puffballburr. How she was part of the Clan now, always reminding him. Like it was her fault.

In the end, Snowtuft didn't blame himself. He blamed everything else. The guilt was killing him a little bit every day...

But not as much as that WindClan cat's claws did. Those killed him a lot in one day!

But Snowtuft's death didn't bring Puffballburr any peace. She just felt... annoyed. Which was strange to her-- she should feel relief, but, she didn't. She was just thinking about how the next battle with WindClan would be harder without an extra set of claws.

PART 3: GOING HOME

Puffballfur is the queen of low empathy, and her emotions are... hard to predict.

Not in a chaotic sort of way, but in a "Huh, interesting, I didn't think that of all things would get me going" sort of way.

She both lives in constant "fear" but also a persistent banality. It's kind of like being in a cage with a chained tiger, but you've marked the exact spot on the floor where the tiger's chain ends.

Imagine getting nightmares that stop you from sleeping, but you know that they aren't going to come true. So you lay there with a throbbing heart, mostly feeling annoyed that you're going to be tired in the morning.

That's her life.

Sometimes when she couldn't sleep, she'd roll on her back in the nest and critique the assassination attempt in her mind.

Did he think his dumb plan through? Or did he just react without thinking? It was going to be obvious he killed a bunch of kids, whether she survived or not.

Or maybe he would have just said that the rogue killed her own kits to prevent them from becoming Clan cats. They'd probably believe that.

Either way it was sloppy. Could have had more kits if he didn't kill her sibs.

She had connections within the Clan. A foster, hunting buddies, apprentice. She was kind to them, especially when they were useful. But...

It feels like she's not like them. Like they have variables to their behavior that she doesn't. Drives and desires that are pointless, sometimes even frustrating.

Like the concept of "honor." Ridiculous. Every single person who talks about it is hypocritical about it in some way, and it causes unnecessary fights in the camp and on the border because of ridiculous ego.

She just performs it because the other cats value it-- and when people like you, you get what you want.

I'm not sure who her mate was, or if it was even just one. In any case, when she found herself pregnant, she declared Queen's Rights. I feel like she might have had a fling with someone, but got annoyed by their clingy behavior.

When her daughters were born, Bracketkit and Lizardkit, she felt pride.

Because... they didn't belong to someone else. They weren't even really ShadowClan's. They were hers.

For the first time since her mother and littermates had been taken away from her, she felt like she was looking at family. People who would always be with her.

But that didn't last...

...because a chance encounter only a few moons later reconnected her with someone who remembered her.

Not a littermate, but an older sister. Marmalade. She couldn't believe that Pixie was alive.

This is a WIP zone because I'm not sure, yet, if I'm keeping Hal's attack on ShadowClan. In any case, they continued to reconnect for moons.

The fact that she was remembered, that she could talk openly about what happened, and that Marmalade wanted her and her kittens to come home made Puffballburr's stomach flutter with excitement. She felt valuable.

And with the war getting worse and worse, this was absolutely the best choice for her kittens as well. They would be safer with BloodClan than they would with ShadowClan.

No longer would she be Puffballburr. Her name was Pixie.

ENTER: LIZARDSTRIPE

Puffballburr wasn't a bad mother, but it would feel a lot better to be Lizardstripe if she could have the simplicity to just say she was.

Her earliest memories of her mom and her sibling were outside of the camp on a cool, clear spring night, laying in soft marshgrass. Puff was laying on her back with her hind legs bowed out, a kit tucked under each paw, pressed to her fluffy, warm chest. Her face was turned upward, quietly, at the moon, as her daughters slept peacefully.

She's not sure how long after she'd opened her eyes that this memory took place, but Lizardkit looked up towards the bright, starry sky... and she remembered that the light hurt.

Her needs were always taken care of, but Puffballburr hated explaining things.

You learned quick to treat your questions like a valuable resource, and to listen carefully.

Lizardkit was sharp, much sharper than her sister. She caught onto the way that her mother viewed relationships in a very transactional sort of way-- and stayed aware of her balance.

And had to consider the cost of doing the things her mother was fond of, versus what the other kittens and queens in the nursery expected of her.

What Puffball didn't realize when her children were born was that they were family, but they were also ShadowClan. Even if this was not something she had ever felt a connection to.

Deep down, it didn't truly click with her that her children were not extensions of herself.

And when Lizardkit was a child, learning history from the Educator and getting involved in more of the Clan's goings-on, Puffballburr spent less and less time with her. Because she was reconnecting with Marmalade.

When Bracket and Lizard had their apprentice ceremony, Puffballburr was not there.

Lizardpaw's mentor was the infamously powerful, chaotic fighter, Finchflight. Bracketpaw was assigned to Brackenfoot. (There is an earlier post suggesting that Lizi and Finf were going to be related. I decided to make them mentor/apprentice instead.)

Finchflight immediately began to stress the importance of loyalty. Being one of the younger cats who had sympathized with Snowtuft and knowing the secret behind Puffballburr's beginnings, he nurtured a pain within Lizardstripe. Encouraged her to let the distance between her and her family grow.

Eventually, Puffball told her children that they were going to leave ShadowClan. They had family in the town, would be safe there, could start a brand new life together.

And Lizardpaw was shocked.

It was like everything Finchflight had said was true.

And they were going to leave her.

She reacted violently to the suggestion, attacking her mother. Told them that she was going to expose them, lead a patrol right back to their new hiding place, bring them "back home."

In defense of Puffballburr, Bracketpaw brawled with her sister. They fought viciously, until their mother separated them with a desperate, devastating whack to Lizardpaw's head.

Laying dazed on the ground, she heard an apology before passing out.

When she woke up, she was safely protected within a blackthorn bush-- with a nick on the outside of her ear.

She stayed out there for hours, not knowing what to do, where her family had gone, or what she was going to say when she got home.

But, looking at her reflection in a puddle of water, she became so angry at the idea of this being her first scar that she ripped the other ear, on the opposite side.

When the search party found her, they asked what had happened to her. If she had seen her mother or her sister, or if something had gone wrong.

"Nah. Took a nap to get away from them. Ripped my ears on the thornbush."

Later, when she would be interrogated or questioned by people she didn't want to lie to, she would tell a half-truth;

"I did it to myself. Liked how it looked. Last I saw of Puffballburr and Bracketpaw, they were upset I'd done it and left, so I took a nap."

She didn't mind that her Clanmates thought this was weird. She didn't care about whispers that it was all done for attention, or that it was dishonorable to do such a thing and they probably met a predator after storming off, and she didn't even mind the gossip guessing at the "real" reason behind her ripped ears.

The only people who ever got the whole truth were the Forget-Me-Nots. After their disappearance, Lizardstripe didn't talk about her family for years, insisting upon having no further details. Even if it meant that mystery and suspicion would hang around her like a cloud.

BLIZZARDWING: KIN OF SNOWTUFT

Snowtuft's daughter was named Lilyfur. She was a kit when her father slaughtered Pixie's family.

When her mother left her father, she also distanced herself from him. This was something Snowtuft was outraged and saddened by.

But Lilyfur's mother couldn't stand the idea of a kitten-killer trying to stay close to her daughter. How could he look at little babies, the same age as his own child, and kill them?

Lilykit grew up very conflicted. She remembered how much she loved her dad, understood that he was a kitten murderer, but he continued to be so kind to her into adulthood.

It was hard to think of him as someone who could do something so horrible.

Earlier draft had Lilyfur die and her kittens were raised by their kin, Snowtuft, but I'm currently leaning towards Lilyfur being alive but just letting him be an active part of their lives-- in spite of her discomfort.

Because the more time he spent in her life, paradoxically, the more obsessed he became with all the "time he lost out on."

Which ended up including entertaining a lot of conversations about how he'd never done anything wrong, ever, and everyone was mean to him.

Lilyfur: "ok maybe he's not evil but my dad is really annoying <:/ but he's really lonely. He needs me. and i cant take him away from his grandkits"

From this, what Blizzardwing absorbed was the idea that love and forgiveness was always tolerating your family no matter what. This would express itself in his toxic relationship with Hollyflower.

But Blizzardwing now has a sibling. I haven't settled on a name yet-- but I'm playing with him either being Angelshade or Silkflower.

I really like the name "Angelshade" as a reference to the notoriously deadly white mushroom, the Destroying Angel. But also. someone in the audience asked if I could give the prefix "angel" to a cat because it's their name, and I feel a little bad about giving it to a character who is going to be one of the nastiest little background characters in all of BB lmaooooo

i'm so sorry angel (positive), is it okay if there's an angel (derogatory)

ANYWAY, Untitled Blizzardwing Sibling grew up adoring his grandpaw.

Radicalization can be a slow creep. He loved peepaw, so if he was asked when he was young, he would happily repeat the adjusted version of history he was taught.

And then when Snowtuft died, he wanted to remember him fondly. The story slowly changed, becoming more "accurate," just getting more comfortable with the idea of dehumanizing outsiders.

So what, if he killed some kittypet? And if some kits had already been indoctrinated into their kittypet life? It was still a gain for ShadowClan, in the end.

One summer day, without warning, he came home with two little kittens. One was white, one was brown, both had the pinkish tinge of poorly cleaned blood.

He grinned playfully at Brokenstar, and claimed Queen's Rights in a singsong tone.

Because of that rite, no one could ask where he'd gotten those kittens from. But everyone knew he'd done something grim.

Those kits, Whitewater and Brownstone, grew up under the crescendo of Brokenstar's reign, both taking part in the WindClan Massacre.

Whitewater's bloody story includes joining Mudclaw's Rebellion, giving birth to three kits, a souring relationship with her son, condemnation to the Dark Forest, ends in the Battle of the True Eclipse after killing her grandson.

Brownstone's tale includes a relationship with a WindClan cat during the bloodiest period in the history of their two Clans.

And their father's story ends in Chelford, after being exiled from ShadowClan by Nightstar. His canon counterpart is the Unnamed White Rogue from Rise of Scourge, who tries to order Scourge to be his personal servant.

(the other two cats are Braketail, the "Offbrand Brokenstar" pale tabby, and Pirateheart, the gray rogue with green eyes. Glitch Warriors for the pile!)

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Whirlwind - Tyler Owens X Female Reader

Title: Whirlwind

Tyler Owens X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Reader's friends (Mentioned), Dani, Dexter, Lily, Boone, Ben, a couple of other people (Mentioned), a random kid, and the kid's mother

WC: 5,197

Warnings: Post-Twisters events, thrill-seeker reader?, teasing, banter, flirting, friends to lovers, tornadoes, italics, nicknames, slightly suggestive, F4 tornado, events before and after a tornado, injuries, blood briefly mentioned, confession, slight angst, and fluff

You and Tyler had been friends for a very long time. Three years. You first met him when you were with your friends. You were on a road trip - during the summer off of college - when you all stopped at a small town in Oklahoma for the night. You found a motel but had not been expecting so many people partying in the parking lot. You had half a mind to find another motel to stay at, somewhere quieter, but the next town was a few good miles away, and you needed to preserve gas until you found a gas station. 

Stepping out of the van, your friends were instantly drawn to the party. The atmosphere was inviting and warm, and it wasn't long until you lost sight of your friends, who had joined in on the festivities. You weren't really one for parties. Sometimes you were, but you had been on the road for a good couple of hours, and you just wanted to spend some time alone. However, upon seeing the bright stars and the full moon in the sky, you decided to hold off finding your motel room. 

Being a photographer, you loved capturing the beauty of mother nature. Her work always inspired you. Throughout the trip, you had been taking pictures of anything and everything; from luscious forests, golden fields of wheat, and pouring cold rain. You loved taking pictures of breathtaking sights. However, your favorite things to capture were thunderstorms and the moon.

Eyes flickering over the party before you, you made sure to spot each of your friends before climbing the metal stairs. The strap of your compact camera felt heavy around your neck as you reached the second floor of the motel. Your gaze shifted to the bright moon, high in the sky, big and luminous, with some of its craters visible. Leaning against the metal railing, you pursed your lips briefly. Raising your camera, you found the moon through the lens, fixing the blur, but you frowned. From where you stood, it just wasn't the perfect shot. 

Glancing down at the railing you were leaning on, you pushed through whatever fear you had and began to climb it. Still secured around your neck, you let go of your camera. Grabbing the wall beside you with one hand, you push up against the railing with the other; climbing up the horizontal bars of the railing. In moments you had managed to reach the top of the railing, bracing yourself on the wall attached to it. You were a good amount of feet high, enough that if you did fall, you would probably break a bone or two, but you - again - pushed past that fear. You were confident in your balance, and the railing, and you were determined to get this perfect shot. You glanced down at the party below you, spotting a few of your friends mingling and seemingly having fun. 

With your free hand, you raised your camera once more, scrunching your face, you aimed and took the shot. With the shutter of the camera, you grinned, lowering it to smile down at the photo on the small screen. 

‘Perfect.’

"Looks like someone’s aimin' for the most dangerous photo award." You heard a voice call out in your direction. Looking down, you spotted a man. He was wearing blue jeans and a red flannel. His head was tilted back slightly to look up at you, one hand on his cowboy hat so it didn't fall off his head. You narrowed your eyes, seeing the charismatic - almost amused - grin on his face. 

"I don't think that's a thing," You called back down, moving your eyes away briefly before meeting his gaze, somewhat wary. What did he want?

Moving his hands onto his hips, his grin grew, and the cowboy stranger continued, "You good up there, or do ya need some help down?" His southern drawl was thick as honey and laced with amusement. 

You huffed, trying to suppress a smile. "I'm fine, thank you very much."

He chuckled, his eyes almost twinkling. "Alrigh', jus' makin' sure. I’m Tyler, by the way. Tyler Owens." He tipped the brim of his cowboy hat.

You adjusted your stance on the railing, still clutching your camera. "Nice to meet you, Tyler. I’m Y/N." You finally smiled, feeling a strange warmth spread across your cheeks. 

Well, what was supposed to be just a night's stay in Oklahoma ended up being a week, which then turned into three years between Oklahoma and Arkansas.

~~~

Being around the team - and being a part of the 'Tornado Wranglers' - for three years, it was only a matter of time until you and Tyler became inseparable. And it was obvious to your group of friends that there was definitely more going on than just a simple friendship. Even their YouTube viewers and subscribers - most if not all - thought or assumed that both you and Tyler were a couple. And it wasn't as if their assumptions were baseless, it really did seem - to those on the outside - that you and Tyler were dating.

There was more than one occasion where you held hands; either when you took his hand in yours when you walked side by side - jokingly swinging them to and fro - or after a particularly rough tornado chase where your hands would reach out for the other in search of comfort and reassurance.

There was more than just hand-holding, though. The both of you teased each other - borderline flirting - holding eye contact for a little bit too long to be considered platonic. Any simple contact between you two was prolonged, lingering. Especially hugs; which happened more frequently than not. You were always touching each other in some way. Whether it was hands resting on shoulders, arms around waists, linking arms, or even hugs from behind.

Overall, it was really easy to mistake the both of you as a couple. And it certainly didn't help that both of you were very affectionate towards each other. 

But you were just friends. Really, really good friends. Though Tyler wished it could be more, he didn't want to risk ruining what you two had. Despite his desire to tell you how he felt; the longing to hold you close, to kiss you... Tyler feared he might lose you. He worried that if he told you, he'd lose everything. That he'd lose his chance at a friendship with you forever. That fear kept him quiet.

In the end, as long as you were by his side, and he was by yours, he was content. Your friendship meant the world to him, and that was enough.

~~~

Staring up at the graying sky before him, Tyler stood with his hands on his hips. It was a great day for tornado chasing and the one that he had his eyes on seemed like it was going to be a good one. He loved the adrenaline that came with chasing tornadoes, the rush he felt. 

Walking across the field, he made his way back over to the motel where he was staying with the team. Spotting Dani and Dexter at the camper van, he gave them a grin as he walked over. 

"Hey, it seems like we got one west of us," He gestured to the large, gloomy patch of clouds miles away. 

Sitting in two camper chairs, Dani and Dexter exchanged glances. Dani shrugged, "I think we're good on this one." 

"Yeah, I've got some work to do, thanks, Tyler." Dexter spoke, with his own grin.

Tyler hummed, eyeing them suspiciously before he headed off to one of the motel rooms. Knocking, he waited until Lily opened the door.

Rubbing her eyes, she seemed tired, a small yawn leaving her. "Hey, Tyler, what's up?" She pivoted her weight, leaning on the doorway.

"There's the beginnings of a tornado in the west. Dexter and Dani ain't joinin'. Just seein' if you'd want to." 

"Uh," She winced, rubbing her temple, "I think I'll pass on this one, T, sorry. I think I'm gonna have a 'me day.' There’s a jacuzzi calling my name." 

Tyler shook his head, "Nah, yeah, I totally get it. See ya later." He grinned, despite his growing confusion, giving the young woman a wave before he headed over to Boone's motel room a few doors down. Repeating his action, Tyler knocked on the door, and the charismatic tornado chaser answered. "Hey, Boone, there's a tornado in the west. Want to test out some of those new fireworks?"

At the drop of Boone's grin, Tyler's hopes of his best friend joining him on this tornado chase dropped. "Sorry, T, you know I would love to test out fireworks any day, but, uh, you see, I have to, uh... Feed my cat." At that, Boone shut the door, leaving Tyler to stare at it. 

'Boone doesn't have a cat.' He thought. 'What's he hidin'?' Now, thinking about it, all of them - Dani, Dexter, Lily, and Boone have been acting strange. He even doubted Ben would want to join in after everything that happened a few years back. Yeah, he was getting better and was somewhat used to tornado chasing at this point - having decided to move from London to the States, but he always rode with Dani and Dexter when they chased. 

Well, there was only one person left to ask, and Tyler really hoped that you would want to join him. Even the thought of possibly spending more time with you - alone - tornado chasing - made that confused frown slip back into a grin. Reaching your door, he didn't hesitate to knock, hearing shuffling on the other side before you opened the door. Your eyes brightened upon meeting Tyler's gaze, your smile widening. 

"Hey, Ty, good morning," You greeted him, 

"Good mornin', sweetheart," He greeted as he leaned against the doorway, stuffing his hands into his jean pockets. "There's a tornado west of us. Wanna join me?" 

Your eyes lit up, "Of course!" You exclaimed, fumbling slightly as you walked back into the motel room, grabbing your camera, "Is the rest of the team coming?"

Tyler shook his head, "Nope, it'll just be us today."

Looping the camera's strap around your neck with one hand, you waved the other in the air, letting out a 'pfft.' "Their loss. More tornado for us." Tyler's grin widened, and off the two of you went.

The truck jostled as Tyler suddenly veered off the dusty, dirt path and into the tall grass; racing towards the swirling dark clouds ahead. The speakers were practically turned all the way up, playing 'Ain't No Love In Oklahoma.' One of your favorite songs. You held onto the handle on the truck's door, mumbling to the song, your eyes trained on the clouds as they began to spiral toward the ground - creating a funnel - before touching down; creating a cloud of dirt, dust, and grass.

"Woo-hoo!" Tyler cheered, your laughter of excitement mixing with his. 

Tyler glanced over at you as you got your camera ready, and unbuckled yourself from your seat; an amused grin forming on his lips. Quickly rolling down the window, you pushed yourself up and pressed your knee into the passenger seat. With half of your body leaning out of the window, your stomach pressing against the window's ledge, the rapid winds rustled through your hair; a laugh bubbled out of you, eyes closed. 

Tyler smiled to himself. Reaching out to place his hand on your waist, a finger hooking onto one of the loops of your jeans; something that he'd always done during the countless times you pulled the stunt. The simple, protective action always made you feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Raising your camera, you snapped a few pictures. Slipping back into your seat, you buckled back up, looking over at Tyler, who was already looking at you. A wide, toothy smile spread across his face at the sight of you; your hair a mess from the wind, the bright smile on your face, wearing his 'Not My First Tornadeo' shirt. His heart skipped a beat.

Returning his eyes to the tornado, he pulled up right into its path. Activating the augers, he anchored the truck to the ground. You then flipped up the three switches, your finger hovering over the 'boom' button as you waited for the right moment. The tornado made its way towards the both of you, shaking the truck, bits of dirt, rain, and whatnot hitting the windows; the powerful force of the twister was loud and clear to hear. It was a continuous roar that reminded you of a freight train or jet engine. 

Tyler let out another round of hootin' and hollerin', as you pressed the button. Fireworks - of multiple colors - shot up the middle of the tornado. You let out your own celebratory cheer, staring out the passenger window as the fireworks went off, spiraling round and round; laughing happily as the storm raged on. 

Hopping out of the car as the tornado passed by, you ran around the front of the car, Tyler's arms already open and ready for when you jumped into his embrace. Your laughter rang out as Tyler spun you around a bit, before lowering you back onto your feet. Watching the tornado slowly spin out of existence, your face hurt from how hard you were smiling. Tyler wrapped his arm around your shoulder, pulling you impossibly closer to his side, before leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. 

"Yeah," You let out a sigh of content, "They missed out big time."

"They sure did, she was a beaut," Tyler answered, watching the last wisps of dust and dirt from the tornado disperse into the horizon. "I'm glad you came along with me."

"Of course," You spoke, looking up at him with a smile, "I love chasing tornadoes with you."

He flashed a cheeky grin, "Well, who wouldn’t love chasin' tornadoes with the 'YouTube-famous Tornado Wrangler'?"

Giving him a look, you crossed your arms, and smirked, "I'm starting to think your ego is the real storm here."

"Ya wound me, sweetheart." He pressed a hand to his chest, making you roll your eyes playfully. "Ya hungry?" He then suddenly asked, resting his hands on his hips.

Taking a step closer, you looked up at him - a mischievous expression appeared on your face. Tyler felt his breath hitch in his throat, his cheeks flushing a faint pink at the proximity between you, but he quickly cleared his throat, regaining his composure; hopefully you hadn't noticed. 

"Starved," You admitted, before reaching up and snatching his cowboy hat off his head. 

"Hey!" He called out in mock anger, laughter escaping him as he watched you run back to the passenger side of the truck and place his hat on your head. He followed, jogging to the driver’s side, another wave of excitement washing over him.

~~~

That following week, after chasing a dozen or so tornados, an F4 tornado was heading for a small town a couple of miles from where you, Tyler, and the rest of the team were staying. It had popped up on the scanner, and you all weren't going to sit around and not help. So, the seven of you got into the truck, van, and camper, heading towards the small town that was right in the path of this insanely powerful tornado. 

Entering the town, you could see the tornado fast approaching in the near distance. Everyone got out of the vehicles, rushing up to help those who were panicking and hadn't found shelter as the winds picked up; dirt and debris flying everywhere as the tornado grew closer to the town. You and Tyler stuck together, helping lead people into a building with a basement. 

Quickly surveying the town around you, you pushed your hair away from your face. But upon spotting a child - no more than seven or eight years old - looking around for her mother, terrified; you had to act. "I'll be right back!" You yelled over to Tyler, over the storm, who turned to you with wide, panicked eyes. "Don't worry," You assured him, though you knew that was a stupid thing to request of him to do. There was always worrying in this world, with this life. "I got this." 

Tyler tried to push his worries away, watching as you ran off. Letting out a deep sigh, he grabbed the building’s door, “You do got this.” He spoke to himself, before using his strength to shut the door.

Running back out into the streets, you glanced at the tornado, which was at this point ripping pieces off of buildings with its strength. Spotting the child, you rushed over towards her. Hopping over a fallen piece of something metal, not even noticing as something sharp flew through the air and cut your cheek. Adrenaline and fear filled you as you took the young girl's hand. Your eyes then scanned around you, spotting another building.

"Come on," You spoke to the girl, quickly leading her to the nearby building. You did your best to shield her with your body, the door of the building flying open from the force of the wind. Pulling the door closed, you realized the place didn't have a basement. Just your luck. Thankfully, you both found a small closet and there, you both ducked. The little girl curled up into you, as your arms wrapped around her, protecting her from everything and anything. "We're gonna be okay." You muttered, your breathing heavy as the tornado rumbled outside; a rumble that could be felt, shaking the building, and the Earth, as it passed.

The roaring then turned into silence, and all you could hear was yours and the little girl's heavy breathing. Blinking open your eyes, you looked down at the little girl, seeing that she seemed okay, minus the obvious trauma. Exiting the closet, and what little remained of the building, you held the girl's hand as you stepped back onto the street. 

"Mary!" You heard a woman's voice, spotting the little girl's mother running down the street. 

"Momma!" She cried back, letting go of you to run into her mother's arms. 

You smiled, happy that they were both alright and reunited. Trying to spot your friends, your eyes landed on each one of them - they all seemed alright as well - a breath of relief leaving your chest. And only when your eyes began to frantically search for Tyler, did you feel the sharp sting on your cheek. Raising your hand, you hissed as you pressed your pointer and middle finger against the cut on your cheek, pulling your hand back to see the blood on your fingers; feeling it trickling down your neck. 

"Y/N!" You heard Tyler's voice call out, his figure coming into view as he left the building he was in, ragged, heavy breathing; his own eyes were frantic as he searched for you. Your heartbeat quickened, and your eyes widened. 

"Tyler!" You shouted, racing towards him, his head whipping around at the sound of your voice. He rushed over to you and as soon as you reached him, he wrapped you up in his arms, holding you tight and close to his chest.

You pressed your face into his maroon shirt, your hands clutching tightly to the material of it, tears burning your eyes as you tried to control your breathing. 

‘He’s okay… He’s okay…’

Pulling back slightly, Tyler's eyes landed on the cut on your cheek, seeing the trail of drying blood trailing down your neck. "You're hurt." He spoke, his voice low and soft, concern evident in his eyes; his hand raised to cup your uninjured cheek. 

"It's just a scratch," You muttered, looking up at him, your hand coming up to cover his hand on your cheek. "Are you okay?" You then asked, your worried gaze flickering around his face before returning to his eyes. “You're not hurt?”

Looking back at you, Tyler swallowed thickly before nodding, "Yeah, I'm fine, just a couple bumps and bruises, but..," His one hand on your waist tightened, bringing you closer to him, "Are you sure you're alrigh'?"

You gave him a small - hopefully reassuring - smile, nodding, "I'm alright, Ty."

Yeah, you were alright. The scratch wasn't anything too serious, it wouldn't even leave a scar, but as Tyler looked down at you, all he could think about was the possibility of losing you. It was a risk that came with tornado chasing, and he knew that, but it killed him inside knowing that if anything ever happened to you... He couldn’t even finish that thought, instead digging his nose into your hair, he shut his eyes. Letting out a deep sigh as he pulled you back into his arms.

~~~

Tyler found you sitting out on the top of his truck that night. You were staring up at the stars in the sky, watching as they flickered; trying to spot a few constellations. You'd often stargaze after chasing exceptionally dangerous tornadoes, Tyler had come to find out over the years. Seeing the destruction they caused... Seeing how quickly everything disappeared in a blink of an eye; stargazing helped with the anxiety and the sense of helplessness you felt, it seemed.

Feeling the truck jostle, you turned your head to watch as Tyler hopped up on the truck's roof with you. Observing the side of his face, you noticed his hat was gone, probably left in his motel room. His dirty blonde hair was somewhat ruffled, strands falling in front of his forehead a bit. His green eyes meeting yours, he gave you a small smile. "What ya did back there," He began, his voice soft as to keep the somewhat peaceful atmosphere from dissipating, "Was really brave." 

You pursed your lips, nodding, turning back to stare at the stars, "I couldn't just stand there." You began, the level of your voice matching his, "She looked so scared."

Tyler reached out and gently took your hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You did more than most people would, sweetheart," His thumb traced soothing circles on the back of your hand. "Your instinct to help, even when it was dangerous, shows just how incredible you are." You looked up at him, the corner of your lip twitched up into a small, appreciative smile; feeling his words warm your heart.

"Thank you, Tyler. You’re pretty incredible too." Tyler gave you a small smile in return before his eyes dropped down to stare at the square-patch bandage - partially hidden behind your hair - covering the scratch you got hours earlier.

The smile on his face shifted and was replaced with a frown; he knew he shouldn't feel like it was all his fault, but still. His stomach churned uncomfortably, a strange sense of guilt flooding him as he remembered the events of earlier that day, remembering the pained expression on your face when Dexter cleaned and bandaged your cut.

Reaching out, he brushed your hair away from your face, tucking the strands behind your ear; his fingers just grazing the bandage before he let out a deep sigh. Cupping the back of your head, his fingers laced through your hair. All the while, you held your breath, unable to look away from him. Dropping his head, he pressed his forehead against yours, shutting his eyes. "I'm sorry, sweetheart,"

"It's not your fault, Ty." You breathed out, shutting your own eyes, your hand coming up to cup his cheek; your thumb brushing across his stubble. "You've got nothing to worry about."

"Can't help but worry," He let out a wistful chuckle. "I don't know what I'd do if anything were to happen to you..."

"I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you either." You replied softly, pulling back slightly as he opened his eyes.

Suddenly, it felt like all of your senses had been heightened. You became so aware of how close you and Tyler's faces were to each other. His face was so close to yours, that you could practically count his lashes as they fluttered; half-lidded. His lips were slightly agape, slow bursts of air escaping them. His scent - dirt, cologne, and leather was intoxicating. How his hand was still holding yours, warming you. And how his fingers were still in your hair, his thumb brushing back and forth on your neck - soothing, almost lovingly... And with the way he was looking at you… Oh, how he was looking at you. You felt your heart beating - pounding - in your chest.

"Is it crazy to say that I really want to kiss ya righ' now?" He then asked suddenly, his voice low, husky; his tongue running along his bottom lip briefly. A shiver ran down your spine as your heartbeat increased, and goosebumps appeared on your arms. You were surprised, to say the least. You didn't think that Tyler would like you back. And yet he was asking if he could kiss you. Though, at your silence, Tyle continued, "I- I don't want to mess this up. I don't want to ruin this. What we got... What we got right here is good."

"Tyler," You muttered, you could practically feel how nervous he was, but you were nervous too, "You won’t. You won't mess this up."

Letting out a somewhat shaky breath, the soft pad of your thumb brushing against his cheek grounded him. "Ya sure?" 

You gave him a shy smile, "Absolutely sure." 

Searching your eyes, slowly, almost hesitantly, he leaned in; his breath mingling with yours. Wetting his bottom lip once more, you both closed your eyes as you tilted your head upward; his soft lips met yours. Letting out a sigh, you practically melted. Your hand on Tyler's cheek slid back, wrapping itself around the base of his neck - your fingers tangling themselves into his hair there. Tyler was sure that this was heaven.

Tyler broke the kiss moments later, leaning his forehead against yours as you both caught your breath. "God... I've been wantin' to do that for a while." 

You chuckled, your cheeks burning, "Me too."

Pulling back, that same mischievous look appeared in his eyes, "I mean, who wouldn't? I'm a tornado wrangler." He spoke cockily but jokingly, making you huff out a laugh and roll your eyes.

"Annnnd moment ruined," You sighed dramatically, making Tyler let out a boisterous laugh. "Again, your ego is unbelievable." You shook your head, smiling at him; your gaze trailing over his features. 

His laughter died down, pulling you into his side, his hand cupping the back of your head as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "I'm sorry," He muttered into your hair, "Would some pizza make up for my egotistical behavior?"

You looked up at him with your own playful smirk. "Hmm, pizza might help..," You trailed off, leaning forward to press a peck to his lips before hopping off the roof of the truck. 

With a love-sick grin on his face, Tyler followed after you, opening the passenger side door for you as you hopped in. Once he was in the driver's seat, he placed the keys into the ignition and put the truck in reverse; speeding out of the motel parking lot and onto the road.

~~~

That following day, you, Tyler, and the rest of the team headed north, where the beginnings of a tornado were forming. The chase was epic, and the viewers on the YouTube channel were loving all the live footage. It had been a good, successful day. That night, you all sat around the campfire in your camp chairs. Boone, Dani, Lily, Dexter, Ben, and Tyler, were all laughing about something. In the background, there was music playing from Tyler's truck, mixed with the sound of chirping crickets in the wilderness. 

You exited your hotel room, walking down the metal motel stairs, "Hey! Guess who finally decided to join us?" Dani called out, your presence gaining everyone's attention. 

"Missing out on the fun, we found Boone's secret stash of marshmallows." Lily spoke up, waving her stick with a toasted marshmallow stabbed on top of it. 

Boone huffed, rolling his eyes, "I was going to share them." He faux angrily bit into his marshmallow.

Walking past the fire, you headed straight towards Tyler, seeing the smile on his face brighten at the sight of you. "Sorry I wasn't able to join in sooner," You apologized, as Tyler’s hands cupped your waist, gently pulling you into his lap, "I had to shower the tornado off of me."

The group fell into silence, all five of them narrowing their eyes and staring at both you and Tyler, suspicious; analyzing. You often sat on Tyler's lap, but this was different. The way your arm was resting behind his shoulders, your fingers brushing through the hair on the nape of his neck. The way his arm was wrapped around your hips, keeping you close to him; his thumb brushing along the material of your jeans. But, the easiest tell that something was definitely different, was the way you were both looking at each other when your eyes met. 

The group shared knowing glances with each other, smiling, grinning, before they all looked at Tyler and you. And finally, Lily spoke, "Did he finally tell you?" She asked, her eyes wide and a bright smile on her face at just the thought that maybe - finally - Tyler confessed after all these years.

Biting your bottom lip, you glanced down at Tyler, who had already been looking at you. Shrugging, you couldn't stop the smile from appearing on your face, "Maybe," You began, chuckling when the group cheered. 

"Finally!" Dani exclaimed, gesturing to the two of you, "We've been waiting forever. And Boone," Dani looked over at the young man sitting across the circle they had made with their chairs, "You owe me twenty bucks."

Raising an eyebrow, Tyler chuckled, "You bet on us?"

Boone nodded, begrudgingly handing Dani the twenty-dollar bill. "Yeah, I thought you'd confess back when you both went on that tornado chase a couple of weeks back."

"Wait a minute..," Tyler began, narrowing his eyes at his friends, "That day when you all made up excuses..? Really?" His tone of voice was full of amusement; his lips twitching upwards.

Dexter shrugged, "That was the only way we could get you alone together. We knew you were going to crack sooner or later. It has been... What? Three years? What a whirlwind."

Shaking your head, you laughed quietly, "I can't believe you guys," You said, only for Lily to lean forward in her seat.

“Congratulations,” Ben spoke up from his seat, and you gave the journalist a smile.

“Thanks, Ben.”

"Yeah, we're happy for you two," She started, giving you a warm smile. "It was meant to be."

Letting out a sigh, you smiled softly, looking back at Tyler, "Meant to be." You muttered, repeating her words.

Tyler smirked, taking your hand in his free one, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles. Looking up at you with such intensity that made your stomach flip, he spoke again, "I like the sound of that."

~~~

Main Masterlist | Twisters Masterlist

[crowsofdarkness]

Vaz Prizrak: Chapter Two

-gif not mine. credit to owner-

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Female Agent! Reader.

Content Warnings: language, 18 + implied smut, angst, fluff, violence, mentions of losing a pregnancy, thoughts of taking one's life, an attempt to take one's life. I will give another warning when that chapter is posted.

Summary: Bucky and Reader have been in their own solace while in Wakanda for years. They were finally happy to create the life they wanted and deserved. That was until a new foe came along to dust it all away.

Authors Note: This takes place during Infinity War and Endgame! If you haven't yet, please read Soldat and Dorogaya beforehand.

Tags: @globetrotter28 @sakuracyberhex @chinggay85-blog @bookofriverr @misatxox @that-blonde-girl @cats-chaotic-mind @wintrsoldrluvr @sebastians-love @pumpkin-babydoll @ordelixx @starfly-nicole @j23r23 @baw1066 @capswife

Soldat Masterlist | Dorogaya Masterlist | Vaz Prizrak Masterlist

The town square of Wakanda was busy with bodies getting ready for the soon arrival and as Bucky and I stood hand in hand, I could help the way my heart jumped with nerves. I was nervous for the fight and nervous to see Steve again after so long. 

My hair blew with the wind as the jet made its final descent, coming to a halt in front of us. As the ramp opened, I saw my old friends ascend down. They couldn’t see us and I took it as an opportunity to sneak away from them and Bucky, the nerves becoming too much to handle. Bucky was talking with Steve so he hadn’t noticed me walk away. 

Everything was happening too fast and I didn’t have the chance to stop to think about what the outcome would be. 

Maybe Bucky and I could leave, let them fight this on their own. We could go back to our normal lives, something that we both deserved. This wasn’t our fight, we didn’t have to risk our lives for this. 

However, I knew that when it was our fight years ago, all of these people were there to help us, no questions asked. 

“Where’s Y/N?” A voice asked. 

“She was right here,” Bucky said. 

Coming into view, I smiled over towards my friends while giving Sam and Nat a long overdue hug. I nodded towards Wanda who was walking inside with a hurt Vision. 

“How’re you doing?” Nat asked. 

I nodded. “Not bad, for the end of the world.” 

“What’s up Marshmallow?” 

Laughing at the nickname coming from Sam, I lightly punched him in the shoulder. “You had to come along?” 

“Someone has to watch his back,” Sam mentioned towards Steve. 

He was already watching me with intent eyes as I walked over to him, closing the distance between us. 

“I see you took my advice,” I pointed towards the beard and long hair. 

Steve shrugged while wrapping his arms around me in a longing hug. I had missed the way that they felt, protecting me from anything bad. 

“How are you, really?” Steve questioned, lifting my chin to look into my eyes. 

“We’re fine, Steve,” I spoke quietly. “Bucky is good. He’s his old self.” 

Steve nodded before looking between Bucky and I. “Mind if I steal her for a bit? Catch her up to speed?” 

Bucky hesitated, only I saw it, before nodding. “Sure.” 

I closed the large distance between us with a loving kiss. “Don’t worry.” 

With his new fingers on my lower back, he pressed his lips against mine once again, this time longer and deeper. 

“I love you,” he muttered against them. 

“I love you too.” 

“You look like hell,” I noticed Sam as we all stood in the middle of Shuri’s lab. 

A very familiar place to me. 

“Well the motels weren’t exactly five stars,” Sam admitted with a small laugh. 

I then nodded towards Bruce and Nat, who themselves were having a private conversation. 

“Talk about awkwardness, huh?” 

Sam laughed again. “You have no idea.” 

“Y/N.” 

Excusing myself from Sam, I walked over towards Steve, who was standing in front of a large window, looking down towards the fields of Wakanda. 

“Does everything make sense?” He asked. 

“Yeah, as crazy as it sounds.” I said 

“And you’re ready for it?” He asked again, motioning towards my hands. “Bucky mentioned that you haven’t used it for awhile.” 

I grasped my hands together with a sigh. “I wanted something normal for us. To be honest, I don’t even know if it still works. I haven’t found a reason to get mad lately.” 

“With what’s coming, I think it would be best to get mad,” Steve suggested. 

Silence fell between us and I was going to walk away from him but his hand in mind stopped me. 

“Can you promise me something?” 

I nodded. 

“Promise that no matter what comes, that you take care of yourself first. Don’t worry about Buck or I. I can’t deal if something would happen to you,” Steve admitted while gently cupping my cheek. 

Licking my dry lips at the warmth of his glove, I nodded again. 

“Only if you do something for me,” I spoke. 

“Anything,” he breathed. 

“If something does happen to me, make sure he moves on. I don’t want him to dwell on it. He deserves to be happy,” I said with a shaky breath. 

Steve hesitated for a moment before nodding, letting out a large breath. 

“But it’s not going to come to that, right?” 

Tearing myself away from Steve’s sad gaze, I looked towards Natasha and nodded. 

“Can she do it?” I asked, changing the subject and walking away from Steve. 

The questionable outcome weighed heavy on my mind but there was always one thing that was clear. If something were to happen to me, whatever it was, I needed to make sure that Bucky moved on. He couldn’t dwell on me or what happened. It was true what I told Steve; Bucky deserved to be happy, even if I had passed. 

Suddenly, a loud bang sounded from above us, shaking the castle. I looked around everyone in the room before my eyes landed finally on Steve, a knowing look on his face. 

“They’re here,” I said. 

“Get this man a shield!” T’challa pointed towards Steve before shouting more directions to others. 

“Bucky,” I muttered while leaving the room and sprinting outside the castle. 

Bucky and Sam were standing in the middle of the town center, staring up towards the sky. 

Gunshots rain down on us but thankfully they couldn’t break the barrier that was protecting us. 

“God, I love this place,” Bucky admitted. 

“You guys alright?” I questioned while standing in between them. 

Sam nodded. “How’re they doing up there?” 

“It’s going to take awhile for Shuri to recreate a stone,” I admitted. 

We watched in slight horror when ships came from the sky, landing right outside the protective dome. 

“Cap, we’ve got a situation out here.” I said into my com. 

The grass flattened beneath my boots as we stood on the open field, preparing ourselves for the fight. 

“Doll?” 

I looked over to Bucky. “Hm?” 

Without saying a word, handed me one of his guns, silently knowing that I wasn’t quite ready to use my powers. 

“Be careful,” he said. 

“You too,” I spoke while lacing our fingers together.

My attention was averted from Bucky as I shook my fingers, trying to bring the spark to life, but groaned in defeat. 

I never would have thought that when I decided to not use them any more that it would backfire. Now would be the perfect time to be able to use them. 

“Did they surrender?” I asked Steve as he returned to his spot next to me. 

T’challa, Nat, and him walked down to the edge of the barrier, trying to talk to the alien species. 

“Not exactly,” he sighed. 

Suddenly, thousands of aliens came from the ships, running towards the barrier that was protecting us, killing themselves in the process. 

“They’re killing themselves,” I muttered. 

The few that made it through, alive, charged towards us and without a second thought, all of us raised our weapons to prepare for war. 

Bucky and I shot bullets towards the aliens that made it close to us. I knew, deep down, that no matter how many bullets we had or knives I used, it wouldn’t be enough. 

“You know, Y/N, now would be a perfect time to toast these fuckers,” Sam’s voice came through the com in my ear. 

“You don’t think I’ve tried!” I yelled. “It’s not working!” 

A simple snap of the fingers and nothing. 

“What’s stopping them from trying to enter behind us?” I asked Steve, when I noticed the aliens running around the barrier. 

“We need to open the barrier,” T’challa stated. 

Looking between Steve and Bucky, two men who I would protect with my heart and knowing they would do the same for me. 

“We’re with each other till the end, right?” I asked them both. 

“Always,” Steve spoke. 

“Forever, doll.” Bucky gave a quick kiss to the side of my head. 

With a loud war cry, our army charged forward as T’challa gave the order to open the barrier. Thousands of aliens sprinting towards us. 

[dixonsdarkelf]

QOTU: A Little Friendly Competition Part 2

Summary: Going on dates wasn’t always a guaranteed good time. Vec has had her fair share of shitty dates, but the nerves she had for this particular one were for a different reason. She truly liked this one, and she wanted it to go well. Thankfully, Scud shared the same sentiment, and it made for one of the best nights of their lives.

Part two of Vec & Scud’s first date is finally here. It picks up right from where part 1 left off. I’m sorry it took so long. I’ve hardly felt like a person for the last month. I hope you like this 🖤

There’s a mention of line dancing, so if you’ve never heard of that or seen it before, here’s a good example.

Era: Pre-apocalypse, a little over a year before the outbreak

Word count: 6.2k (really glad I split this one up since part 1 was 8.1k lol)

Warnings: swearing, some small bits of content with a suggestive undertone, brief discussion of guns & weapons (in reference to Scud’s past with Blade)

We're also cross-posting on AO3 if you'd rather read over there!

My AO3 Krys' AO3

Her heart nearly catapulted from her chest as he laced his fingers between hers, and he squeezed lightly, a silent ask to make sure she was comfortable before they stayed walking. Their night had started with a little friendly competition, and now, they were off to a bar to continue their date.

“Definitely not gonna get lost now,” she grinned.

The crisp evening air nipped at her legs, forming goosebumps through her fishnets. She shivered slightly, regretting having not grabbed a jacket before stepping out that night. The sweater she’d chosen was light, barely a sweater when it came to warmth standards, as far as she was concerned. Her shiver was subtle, but it still caught the inventor’s attention.

“You cold?” he asked as his thumb absentmindedly drew small circles over the back of her hand.

There was a shudder in her voice as she talked, clearly trying to use her words to downplay how cold she really was as to not be an inconvenience to her date. “A little, but I’ll be okay. It doesn’t look like we’re going that far.”

“Nah, c’mon. I have a jacket in my car. Small detour ain’t a big deal.” He was already dragging her in the direction of his vehicle, not giving her room to protest. He wasn’t ever the type to “not take no for an answer,” but in the case of of the beautiful woman on his arm shaking like a leaf and slowly turning into a popsicle, he was willing to break his own rules.

“It’s okay Josh, really,” she reiterated as they reached his car. He was already headfirst in the backseat, quickly emerging with his red and black leather jacket, before she could protest further.

“What kinda man would I be if I let a lady such as yourself go cold for the evenin’ when I could’ve done somethin’ about it?” He handed the jacket over to her, their fingers grazing past each other, causing her cheeks to turn baby pink under her makeup again. Despite having been holding hands only moments before, the butterflies in her stomach still went into overtime. “Plus, I’m sure it’ll look way better on you.”

She smiled at the compliment and gathered her hair in a ponytail, laying it over her shoulder and sliding her arms through the sleeves. Her shivering ceased almost immediately, the thick material shielding her from the breeze and cocooning her in its warmth. He stepped around and gently gathered her hair, careful not to disturb any of her curls as he moved it to hang down her back.

Being a gentleman? Yes. Using it as an excuse to touch her? Also yes.

He stepped back and gave her a not-so-subtle up-down look over. His piercing blue eyes lingered over his jacket on her smaller frame for a few moments longer than the rest before meeting her gaze again. Scud was awestruck, already thinking about the next time he would wear it, knowing it would have a faint scent of her and her sweet vanilla perfume on it. “Told you.”

Taking his hand again, they trekked across the parking lot, his jacket now a barricade to the evening breeze. He slipped a thumb between their hands and lightly scratched her palm. The gesture had her heart fluttering, causing her to sweat a little despite shivering just minutes ago. She could only hope the breeze against her hand would prevent it from feeling clammy.

“I know I don’t need to say this, but thanks for being so cool about me being on my phone to text my best friend,” she praised, stepping up onto the curb and pressing the button on the crosswalk sign for the light to change, “being cool about girl code and all that.”

He chuckled softly, as if to emphasize reassurance that it was all good. “You’re right, you don’t need to say it. Like I said, it’s not a problem. You’ve got someone looking out for you, and that’s good. Are you two close?” He scoffed at his own remark, then continued. “That’s a stupid question, of course you’re close. How long have you two been friends?”

As they crossed the street, his hand tightened around hers ever so slightly, and he pulled her closer, both small, subconscious acts that were completely unintentional. Being the observant icon that she was, she noticed and squeezed back, drawing a faint, almost unnoticeable flush to his cheeks, only evident to her due to their close proximity.

Vec’s voice sparkled as she mused over the details of their origin story. “Since we were little, before we could even talk. Our moms were good friends and got pregnant around the same time. Our birthdays are pretty close.” A soft chuckle escaped her lips. “I’ve got two weeks on her, though. 13 days, if you really wanna get technical about it.”

“Damn, that’s a long time. Most friendships don’t last that long. That’s impressive.” As a crowd walked by on the other side of the sidewalk, he gently pulled her closer, and it only sent her heart into further fits of fluttering.

“Yeah. She’s been with me through everything, and vice versa. She’s a sister to me. My family consider her one of their own. I’m really lucky.”

“That’s awesome. I’m happy for you two.” He stifled a chuckle before asking his next question. “Do you ever get pegged as a couple in public? We talkin’ that kind of close?”

“That is the pinnacle of female friendships, Josh,” she explained, “once you’ve reached that stage, there’s no going back.”

“That’s kind of adorable.” He briefly paused before continuing, realizing his previous comment didn’t do the situation justice. “Not kind of. It very adorable.”

She could see Whistler’s up ahead, the rustic metal sign swaying lightly in the breeze. She smiled softly as she watched a group of strangers cross the street, one of the guys picking up one of the girls bridal-style and spinning her around. Her infectious laughter stood out amongst the evening Atlanta traffic, drowning out the sounds of honking car horns and music playing from nearby businesses. Vec only hoped that maybe, things would work out for her, and one day, that could be the two of them crossing the street like that.

There was still the presence of some butterflies, but the high anxiety she’d started off with before leaving the house had completely subsided at some point during the course of their little competition. Being around him felt…comfortable, natural, organic. The way her hand fit perfectly in his, the way she felt at ease with him around—it was like a dream.

Approaching the front door, he released her hand and stepped in front of her, swinging it open and gesturing inside. “After you, m’lady,” he insisted.

“Ooh, such a gentleman,” she mused, slipping past him and stepping off to the side, pulling out her phone to update her best friend.

Ginny 🌻: Probably that one. It’s cute. He has good taste. Stay safe 💛

Vec: Yep, that’s the one. We just got here. I’ll keep you posted 💙

Sliding it back into her purse, she wove through a sea of people along the counter, Scud close behind as he guided her through the crowd with a hand on her waist. They managed to snag the last set of stools at the bar, her taking the one farther from the door and positioning herself to face him, legs crossed.

“I take it you’ll still let me know if I pull any stunts you don’t like?” he wondered, propping himself onto the opposite stool. As he asked, his hand found her knee, searching her eyes for any sign of uncertainty or discomfort. When he didn’t find any and was met with a playful smile, he began drawing small circles and tracing the edges of the fishnet with his thumb.

“Oh trust me. If you pull something I don’t like, you’ll know,” she assured. There was a teasing edge to her voice, but he knew she was serious.

“Good.” He gave her knee a tender squeeze before continuing. “So what’s your drink of choice, Buttercup?”

Her stomach fluttered at the pet name, and she fought to contain the giddy giggles threatening to break through. “I don’t usually drink, but when I do, I usually go for something fruity.” She pulled out her ID and slid it to the bartender, ordering a Dirty Shirley while Scud ordered himself a beer. “I’m kind of a lightweight.”

“How much of a lightweight are we talking?” he asked, ordering some fries from the bartender when she dropped off his beer, “should probably eat something too, in that case.”

She smiled softly at his insistence, giving a friendly nod to the bartender as she stepped away. Usually, when mentioning she was a lightweight, she was met with much more crass commentary, often with attempts to get her to drink more. And here Scud was, making sure she was going to get some food in her system to help combat any side effects of the alcohol. If she wasn’t over the moon before, she certainly was now. “I’m a one drink kinda gal. Any more than that and I start throwin’ ass, and I don’t know you like that yet. I don’t have much, but I can shake what I got.”

“Yet, huh?” he smirked, clearly pleased with her choice of words. The implication of the word hung in the air for a moment before he continued. “Does that mean there’s potential to “know me like that?””

“Keep playing your cards right, and we’ll see,” she replied in the most flirtatious tone she could muster. This time, it was his turn to have the blood rushing to his cheeks at mach speed. Seeing him turn red had her heart nearly beating out of her chest, and she could practically feel it bumping against the inside of her ribcage as it tried to break free.

He cleared his throat and took a swig of his beer, doing his best to deflect from his blushing. “You got any other tricks up your sleeve? Maybe ones that don’t require you to get drunk?”

As if on cue, the bartender came back and slid Vec her Dirty Shirley, followed by some fries in a small basket. She took the glass in her hand, swirling it gently, before taking a small sip. And that was when an idea struck her.

“I do, actually,” she confirmed, a playful smile on her lips. Putting two fingers into her drink, she plucked the cherry out and broke off the stem before dropping it back in. She didn’t need to explain any further for him to know what kind of talent she was referring to.

His heart leapt into his throat when she put the stem in her mouth. Her eyes wandered around the room, landing on everything but his as she worked the stem with her tongue. He watched intently, his baby blues never leaving her face for even a second. His gaze was full of wonder, intrigue, and more arousal than he was capable of hiding.

Once she finished, she stuck her tongue out, the stem, now tied in a perfect knot, resting on it. More than ever, she was thankful for her full-coverage foundation and the dim lighting of the bar. Otherwise, she was sure her red-hot, glowing cheeks would light the place up enough for it to look like daytime. The tension between them was palpable, swirling and hanging around them like a thick cloud, evident to everyone in the bar.

“Shit.” The word came out breathy, like he’d been panting for air despite not taking a single step from his seat. “How’d you learn to do that?”

She removed the coaster from the top of her drink and plopped the stem back in before taking a sip and sliding the coaster back on. “One of my friends in college bet I couldn’t do it, so I taught myself out of spite.”

“Well aren’t you just full of surprises?” Scud studied her face as she looked at him with a devilish glint in her eye. The entire time, his hand had remained on her knee, drawing those same little circles with his thumb and running his fingers over the fishnet material.

“Oh, I have more,” she elaborated, taking a fry and biting it carefully as to not disturb her lipstick, “I can line dance.”

He eyed her up and down, his gaze first stopping on his hand on her knee, then her hand brushing some curls out of her eyes. “No shit. Like country line dance?”

She nodded as she finished another fry, a silent confirmation that he was indeed correct. She swirled her drink in her hand before sipping it again, leaving yet another lipstick mark on the rim. “Yeah. One of my friends in med school wanted to learn, but she didn’t wanna do it alone, so she convinced me to join her.”

He couldn’t help but notice her slide her coaster over her drink every time she set it down. While they’d been talking every day in the weeks leading up to their date & he knew he was no threat, he also knew that she, ultimately, didn’t really know him. Not to mention, they weren’t the only two people in the bar, and not all of them had good intentions. She was simply looking out for herself, and watching her be smart and do little things to protect herself was…attractive.

“How do I get to see this in action?” he questioned, his tone playfully demanding.

Vec looked around the room, pretending to be deep in thought as she tapped her chin with her finger. “I’ll make you a deal. If a song comes on that I know a dance to, I’ll show you.”

He nodded his beer in her direction as a form of informal mock toast. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Vee.”

She did the same with her glass and tilted it toward him, a giggle slipping from between her lips. “So enough about me. Tell me more about your experience inventing weapons for…” She raised her eyebrows and eyed him, her voice trailing off and she waited for him to continue.

“His name was Blade. Called him B.”

“For this ‘Blade’ guy. What kind of weapons did you make?”

“Guns, defense weapons, things like that.” He said it so casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world to be the personal weapons-maker for some mystery man. Despite her intrigue, there was also a lingering sense of worry, albeit small.

“Shit,” she sighed, covering her mouth as she chewed, “was he military or something?”

“Guess you could say he was more of a…hit man of sorts.”

Before he could continue, the shock caused her food to catch in her throat, and she coughed repeatedly, needing to take a few swigs of her dirty Shirley to calm her body.

“Whoa, you okay?” he asked. He lightly patted her on the back, a small gesture to hopefully improve her current situation.

After a few moments, and when she’d mostly regained her composure, she nodded. “Jesus Christ,” she exclaimed, small coughs still escaping her chest, “can you even be saying that?”

“I didn’t mean to spook you. He wasn’t exactly a hit man in the traditional sense, but that’s the closest comparison I’ve got.” He leaned in closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. “There was something fishy about him though.”

“Why are we whispering?” she asked, leaning in closer and dropping her voice as well.

“Cause it’s a secret.” His hand found her knee again, this time lightly threading one of his fingers under the fishnet and circling her bare skin, some small attempt to sooth her worries. Her heart soared, and despite the butterflies ramping up in her stomach, she was loving every second of it. “I think he was a vampire.”

She cocked an eyebrow and stifled a small laugh. She was certain he had to be joking. “A what?”

“Y’know, a blood sucker.”“I know what vampires are, you goof. Just wanted to make sure I heard you right,” she explained, her voice still a whisper.

“You sure did. The weapons I made helped with…protection of sorts.” He dropped his voice lower, forcing her to lean in closer to hear him amongst the chaos and music of the bar. Their faces were mere inches apart, and she could feel his warm breath on her skin, sending small shivers up her spine.

It took every fiber of his being to stop himself from planting one on her right in that moment.

“Protection for what?” Vec asked.

“Was more like “from” what,” he clarified, “the ‘what’ being “other vamps.”

“A vampire…needing protection…from other vampires?”

“That’s the short version,” he explained, bringing his voice back to a normal volume, “usually like to keep the details to a minimum to start. If that’s alright with you, I mean.”

“Of course, that’s more than okay,” she assured, nodding and leaning back to take another sip of her drink.

He watched as she did so, admiring the way her eyes fluttered close every time she took a taste of her beverage. She set her drink down and slid the coaster across it again, running a hand through her bangs to fix them as the bartender approached her, asking if she wanted a refill at any point. She assured her she was good with the one and thanked her with a bright smile, a smile that sent Scud’s heart nearly plummeting out of his body. His eyes barely left her face the entire time they’d been sat there, and this was no exception. She looked beautiful under the soft glow of the dim bar lights, the sparkle on her cheekbones—highlight, as she had said it was called—mimicking the twinkle in her eyes when she talked. He was one to fall fast, but he wasn’t sure if he’d even fallen this fast before.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Her voice broke him from his daydreams, not noticing that she had turned back to him. Flustered, he said the first words that came to mind. “Your makeup looks really good. You need to show me how you do that.”

Her tone changed to one of mischievous intrigue, a hint of a smirk falling on her lips. “You want me to decorate your face?”

Deciding to be bold, he reached up and softly ran his thumb across her bottom lip, enough to smear some of her lipstick onto his thumb, but not enough to drag it onto her face. “Could decorate it with this.”

The next-level flirting made her swallow hard, and not a single word came to her. It wasn’t often that Vec was rendered speechless, but this was the moment that reigned above all else regarding the speechless factor. She simply stared at him, her mouth slightly agape as she tried to come up with something, anything, to say in return. But her mind was blank, fried from his touch, and he laughed softly at her shocked state. He wondered if she looked like a cherry blossom under all that makeup. If there wasn’t tension before, there certainly was now.

“Surprised to see you at a loss for words,” he teased. He swiped the lipstick on this thumb onto the back of his hand, smudging it around so no residue was left, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

Once she found some words, they came out stutterer through a cracking voice. “I’m gonna…I’m gonna go, uh…go fix this…I’ll be right back.” Quickly jumping from her stool, she scampered off to the bathroom without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

Throwing herself into a stall and locking the door, she took a seat on the toilet, her hands shaking as she pulled out her phone to text Georgie.

Vec: Gin, I’m fucking SWEATING

Ginny 🌻: In a good way or a bad way?

Vec: A fantastic way

Ginny 🌻: Are you bringing him home? Do I need to dig out my headphones?

Vec: He won’t be coming home, but you’ll definitely still need your headphones.

Back in the main area, the bartender approached him, asking him if he wanted another beer. He nodded, and she quickly returned with one, cracking the lid. “You two are cute,” she commented, handing it over to him.

“Thank you,” he smiled, taking a swig and nodding his bottle in the general direction of the restrooms, “she’s the cute one, though.”

“How long have you been together?” the bartender, whose name tag read ‘Sam’, inquired.

Scud chuckled softly to himself, flattered that their dynamic implied to strangers that they were a couple. “Oh no. This is a first date.”

Sam raised her eyebrows in surprise. “A first date, huh?” She reached under the counter for a bottle of something and began preparing a drink for another customer while she talked. “I’ll be honest, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a couple with that much chemistry, let alone one that’s not even official.”

“You mean that?” His smile was almost the biggest it’d been all night.

She nodded in affirmation, handing the drink off to someone who approached the counter behind Scud and smiling at them before turning her attention back to him. “You’re doing good, bro. Keep it up. She’s devouring it, I can tell.”

As if on cue, Vec returned from the bathroom, sliding back onto her stool and turning to him. “Sorry about that,” she apologized, moving closer to him so their legs were touching.

“Nah, you’re good,” he reassured. He put a hand on her knee again, this time slipping a few fingers between the holes of her fishnets. “Don’t worry about it.”

The minutes turned into hours as they continued chatting. All the noise in the bar drowned out during their conversation, like they were the only two people in the bar. Hell, the only two people on Earth, it seemed.

His eyes barely left her once, hardly even doing so to taste his beer or take a fry. His hand remained steady on her knee, occasionally squeezing it or absentmindedly drawing shapes on it, but keeping his touch respectful and never driving farther north. He wanted to know every detail about her, every single thought, dream, fear, aspiration that passed through that pretty little head of hers. He was captivated by her in a way he’d never been captivated before.

She did the same, almost never taking her ocean eyes off him, other than to cover her drink with her coaster. He was fascinating, captivating, intriguing, and so much more, all wrapped up in the most beautiful package she’d ever laid her eyes on. She had to fight with all the strength she could muster to stop herself from cutting off every once of his sentences with a kiss.

“Well, my dad’s an astronaut, so he—“

“He’s a what?” The interruption wasn’t intentional, but he was captivated, his ADHD getting the better of him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to cut you off, that was rude. That’s just so dope.”

“It’s okay,” she promised, giggling softly, “your excitement is adorable.”

He turned a soft pink as blood flowed to his cheeks, her compliment launching his ego up at the speed of a rocket. “So did you grow up with a telescope at home?”

“Oh yeah. If he was gonna be on the International Space Station when we’d be able to see a planet or a comet or something, he’d tell my mom before he left, and she’d mark them on the calendar in the kitchen,” she explained, a small smile forming on her face as she reminisced about her childhood—those late nights staying up to see a comet fly by or being woken up by her mom at 2am to see a planet up close. “There was one time that we could see Saturn pretty close. I was like 12 or 13 I think, and my best friend stayed over so she could join us. Even though I had school the next day, my mom woke us up in the middle of the night to see it.”

“I’m a little jealous,” he teased, “so what’s it like up there, living in zero gravity and what not?”

“Well he’s the space professional, not me,” she replied.

“”Space professional” is cute. Makes it sound more official. And sorry. I’ve got a million questions.”

“Don’t apologize. You ever meet him someday, you can ask him all the questions you want.” She was certain he’d ask her more, and she was already planning on sending them to her dad and passing his answers along.

A little while later, the bartender began shouting out for last call, the remaining bar patrons slowly beginning to file out. Vec threw back the last of her drink, all that remained essentially just being ice melted into water.

“Shit, I didn’t realize it’d gotten so late,” she sighed, adjusting her purse strap on her shoulder underneath his jacket.

“As much as I’d love to find a way to keep the night going, I do have to be up early,” he grimaced. The bartender set a receipt and pen in front of him, and he slapped his card down and signed off on it before she even had a chance to react. “Gotta open in the morning.”

“That sucks.” Her face dropped every so slightly, and even though they’d spent several hours together, she was bummed to have to part ways. “What’s “opening” mean for you?”

“Startin’ at 8 but gettin’ up at 6 cause I gotta get there early,” he explained. He rose from his stool and took her hand to have her do the same. She scrunched her nose to adjust her glasses, a little quirk that he had picked up on earlier in the night that he found downright adorable. Every time, it made him smile.

“Eww. And on a Saturday? I’m sorry. That’s brutal.”

“I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of early days.” His hand hovered over her lower back as he guided her through the crowd to the front door. His inability to keep his hands off her for even a second in each other’s presence sent her ego, her heart, her hormones, and everything in between to the moon.

“More than I care to count,” she confirmed. He held the door and let her out first, immediately taking her hand again on the sidewalk as they headed back to their cars at the bowling alley.

“Y’know, you never showed off your moves,” he teased, lightly bumping her shoulder with his.

“I’m a woman of my word,” she asserted, “I promise I didn’t know a dance for any song that came on. I would’ve leapt out of my chair if I knew one. I’m not afraid to get down in public, sober or otherwise.”

Just like on the way there, he held her hand for the entire duration of their walk, occasionally swinging their arms back and forth and eliciting little laughs from her. The sound was like honey, almost sickly sweet with the way it clung to every one of his senses. He wanted to hear her laugh day-in and day-out, in any and every context—the good, the bad, and the nefarious.

“You sure you’re good to drive?” he asked as they leaned up against her car, his hand traveling from hers up her arm.

“I had one drink four hours ago. And I’ve eaten since then. I’m good,” she promised, “but I appreciate your concern. Are you good?”

“It takes more than a couple of beers for me to even get tipsy.” He sounded boastful, like he had bragging rights for being able to handle a couple of beers. He slowly eyed her up and down before giving her arm a light squeeze. “Unlike the lightest lightweight I’ve ever met.”

The teasing tone in her voice was heavy as she playfully shoved his shoulder. “Shut up.”

The tension between them as they stood there was somehow thicker than it had been at the bar. She slipped his jacket off and handed it over, muttering a soft “here’s this back” as their fingers grazed each other’s, their intense eye contact never breaking for a second. His mind wandered to their earlier escapades and the terms and conditions of their little competition. He was beginning to worry if he’d come off too strong with it.

“Look, about what I said earlier…you don’t gotta give me a kiss if you don’t want to,” he reassured, “I’m not trying to put you in an uncomfortable situation or anything.”

“You never said what kind of kiss, so…” her voice trailed off, and she placed a soft, tender kiss on his cheek, his blushing disguised in the dim lighting of the parking lot, “you can still have one. You won it fair and square.” She took notice of the stain she’d left behind, and she quickly reached up to fix it. “Oh shit, let me get the mark off.”

“Nah, leave it.” He took her hand and slowly lowered it, but not before returning the gesture of a soft, gentle kiss to the back of her fingers. Their eyes never once broke contact. “Let everyone know I got a kiss from the most gorgeous woman in Atlanta.” Her stomach was doing backflips, front-flips, somersaults, a whole goddamn gymnastics routine in her abdomen. “I’ll still tell you a secret though. Not a ‘deepest, darkest’ type.”

“Bring it on,” she encouraged. She leaned further into her car and folded her arms over her chest, propping one foot on the other. He mimicked her posture, aside from the hand resting on her arm and drawing small shapes with his fingers.

She wasn’t sure whether the goosebumps were from the cold or from his touch.

“When I was in middle school, probably 13 or 14, there was this girl in my class that I was obsessed with. There was a dance coming up, and I asked her to be my date for it. Little teen Scud was over the moon when she said yes.”

He cringed and shuddered a bit as his mind travelled back to that night. “So the dance comes, we have a fun night, and then after is when I decide I’m gonna kiss her. So I swoop in for the kill, and we just keep hitting each other. We bonked foreheads, noses, you name it. After a few attempts, she just pulls back and says “wanna try again?” I turned beet red and was so embarrassed that I just gave her a kiss on the cheek and left. Never been so humiliated in front of a girl in my life. Still don’t think anything has topped that.”

She made a hissing sound through her teeth as she inhaled. It was a little funny, but he was clearly uncomfortable with it, so she kept her laughter to herself. “Oof, yeah, that’s bad. Thanks for sharing though. I appreciate you trusting me with that.”

Scud nodded in response. “Maybe one day, you’ll get the deepest darkest one.” He leaned forward a bit, closing the distance between them further and lowering his voice just a hint to a more seductive tone. “If I get to see you again, that is.”

“Of course you do,” Vec promised, a flirty giggle rising up from the depths of her chest as she met him with an award-winning smile.

“I’m already thinking of ideas for the next one,” he continued, taking a small step closer, “maybe we come bowling again & I’ll let you beat me this time.”

“Unless we have another friendly competition.” It was a statement, but it came out as more of a suggestion. “Keep the parameters the same. Then I’d be more than happy to lose.”

“So would you say it worked?”

“Say what worked?”

“Your lucky perfume. Did it work?”

She dropped her gaze to the ground for a brief moment before bringing it back to his, and her already big smile somehow grew in size. In all of the fun antics of their evening, she’d nearly forgotten all about her perfume. “Yeah. Yeah, it definitely worked.”

This time, it was his turn to plant a kiss on her cheek, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary before pulling away. As much as he wanted to kiss her properly, the nagging thought of her military brothers ate away at his confidence, fearing he’d be hearing from them if he so much as thought about making a “wrong” move.

He felt her skin getting hot under her makeup, and he snickered, knowing he had in fact been making her blush like a cherry blossom all night. “Let me know when you get home safe.”

“Will do.” Flashing him one last bright smile, she climbed into her car and watched him walk off. She gave her car a few minutes to warm up, texting both her dad with all of Scud’s questions and Georgie in the meantime.

Vec: Headed back now

Vec: I have so much to tell you

Ginny 🌻: As long as I don’t have to worry about getting the tissues out, color me extremely curious…

Ginny 🌻: And excited?

Ginny 🌻: Do I get excited?

Vec: You get excited ☺️

Ginny 🌻: You can’t see, but I’m a giddy mess rn

Upon arriving back at their apartment, she found Georgie waiting for her on the couch, nearly jumping up to greet her and scooping her up for a hug before she’d even closed the door.

“So how was it!?” Georgie asked, squeezing her tighter as the tone of her voice heightened in pitch. She was nearly squealing with delight, bursting at the seams to hear every juicy detail of the eventful evening her bestie had.

She grabbed her best friend by the shoulders and took a deep breath to gain her composure. “Gin…he’s got a tongue piercing.”

“Huh. That’s cool.” Georgie wasn’t into piercings the same way Vec was, but she knew how things like that affected the doctor. She chuckled softly. “Do you need a minute?”

Taking another deep breath, Vec slowly lowered herself to the ground, setting her bag next to her and stretching her limbs out into a starfish pose. Simply thinking back to the reveal of his tongue piercing was doing things to her. “I need several.”

“Compose yourself while I get the wine. Pizza’s already on the way. Placed the order as soon as you said you were on your way back,” Georgie said, chucking softly again at her bestie’s dramatics.

“God, I love you.”

Back at his place, Scud fell back against the couch, his head resting on the back as he stared up at the ceiling. His mind was racing, replaying little snippets of their adventures over and over again. His whole body was buzzing.

“Holy shit.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, warping from something small into a silly grin. She made him a kind of happy he hadn’t felt in a long time.

A vibration in his pocket interrupted his thoughts, pulling him from the sweet daydreams he was getting lost in. However, he was delighted when he realized it was from her.

Vee 😍: Made it home safe & sound

Scud: Good ☺️ So did I

Vee 😍: I had the best time. Thank you for everything. I’m excited to see you again (hopefully soon?) 😉

Scud: I should be thanking you for the best night ever. And yes, I definitely wanna see you again soon 😉

Vee 😍: Hope your shift tomorrow isn’t too brutal

Scud: I’ll text you in the AM

Scud: Sleep tight

Scud: Try not to miss me too much 😉

Vee 😍: 😏 Goodnight Josh

Vec sighed and tossed her phone on the ground next to her, and she kinked her legs up to take her boots off and toss them on the ground as well. “I need this man in ways that would make a nun clutch her rosary and make the concept of feminism shake in her boots.” Reaching into her purse, she dug out a hair tie and tilted her neck up before gathering all of her hair and tying it into a messy bun on the top of her head.

“Based on what you were sending me, it sure sounds like it,” Georgie agreed.

“Also, he called me Buttercup…like the Powerpuff girl,” Vec said, resting her head back on the ground and looking back over her forehead in Georgie’s direction. The details were already flowing from her lips against her will, but she wasn’t mad about any of it.

Georgie nodded as she filled a glass with wine, thinking over the details of said Powerpuff girl and just how accurate of a nickname it was. “Well it’s certainly fitting,” she agreed. Deciding to be playful and “torture” her a little more with the whole tongue-piercing thing, she continued. “Just imagine what that piercing would feel like when he’s going down on you.”

Taking yet another deep breath, Vec groaned, her mind wandering further into the nefarious directions it had gone in earlier in the night. “I was just starting to cool off, Gin!”

“Suffer!” Georgie teased. Her warm laughter echoed through their apartment, eliciting a laugh from Vec as well. As Georgie joined her on the ground with two glasses of wine, Vec could hardly hold the details back, and they began their debrief before the food even arrived.

Vec belongs to me, Georgie belongs to @dixons-sunshine

QOTU taglist (aka the council): @kat-herine00 @gothic-pumpkin @weirdoneattheparty @ffsjustletmesleep @imadisneyprincessiswear

General taglist: @raddydaddydude @lovenormandixon @angeldemoncrowley @negansbestie @holdmytesseract

Want to become a head of the council? Hit up either myself or Krys to be added to the taglist :)

Banner, divider, and © below were made by Krys

[oddsandends-dirt-to-dust]

The World Ender

Masterlist - (chapters, link to ao3 post, moodboard, and spotify playlist.)

I’m The World Ender, baby, and I’m comin’ for them

Word Count: 10k

Warnings (for part9): smut, infected, fire, bombs.

Warnings for smut: risky sex

A/N: late post my bad, I was suffering horribly, as usual.

chap’s long asf blame the smut, not me DX

——————————

PART 9 - Making Love On The Edge Of A Knife

You’d won already. 

It hadn’t taken long for you to realize most of the restaurants were empty. Their chairs overturned; their tables scattered. Glass all over the floor, its glimmer muted by dust.  

Glass was everywhere these days – one of the earliest human inventions – because windows were everywhere. People liked watching. They’d left the wild, left nature, and turned to buildings. 

But, still, windows. For watching their old home sway and flutter, watching the things they used to live among – birds and bugs and more – still roaming around the outside, while they sat in their buildings and pretended to be better. Pretended to be smarter, and more important. 

Glass, one of the earliest human inventions, and yet so fragile. So easy to shatter, so easy to turn to sharp edges and brittle points.  

The outside hadn’t liked the buildings, nature hadn’t liked the arrogance. It had shattered the thin, fragile sheet of the windows we watched through, let that plague rush in to reclaim. 

A reminder. 

You’re not so special, nature had said. You’re not so important. 

Your boots had crunched a haunting melody as you tottered through the restaurants that were empty – aside from those wrecked tables and chairs, and that glass, and the pictures on the wall, and the blood stains on the hardwood. 

The important things were all gone. 

But. The Italian place.  

That fancy restaurant was just as wrecked inside. And the kitchen was dusty, decaying, its metal furnishings smothered by muck.  

But the kitchen was full of cans. 

It brought a smile to your mouth, finding cans of pasta, and soup, and vegetables in fancy sauces inside a fancy Italian restaurant. But you were five thousand miles from Italy, in a little rural town – so it made you smile, but you weren’t surprised at the inauthenticity. 

And you’d won, you’d found ravioli, the world had brought the opportunity right to your hands, as usual. 

Then you’d hit the stores. 

And those were empty of important things too. The clothing still hung around, ragged and forgotten. And the children’s toys, the household decor, the meaningless crap still laid in blankets of dust on buckling shelves. 

But the books, the toilet paper, the shampoos, the toothpaste. 

All gone. 

In the hardware store; the tools, the nails, the planks of wood. 

All gone. 

In the pharmacy; the medication, the bandages, the antiseptic creams, the important stuff. 

All gone. 

Either this town had been cleared of people and supplies in the early days. 

Or, someone was here. Someone who really hated Italian food.  

You hadn’t mused for long. First, you’d trailed over to Ellie’s side of the street, sticking your head into shattered windows until you’d found her. You’d told her you were checking out a building in the trees to the south-east.  

“Why?” 

“It’s a surprise.” 

“You know I don’t like your surprises.” 

“Well, that’s why I’m checking it out first. It’s nothing to worry about.” 

Yet – was the part you hadn’t added. 

Then you’d left the street with the carnival and the colors, the light rain shrouding your cheeks in a loving mist. 

You’d checked out a line of houses, eight to be exact. 

And they’d held books, and toilet paper, and toothpaste, and cans of food, and photo albums, and cell phones, and meds. 

Things people would bring with them, even during a sudden evacuation order. 

And you’d narrowed your eyes. You’d finally left to scout the hiding building you’d spotted. 

Because someone was here. 

Someone who shared Ellie’s discomfort of routing through dead people’s belongings. Someone who didn’t share her fondness for ravioli. 

Now your boots crunched on twigs and pebbles and dirt. You’d found the path at the end of a cul-de-sac, marked by a battered wooden post. There was a little sign nailed to the wood, adorned with words and an arrow pointing up. 

Elkwood Library 

It seemed fitting, that the building was a library. 

The someone seemed to like books – one of the reasons you weren’t too concerned by their presence. The other being the undisturbed homes. 

Sickness didn’t greed for art. Sickness didn’t respect boundaries, or the somber sacredness of death. 

The trees around you were alive, not dark and clawed like the statues in the park. Their leaves were soft and fluttering, their bark chocolate brown and lined like a face full of age. They hovered over the path you walked, blocked the gentle rain. 

You softened your footsteps as the path curved to the right ahead, your eyes trailing every little movement they caught. No people, yet, the trees were just alive in the wind. And little bugs flittered around, moving from trunk to branch to grass, buzzing spots of tremulous murk too small to see clearly. 

You stopped behind one of those trunks, peeked around the corner. The path stayed dirt for a while, until it cut off abruptly and turned to ashy concrete. A wide lot that had once held vehicles, but was barren now.  

You heard it then, the groans. The sputtering, wet agony that marked the presence of that iller kind of sickness. The smell came next. 

Infected were in the library. Not the someone. 

You were careful not to let your boots scuff as you approached the end of the path, where the trees ended too – and with them, your cover. 

It had been so long it almost jarred you to see them. 

The figures ambling around behind the wire fence in the distance, jerking and stumbling. Their faces starting to crack apart with fungus, their skin starting to boil with age. Walking around in aimless circles, clothing torn and stained with dark blood. 

You imagined what they’d been thinking as they’d picked their outfits out that final day. Something useless and soaked in false hope, probably. 

Because the library wasn’t a library anymore. 

Of course, it hadn’t been a library for many long, aching years. But there was a faded sign hanging on the fence. A sign that made your chest tighten as you read it. 

“Hope is the thing with feathers  

That perches in the soul 

And sings the tune without the words 

And never stops at all.” 

Safe haven. All welcome. Find refuge. 

There were giant vans towards the back, near the entrance to the brick building. You knew what they held – they were medic vans. And there were giant tents you were sure had once been blue, perched about the concrete. But they were dark and browned now, like most things, and they were ripped, and they were ruined. 

The library was turned a refuge.  

And the refuge was full of infected. 

No need for solemn graves or gloomy headstones. The death walked around the place in clear view beneath the murky sky, still sobbing in anguish, still choking on their premature ends. 

But it was nothing you hadn’t seen before – refuges like this one were as common as windows. As much a reminder as jagged, broken glass. 

Nature’s reminder. Nature’s revenge. Turning the humans into plant as consuming as they had been. Sometimes you wondered if it was the sick already inside them warped and twisted and sprouting into fungus. 

Nature had turned our greed against us. 

Your eyes roved back and forth. There was something wrong with the fence on the furthest side of the building. 

The fence was chain-link, with posts breaking its sleek sheeting every five feet or so. But in the space where one of those chain-link sheets should be, you were met with the rough sight of festering, rotten wood. 

The planks from the empty shelves of the hardware store. 

You wondered how the someone had managed to patch it up without riling the hoard. And why? 

You supposed if they were making this hollow place a home, caging the storms of snapping teeth in one place would be a good idea. 

Though, if it were you, you’d follow it up with a pretty, little bomb. Just to be safe. 

Unless the someone wasn’t making the town a home. It was their home. And the people in the library turned refuge were their neighbors. 

Your teeth grazed your lip. 

You should leave the town soon. Because you were familiar with two reactions that came with encroaching upon sacred territory.  

The ones who didn’t mind. And the ones who did. 

And really, this could go either way. 

The someone was solitary, clever, resourceful, took care in perfecting their little slice of the world. You found that kind of aloofness, that kind of effort, was often paired with fierce paranoia. And paranoia was one of the deadliest kinds of fear. 

But the someone was also sensitive. They hadn’t reaped their neighbors, despite them being nothing more than walking corpses – wearing the mangled and perverse faces of things that used to be. The someone didn’t route through houses, as though they thought them shrines. And the someone was an aesthete. They collected books. They valued the words of their late peers. They valued art. And art was a tool of connection, a precious insight into the very heart of existence and perseverance, one of the most intimate kinds of love. 

So, this could go either way. And you didn’t like taking risks, but you needed to change, so you should leave the town soon. 

Now. 

Just as you turned to leave, your eyes caught something plastered to the side of the brick building. Something big, and flashy. A poster – an utterly irresistible one at that. 

You sighed.  

The truck could wait thirty minutes. 

Because life had done it again. And you had so won. 

You had no doubt that, despite her words, Ellie would like this surprise. 

--  

The library, turned refuge, turned tomb, stared down at you like it was waiting. 

For what, exactly, you couldn’t decipher.  

You supposed it could be mourning. It could be angered. Or, it could be hopeful. 

Because you were staring up at it like it was a library. Like it was full of knowledge, and art. Like despite its decay and the howling things it held, it knew you were entering to run your fingers along blossoms of words, find the one that sparked joy. It knew someone was going to read it, going to value it, it knew you found it important enough to brave certain death. 

Because art was a tool of connection, it was an intimate kind of love, and that was exactly what you were thinking about as your eyes roved over its battered back. Its chipped bricks, its aching roof. Its shattered windows. 

You pulled your mask from your bag, slotted it over your face. The place had fallen in the early days, which left more than enough years for spores to form. 

The fence had been plastered flat to the wall of the library's back, shielding the windows of the ground floor. But the ones a little higher, they were clear. So, you wrapped your fingers around wire, careful not to rattle the fence, and you climbed slowly and silently. 

Eventually you found yourself standing on the top rail, your stomach flush to the brick as you balanced, your mask scraping its rough surface. Your fingers met the lip of the windowsill above, and you felt flat shards of glass beneath them. The window had been smashed from the inside, perhaps in a bid for escape. 

That was the other reason so many were shattered these days. Humans crawling out of the glass they’d created to divide, seeking the ancient safety of the trees to hide away in. Reduced to animals, once again. Reduced to the hunted, the prey. 

You swiped the glass to each side gently, cleared the middle so you could get a good grip. Your next movements were smooth, strenuous but necessary, as you pulled yourself up until your chest was pressed against your knuckles. You used your feet to propel yourself further up the weathered brick, inching your hands forward one by one until your palms were flat against the wood. 

You leaned forward, angling your head and shoulders into the broken window as your feet continued their crawl, eventually heaving one knee beside your hands. You grimaced, barely able to breathe through the tautness of your muscles. 

The library was dim inside, due to the lack of light breaking through the clouds. The second level wasn’t a floor, but an interior balcony, and you couldn’t see much. There were two shelves perched beside the window, like a little hallway leading to the railing ahead. 

And spores, yes. The little floaty things, ugly as ashes, coiling around open air and waiting to bring your lungs to ruin. Crueler than red berries, or poison ivy. You had to admire nature’s tricks. Had to admire its relentless retaliation. 

Nature was a betrayed thing, like you.   

You moved one of your hands to the inner sill of the window and crawled in, careful not to cut yourself on the spiked glass still stuck in the frame. You could hear the footsteps of infected below, staggered and unsure. Low growls made the hair on your arms stand, the sporadic bursts of screams sending your heart hurling. And the clicking. The echoic, chittering clicks that sounded like snapping bones, those made your stomach curl. 

You didn’t like infected. 

Obviously, you’d be hard pressed to find someone who did, but you weren’t a coward. You weren’t controlled by the little voice in your head, as old as the earth itself, that whispered fearful warnings of violent ends, injury, death. 

Actually, you’d ignored that little voice for so long it had been replaced by different whispers.  

You didn’t like infected because of their growling and their sobs, their empty eyes and their bleeding. Their jagged teeth, their stench of decay, their relentless hunger. 

An infected could chase you for miles and never tire. One caress of their teeth and you were done for.  

Maybe that was the part you didn’t like. 

Because though you didn’t have a strong grip on who you were, had been, ever would be – you knew your morals. You knew your truths.  

The thought of being stolen, your body changed but still holding your features – you didn’t like it. The thought of rotting on two feet, the thought of being invaded by the by beast of gluttony. You’d rather chew lead. 

You shallowed your breathing, though it still came out in a hushed hiss through your mask, and slithered through the tenebrous air like you belonged. The shelves beside you didn’t hold what you were searching for, because they held books – their pages beige with age. 

You reached the end of your little wooden hallway, eyes scathing the scene ahead through the film of your mask. The library beyond was huge. The balcony wrapped around three walls, lined with cases and books, dust and rot. The signs above them were decrepit, you were barely able to make out the words. But you were sure none of them had the letters you needed. 

The floor below the railing of the balcony was a living picture of war. 

And the library had lost. 

A few shelves were knocked over, books lay wounded all over the floor, spitting paper that had long crumbled to dust. The other shelves were still upright, lined and organized like a troop, spanning the whole length of the floors. Apart from a large space in the very middle, taken over by sleeping-bags, blankets, empty water bottles and dented cans. And blood. It didn’t look like blood anymore, but you knew blood, knew how it blackened. And it was still shaped like blood, great patches and splatters and pools of it. 

The victors walked their battlefield – though really, the infected stood as both winners and losers. What they truly were, were losers so thoroughly bested that the triumphant side had even conquered their bodies, and paraded them around like gore-smattered trophies. 

It wasn’t an exact science, the thing that dictated when runners morphed to stalkers, stalkers to clickers, clickers to whatever the fuck that thing bumbling around down there like a ballooned ball of goo was. 

Time was a factor, obviously. But there was something else. 

The rough, blooming wreaths of fungus weeding its way across the walls was proof. There were a few outlines of mangled corpses within the bubbled, veiny mess – hosts who’d died, the virus choosing to use the last of its resources to sporulate.  

That was the question wracking your mind as the runners-slash-stalkers, clickers, and the big guy swayed on the floor below. 

Why did some die, some change, and some stay the same? 

The answer could be some winding, twisting fragment of the virus’s DNA.  

But your answer was the winding, twisting fragments of the human DNA, long forgotten within the claws and tendrils of cordyceps – the small fight the people still put up against the relentless rage of nature. 

You thought, maybe, those invaded people were a factor in the evolution. That maybe, the runners were still runners because they were still running. Still trying to fight against the infection, still trying to cling to their bodies, refusing to be changed further by the beast that had stolen them. 

Maybe the dead ones on the walls had given up.  

Maybe the stalkers were hiding, from themselves and the things they used to be. Would rather sneak up on you than make you face the thing they were going to make you into. The thing they’d faced. 

And maybe the clickers had given in. Let the beast have them, let it use their bodies, let it blind their eyes so they didn’t have to watch the world go by without them anymore. 

And the big guy, the bloater, as Ellie called them... 

You didn’t run into many in Wyoming; you’d find the more common strains on patrols. But she’d told you her stories of when she’d battled them in basements with Joel. You’d shared yours, though you didn’t have many. You’d both ended with the same conclusion – they were brutal. 

So the bloaters, you thought, were angry. They wrapped themselves in a hardened shell, and equipped themselves with bombs of toxin, and they raged. They rampaged, they roared, and they ruined. 

You couldn’t decide what you’d morph into. Nothing was the obvious answer, you’d sooner brace a bullet in your skull than turn. But in theory – a runner or a bloater. Those were your options. 

Running or raging.  

By the time your mind had finished its spiraling, your eyes had finished their examination. The comic section was at the back, hidden below the floor you were standing on. 

Your helpful eyes had found a sign in better condition, hanging on the wall next to the open entrance doors, above the messy desk at the front. Your helpful eyes had also found the stairs no infected had bothered climbing, attached to the wall to your right. 

It was simple. Use a trick from Ellie’s stories, one she’d shown you on patrols. Throw a book, distract the lurkers, find the comic, run back upstairs, fly out the window. 

Simple, yes – but weak too. Though, so were most of your plans. 

Could you really call them plans?  

It was one of the parts of you more like a bloater. The part that charged into danger without a thought, just a bag of weaponry and an aim. 

You reached behind you, inched the zipper of your backpack up, so slowly, until a space large enough for your hand to fit through was open. 

Your fingers reached to the shelves for a book, a heavy one, a hardback, before the bloater in your head spoke up again and you paused. 

A fire would be better. 

You reached back into your bag, fingers fumbling awkwardly for the smooth bottle within. You found it, pulled it out. It was small, only half-full, but it’d work. You reached back in to find a scrap of fabric. 

Ellie liked to make sure you each had a bottle for moments like these. 

For Molotov's. Not for drinking. She’d chide. 

You wondered how many of her tricks had been learned from her father. And how many of your own had been learned from yours. 

As you opened the bottle, you wished you could drink some of the liquor within. You cursed the stupid mask on your face, stuffing the rag in its neck instead, let the liquid soak the bottom.  

Then you paused. And you breathed. And you went over your plan, that was more like an aim, again. And you steadied yourself. 

Your hand found your lighter. The lighter found its flame. The flame found the rag. 

Questions swirled your mind as the rag glowed atop the bottle in your palm, sending smoke into the already devastated air. You wondered if the fire would spread through the library full of dried pages. You wondered if the someone would be enraged or relieved if it did. You wondered if the library would be. You wondered if the souls trapped in the cages of fungus and bone would be. Enraged or relieved? 

An annihilation or a mercy? 

You weren’t used to questioning.  

You ducked behind the rail, aimed for the desk way in the distant front, and let the bottle fly. It landed with a crash and a beautiful, flaring bang of warmth and eagerness. The flame waved at you. 

You crawled your way to the stairs. 

And there was one question that didn’t skitter its way across your mind, even as the fire hissed and spat and crawled over the desk. Even as the infected roared to life, their feet thudding into the floor as they made for the light.  

Was all of this worth it? 

You made it down the stairs swiftly, watching as the infected from outside poured in, drawn by the noise. They circled the burning like cultists, at least sixty of them, some catching alight as they tried to grab the flames. 

You disappeared into the rows of shelves, keeping an eye out for bent limbs beckoning from behind their wooden frames. It was darker down here, beneath the balcony’s floor, marred by dust and cobwebs. The smell of ancient death clawed its way into your mask. 

You tread carefully over scattered books, keeping low as you made your way to the shelves against the back wall. 

You found them then, the wood filled with thinner books, their covers bright despite their age. You palmed your knife in one hand and the issue you were here for in the other. Satisfaction warmed your chest as you bent low to stuff the thing into your backpack, the screams of the infected you’d bested fading into the black. Then you stood, slotted your bag onto your shoulders, turned to begin your trek back to the stairs.  

You were halfway there when your boot hit something hard. You froze. 

The someone was smart. They’d used a portable CD player to lure the infected inside while they’d worked on the fence. How had they turned it off? 

No, they hadn’t turned it off. They were probably going to wait for the battery to die. But the battery hadn’t died. The frenzying infected must’ve knocked it off the shelf, jostling the insides just enough for it to shut up.  

Until your foot had jostled it right back to life. 

The thing was old, the music within long forgotten. 

The thing was old, and it was angry. It was screaming. 

The ancient player spewed sound into the air, grating screeches like the ones the truck had made when you’d took your knife to it. It stuttered, like it was pausing to breath. Then it went right back to roaring, it barked like a guard dog faced with an intruder. 

Your foot flew forward again on instinct, kicking the thing away from you. Right to the base of the stairs. 

You cursed, diving sideways – away from the noise and away from the stairs. 

The infected jostled back to life right alongside the player, their mouths matching its raucous screams, their feet finding the wrecked floor once again. You crept through the maze of books, staying away from the open space in the middle, hoping none would take the same paths towards the noise as you were taking away from it. 

If you made it to the doors, you could climb the fence or the vans. So that became your new aim, your body carving mindless turns and your eyes on the floor to prevent any further mishaps. But the library was swallowing you whole, the screeches within so loud you couldn’t tell where they were coming from.  

Enraged then. The library was enraged – because reminders had to stick around to be able to remind, and your fire was rippling up the wall in the distance. Your fire was blocking the entrance doors, it was crawling around the carpet like you were. Your fire was swallowing the library and the library was swallowing you right back. 

But you weren’t going to die. A thing like you could never die like this, with smoke billowing before the film of her mask, and screaming surrounding her, and growling too, and heat seeping through the paths of the shelves so fiercely you were sweating beneath your clothes. 

Even as your mind collapsed in on itself and your body shrank with it, and your heart throbbed and your limbs weakened, you knew. You weren’t going to die here, because if the library couldn’t stand tall as a reminder, then it was going to make one out of you. 

The fire was laughing. 

Oh, hello again, it said. Remember me? 

Your mind answered in pops and bangs, the sound of bullet casings tinkling to the floor. 

Something bony thwacked against your mask, made your head buzz as the hit sank into your skull. You staggered back, gaze catching the screaming thing lurching for you again, and you plunged your knife into the side of its head. It squelched as you tore your blade free, splattering dark red onto sheet of polycarbonate over your eyes, the translucent barrier you’d covered your face with to hide from nature once again. 

But nature had found you, as you plowed forward and came face to face with the fire that blocked the door, your eyes searching for a new escape and instead meeting the empty ones of the stolen. 

YOU DID THIS  

Your body jolted back, the heat of the fire slathering your spine. They were coming, charging back to the front of the library, charging back for you. 

a reckoning – a wrecker and a ruiner. they’re going to eat you alive, consume, cage your soul in a battle of sickness and greed and revenge 

Your gaze locked onto the row of shelves ahead. You broke into a sprint. 

will it make a difference when they do? will it even matter? 

You used the momentum to slam a boot into the first bookcase. It shuddered, books flying free as it toppled over and crashed into the one behind it. You braced your feet on the shelves, climbing the cases as they fell, crooked fingers tearing at your heels and heat tearing at your skin. The cases fell like heavy dominos before thudding against the back wall, the blow reverberating beneath you, and you didn’t need to look back to know the things were chasing – they were howling, they were clawing at the wood.  

The balcony rose above and your legs tensed up before you flew, fingers grappling for the railing.  

you can run all you want 

You heaved yourself up and over, gaze locked on the smoke flowing through the window ahead. You swapped your knife for your gun as you fled forward, jumped onto the windowsill and turned at the mouth of your escape. 

you can run and run and run 

Gnarled fingers curled around the railing, barely visible through the smoke. The world behind glowed like an amber eye, unyielding and resolute. Then infected rose at the end of the bookcases, a clicker with its blindness and the bloater with its rage.  

Loud, a bomb would be loud. 

But you were used to being loud, and you weren’t going to hide from the person in this town. Because life wouldn’t let you, the bloater was amping up to charge and it’d follow you right out this window, and you didn’t have another bottle, or enough bullets. The someone would either be enraged or relieved, and you could stomach either one because you weren’t one to hide. So you shoved your hand into your bag, pushed past the comic, found one of the dwindling, jagged mounds at the bottom. 

You slotted your gun into her holster, tore the pin free, threw your bomb at the bloater's feet just as it sent one of its own for your face. 

Your body launched itself from the windowsill, calves ripping on glass. And then you were falling – you weren’t sure if it counted as falling since you were the one who jumped, but the air rushing past your mask and the ground rushing for your body didn’t seem to care. You were falling, until you landed, your feet hitting the ground first and sending achy lightning through your bones. You bounced onto your side next, but couldn’t feel the impact past the resounding, ground-shaking boom that tore through your body. 

You pulled your hands over your head, curling into yourself as the library spat chunks of brick and wood down at you. It pattered over your back brutishly, made pockmarks in the dirt you were laying in. 

After your senses came back, you felt the shockwaves from your fall shuddering up your legs, and the tingling burn on your flesh from the bloaters final fuck you that had landed when you had. The sickly green mess was lost in the dirt, dust, and smoke clouding the air. 

You rolled over, pulling the mask from your face and blinking up at the dying building. The top floor had collapsed in, little flames poking their heads out from the remains, and a plume of inky smoke rose into the shrouded sky. Your burning and its water fought their own battle as the rain picked up.  

You stood, wiping a hand over your stinging eyes. You pulled your bag off, shoved the mask in, and turned to the trees. 

-- 

You made it to the end of the dirt path before you realized you needed to lie down. 

Your ears were still ringing, your head swaying, and your back hurt. 

is it all worth it? 

You stopped in the middle of the cul-de-sac, stooped to the ground, pressed your back into it. The rain hit your face, spattering against your skin and soothing the aches.  

You weren’t sure what had happened in the library, turned refuge, turned tomb, turned ruins.   

A reminder, a reminder, a reminder. 

Of what? 

You went in there to find a gift for Ellie and left reeking of smoke, being jerked around by the crackling of fire and the growls of death and the pops of bullets. The screams in your memory blurred together, writhed behind your forehead until your temples throbbed and you wanted to let out a scream of your own. 

The raindrops tapped on your cheeks like the world was taunting you. They rolled into your hair, into your mouth, into the hollows of your neck. The sky was aching a darker grey now, blotchy and bleak. You couldn’t tell if it was smoke or storm. Your eyelids fluttered against the downpour, collecting drops in their lashes like tears. 

What did it all mean? 

Your body hummed as the adrenaline faded out. You felt weightless. It didn’t matter; everything had worked out. You’d find Ellie, find the truck, find the end of the town, hopefully, without interference.  

you're relentless 

You splayed your arms out, let the rain patter over your throbbing bones. 

“Y/n.” Her voice was loud, full of some kind of deepness you didn’t care to decipher. 

You twisted your head, found Ellie jogging up the street toward you. She’d changed her shirt. She now adorned a ratty graphic tee, and a loose olive-green over-shirt, its sleeves rolled to her elbows. Thrown together carelessly, but it looked good on her. 

Maybe you should find some new clothes too. Yours were in shambles, and they smelled. And the world was growing colder. 

Ellie hovered over you; her face taut. 

“Jesus, I thought you were dead.” 

You narrowed your eyes. 

“What? You saw me sprawled here cartoonishly on the concrete and thought I’d been struck down by God, or something?” 

She scoffed in offence, her eyes trailing up and down your body. 

“Well, why the fuck are you sprawled on the concrete?” 

“I’m enjoying the rain.” 

She stared at you pointedly. 

“Oh, did this need a warning? Should I be holding up a sign that says ‘not dead, just batshit’?” You mocked, wiping a hand over your damp forehead. 

“I heard an explosion.” Ellie said sternly, arching an accusing brow. 

You clambered to your feet, dusting off your shirt. 

“There were infected in the library.” You said. 

Ellie froze before closing her eyes. 

“Tell me you didn’t-” 

“I had to.” 

Her eyes found you again. She splayed her arms wide, shaking her head. 

You bent to your backpack, the zipper cutting through the silence. 

Her face changed as you pulled out your findings, the resignation shifting. Her mouth popped open, her eyes lighting up as they roved over the thing in your hand. 

“You’re fucking kidding.” She laughed, quietly. 

“Worth it, right?” You handed her the comic. 

She took it, head swaying. 

“If you died it would’ve been pretty fucked up.” Ellie twisted her head, a brow arching – the expression teasing now. 

“You’ve been looking for that issue for two years, it was worth it.” You nodded, confirming your own question. Because she was smiling now, as she looked at you. She was smiling in the way that made your stomach warm. 

Ellie pressed her tongue into her cheek, her fingers drifting over the cover admiringly. 

“Okay...” She breathed. “You might be my favorite person again. I’m starting to remember why I like you so much.” 

You hummed through your own smile, her jab bringing calmer memories to your mind. 

The last time the seasons were edging toward their end, when you were just getting to know the girl beside you and she was just getting to know you. One patrol she’d traded her book for a comic, gaze entangled in it as you sat across from her on a fallen log. 

You’d half-felt like you were in a dream. Watching the wild oat grass sway in the breeze, the wilting trees that cradled. The towering things in the distance you weren’t sure were cliffs or hills, and the mirage of indomitable mountains behind them putting them to shame. The blue skies, the endless clouds. You’d never seen anything like it. Never been anywhere so open, so gentle, so effortlessly alive.  

You’d felt like you were something living then, something that could dream. Discovering parts of yourself you thought were long gone – parts you weren’t sure had ever even existed – in that little town that shouldn’t exist, but did anyway. 

Your eyes had kept drifting towards Ellie, reading as always, unable to quell the suspicion that she brought those books and comics on patrols so she’d have an excuse as to why she didn’t talk. She didn’t need an excuse – you were a stranger. And you felt like a stranger. But she was strange too. 

She didn’t seem the same as the others in the town. So, you’d asked what she was reading. And her eyes had flicked up to meet you, and you’d felt like you were on the precipice of something unspeakable and incomprehensible. Something new. Something important. 

Ellie answered your question, her demeanor as cool as the breeze but not as flowing. Then you’d told her about your own collection of brightly illustrated stories, and she’d softened a little. 

And everything had just felt so easy, so different. It was nice to pretend for a while that you were a person who lived, and not a thing who killed. 

It was funny, looking at her now as she flicked through the comic – looking at her now that you knew her. And she was just as incomprehensible, just as important as you’d predicted. You almost felt sick at the weight of it. 

You wondered if Ellie was thinking about that moment too. Her smile was too tender to be one of joy or excitement, even though her eyes were on the pages. She closed the comic, wiped a wrist over its cover, smearing the raindrops that had dampened its surface. 

“Time to bounce?” She asked, stooping to slot the comic into her bag. 

“The houses have some good shit in them, we should hit a couple before we leave.” You said. “Wanna eat first?” 

Ellie nodded as she stood. 

“What’s on the menu?” 

You raised your brows, a coy smile spreading your lips. 

Ellie huffed, her eyes narrowing. 

“You asshole. You found ravioli, didn’t you?” 

You tilted your head. 

“I win.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” She waved a hand, turning to walk down the street. “That’s just what I wanted you to think.” 

“Sore loser?” You followed after her, wiping raindrops from your cheek. It was a pointless action, more were sure to follow, but they tickled. 

“I got a brand-new comic to shut you out with, and my favorite canned delicacy. And you’re the schmuk who went traversing through ghoulish cannibals for them, I didn’t even have to lift a finger.” 

You tutted, bumping her with a shoulder. 

“A sore loser, and ungrateful. Aren’t you a joy?” 

Ellie bit into her smile, eyes roving the town ahead thoughtfully. 

Maybe you should fix up a town. Though there were bigger buildings, easier to fortify – maybe you could find an emptier state and settle down after your trip to the observatory.  

Or maybe you shouldn’t make plans. You were a thing that settled for a simple aim for a reason, this world had a habit of tearing up plans and stomping them into the dirt. And you didn’t like staying in one place for too long, anyway. 

Ellie reached up and put a hand on your head playfully, urged your face to turn to her. 

“I am grateful, thank you. But you’re a fucking idiot.” She said, leaning in. 

You batted her hand away. 

“I’m not, actually.”  

She sighed, quirking her head. 

“Okay fine, you’re super smart but totally batshit.” 

“You know what they say...” You grinned. “There’s no great genius without a touch of madness.” 

Ellie scoffed, gaze scanning the houses around. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She said, walking onto the cracked sidewalk. “Why’d you come all the way out here, anyway?” 

She pushed open the little white gate and walked into the overgrown yard. A concrete path peeked out from beneath the thick brush, leading to a ruby-red door – though its paint was peeling sorrowfully.  

“There’s someone here. The library was pretty detached, I wanted to scope it out.” You said, following her up the path.  

“Wait, what?” Ellie stopped walking, turned to you. 

“Well, I don’t know if they’re still here, but-” 

“You knew there might be someone in town and didn’t think to let me know?” She cut in. “What if the fucker blindsided me?” 

Your flesh went cold. 

You stuttered, before finally landing on a reason. Though it felt like an excuse; it sounded empty and cracked. But it was your reason. 

“I was focused on figuring it out. I was distracted.” You shook your head, nausea swirling. “I’m sorry, I-” 

“Relax.” Ellie held a palm up. “I’m just saying, intel is intel, share it with the class next time.” 

You paused at her impassive reaction. 

Her eyes narrowed. 

“You really think I’d let some fucker blindside me? I’m glad you realized I can handle myself.” 

You stared at her for a moment. Ellie could take care of herself, yes, you’d realized. But... you were also starting to realize that her incessant need to prove herself drove her into worryingly dangerous situations. 

Like following an aggressive, homeless derelict into an aggressive, home-less, derelict city and beyond, for example. 

“I’m- I’ll clue you in next time.” You shook your head. “I just wasn’t sure, and when I was, they didn’t seem like much of a threat.” 

Ellie nodded, turning back to the house. She trudged through the weeds, the grass swaying around her calves, and wiped a hand over an unmarred spot on the cracked window before peering in. Satisfied with her brief check, she made for the front door. 

“Explain.” She ordered. 

And you did, talking her through your findings as you began combing through the house, collecting supplies and trying not to look too hard at pictures or tiny shoes or ominous, long-dried blood spatters.  

-- 

The someone was staring to get on your nerves. Alive or dead, their choices had really fucked you over. Couldn’t they have just let the infected roam the streets like a normal struggling survivor? How nature intended? Did they have to be such a perfectionist, such an idealist?  

You’d stuffed your bags with goods from the houses, and on your way back to the truck you’d stumbled across the town hall. It was a big white building – adorned with pillars and other posh crap. You’d just wanted to see if the inside was more interesting. And it was, you supposed. You were halfway up the grand staircase when infected had come flooding into the foyer. You were cornered, no ammo, had no choice but to run. And you’d made it – though, not without a scare.  

But it was fine. You’d sunk a knife into the face of the thing grappling Ellie, sent it toppling down the stairs. 

The someone would definitely morph into a stalker. So desperate to carve their little slice of life back into some semblance of normality, hiding the infected away in buildings while they sat and read their books and ate nasty non-fancy cans of food. And they seemed to be hiding from you too, hadn’t come running at the sound of your explosion as Ellie had. 

You tapped your fingers on your thigh, blinking through the dark of the little closet you’d stuffed yourselves into. Yeah, you were hiding too, but it wasn’t a choice; it was a necessity. You could hear the infected stumbling around the little office the closet belonged too, yelping and snarling. 

Stuck, for the moment. 

A quiet shuffling muffled the growls, and then a flashlight clicked on. Ellie pointed it to the wall, away from the door. The closet wasn’t much of a closet; it was small, empty – aside from you. Just four blank walls, a carpet, and a shoddy door. The jarring white circle of light against one of those empty walls, and a couple of cans on the floor that Ellie had laid out. 

The infected had lost their lunch, but you hadn’t. 

She shoved one toward you with a foot. You smiled up at her once you’d read the label. She shrugged, sending you a small smile back, but her face wasn’t all hers – there was a roughness to her features. Like the close-call with the infected had shaken her, though she should be well used to them by now. 

You peeled open the can of fruit salad carefully, sipped the juice within. It was tart, but didn’t taste rotten. Ellie followed suit, and you both scarfed down your lunch in silence. 

Then it was back to waiting. Once the room beyond your closet grew silent like you, maybe you could slip out a window.  

Ellie’s eyes were on the carpet, her fingers fiddling with a loose thread hanging from a rip in her jeans. The rest of her body was still. 

The close-call had gotten to you too, the sharp memory of those teeth so close to her neck still rang through your mind – but you weren’t one to dwell, and you thought she wasn’t either.  

Her fingers moved, trailing up her arm and rubbing mindlessly at her tattoo. She’d gotten it to cover a scar, she’d said. Scars were stories, they were trophies, you couldn’t understand why someone would want to cover one up – but you couldn’t deny, the artwork curled around her forearm was beautiful too. 

Ferns – ancient, enduring, represent protection and new life. Associated with healing and good luck. They reproduce using spores which, like their sinister fungal kin, are dangerous to inhale. But the plants are edible, and some types of ferns can be used topically to treat wounds, among other benefits when consumed.  

And moths – vapid little creatures but determined nonetheless. A symbol of transformation. Ugly to most, but most weren’t looking hard enough. 

You wondered what they meant to her. You wanted to ask, but the look in her eyes was far too haunted, stole the words right from your mind. 

Instead, you leaned forward, pushed your hands in front of the flashlight splayed on the floor. You pressed your palms together, snapped your pinkies up and down. Your dog barked silently on the wall. 

Ellie’s eyes shot to it, narrowing slightly. 

You twisted your hands, contorting your fingers awkwardly until the shadow looked like a rabbit. 

She rested her face on a hand, a smile tugging at her lips. It looked more genuine this time. 

Your next move was a little more complicated, took you a few tweaks to master. Ellie’s brows pinched together. 

“Witch.” You whispered. 

Her shoulders twitched with laughter as she scrubbed her hand over her eyes. 

“Those are terrible.” She whispered back. 

You scoffed quietly, dropping your hands. 

“My fingers are magic, you know this.” You smirked, leaning back.  

Ellie threw you a twisted look. She sat with her back pressed into the wall, her legs bent at the knees in front of her, parted slightly. The picture of relaxation now, despite the muffled growls still emanating from behind the door. But it seemed your distraction had worked. 

“Stop pretending you’re so above dirty jokes.” You chided, rolling your eyes. 

She flattened her face as she glared at you, though you could see her mouth resisting the tug of a smile. 

“I am.” 

You crawled forward, standing on your knees before her. You rested your hands on her knees, dragged them down the insides of her parted thighs. You paused at the bottom to squeeze the plushy flesh, your nails grazing denim. Ellie stared up at you, that beguiling smile finally breaking onto her face. 

“Cause you’re just so innocent, right?” You taunted in a breathy whisper. 

“Cause I’m not a nympho like you.” Her lowered voice rumbled. 

You narrowed your eyes, repeating your movements to caress her thighs languidly. She didn’t break your heated stare – it seemed her little bout of flustering had subsided already. You sighed despondently, a smirk following soon after as something warm and tingling rose in your stomach at the challenge in her gaze. 

“So, you don’t want to hear me talk about how I’ve been thinking of you eating my pussy all day?” You whispered, thumbs massaging the crevice of her thighs.  

Ellie still didn’t balk from your eyes, though hers flickered slightly. Her tongue slid out to wet her lips as she shook her head softly. You leaned close into her face, dropping your gaze to her mouth. 

“How pretty you look between my legs? Or how pretty you are between yours?” You stroked a thumb firmly up her clothed cunt as you murmured the words. 

Her breath hitched subtly, and your smirk stretched into a small grin. You left your thumb there, caressing lighter swipes up and down the seam of her jeans, as you brushed your face past hers. You let your nose trail down to Ellie’s jaw, pressed a kiss to the hollow beneath before you hummed against her skin in question. 

“You’re an asshole.” Her tight voice made the flesh under your lips buzz. 

You pulled away from her, dragged both your hands up her thighs. 

“You don’t want to, fine.”  

Your words weren’t bitter – if she wasn’t in the mood, she wasn’t in the mood. 

But you could see her face again. You could see the lust in her eyes, the flush of her cheeks warm despite the cool illuminance of the flashlight. Ellie watched you for a moment before her hands flew up and caged your face. She pulled your lips down to hers, kissed you roughly.  

She opened up and the wet of your mouths met, hot and smooth. The hunger in her touch made your clit pulse and you pressed closer, stumbling slightly as you moved a knee between hers. She straightened her leg against the floor so you could comfortably straddle her thigh. 

Ellie’s hands moved to your sides, fingers rumpling your shirt as she slid her palms up and down the skin of your waist. Her chin bumped yours, her lips clamping down to suck on your bottom one as your hands skimmed up her shoulders, cradling the neck that arched up to meet you. 

Her pulse thrummed beneath your fingers, the dark closet fading away as the heat and corporeal silk of her skin encompassed you. All yours, your tongue sliding between her lips and caressing hers, your breaths mingling, your chests flush and humming.  

Chittering growls seeped into your perfect moment, pulled a question to your mind.  

What would Ellie morph into? 

Her hands tightened on your flesh, lips swirling together before her tongue stroked your top lip. You pushed into her, her head anchored against the wall, sucked your lips around her tongue. Your mouths met again; your fingers tangled in her hair. 

No, the girl beneath you couldn’t be stolen, her lithe body, her finding fingers, her soft lips. You couldn’t imagine her ever being anything but that – anything but her. The heart you could almost feel through her clothes, the clever eyes, the playful smirk. A thing so alive could never die. 

You rolled your hips onto Ellie’s thigh, sighing at the feel of it against your pussy. Her hands slid up your back, fisting in your shirt like she wanted to pull it off. 

The growls grew louder, bounced against the wood of the door. 

Ellie turned her face, her lips dragging against yours. Her breathing was ragged as her gaze roved over the only thing between you and the things, hesitantly. 

You placed a kiss on her cheek, brought your mouth back to her ear. 

“We just have to be quiet.” You murmured, the vitality of her cushioning your worries. “First one to moan loses.” 

Her head leaned into yours as you slathered kisses beneath her jaw. 

“First one to moan attracts a pack of infected that’ll rip us apart.” She mumbled, her voice caught between annoyance and arousal. 

You smiled. The infected didn’t stand a chance. And neither did she. 

“Chance to redeem yourself. Scared you’ll lose?”  

Fingers tangled in your hair, brought your face back to hers. Her other hand roamed up your torso, cupped your tit and squeezed. 

“You’re funny.” Ellie breathed sanguinely, then her lips were on yours again. 

Your hand dropped to her jeans, tugged them open, slipped inside. You smoothed your fingers past the mound of her pubes, down into the folds of her pussy. Her breath trembled at the contact of your cool fingers, her hand lowering instinctively to mirror your movements. 

The first swipe of her fingers against you was reverential, sweeping down to collect your wetness before moving up to the flesh above your clit. The pressure of her fingertips stayed there, her wrist tugging against the fabric of your pants as she dragged her hand back and forth teasingly. You sucked in a breath at the way it made your insides tingle, sliding your own fingers over the silky plumpness of her labia.  

Ellie’s fingers moved lower then, stroking your clit as her other hand moved to your jaw. You sighed against her mouth, had to inwardly remind yourself to be quiet. It felt like she was touching the very soul of you – you could feel every ring of her fingerprint, every caress awakening your body, your blood warming in your veins, your heartbeat echoing, your brain wholly focused on her.  

You brought your fingers to her hole, drew circles around it mindlessly. It was almost impossible to concentrate on kissing her and teasing her with the simmering pleasure rolling from your core.  

Once you felt her growing wetter you circled her more firmly, massaging the slick flesh around her clenching hole and reaching your thumb up to drag a wide ring around her clit. Ellie let out a strained breath, her lips pausing on yours. 

She sped her hand, bumping into your clit in a ravaging rhythm. Your stomach clamped down, your head falling into her neck as you grit your teeth. Your hips bared down against the friction, your nails clawing at her shoulder. 

You moved your glossy fingers to her clit finally, working light circles over the swollen bud. Ellie’s breath hitched, her thigh shifting beneath you as she parted them, her hips bowing up. Even as sparks flashed beneath your eyelids, even as the muscles of your abdomen coiled up, you didn’t speed your fingers. You stuck with the feather-light touches, sucking at her neck as she shuddered below you. Your teeth grazed her skin. 

“Are you even trying to win?” Ellie mocked; voice thick with prurience. 

You resisted the urge to grin, detaching your mouth from her neck. 

“It just feels so good.” You lied. 

Her fingers rubbing over your swollen clit did feel mind-numbingly amazing, but that wasn’t why you were toying with her. You were playing the long game, knew how to make her need it so bad she’d crumble. So, you stayed with your crawling pace, light caresses. 

But you nearly lost it when Ellie started trailing her fingers up and down your neck, the ones on your pussy grinding down harder. You shivered, biting down on your lip until it hurt, anything to distract from the torturous pleasure of her hands. 

She was starting to crack. Her hips rolled into your hand, her breaths quivering. She wanted more. You didn’t give it to her. You dropped your fingers back to her hole, resumed your teasing movements.  

“You’re so wet.” You whispered, the creamy gloss of her arousal coating your fingers almost too much to bear, the slick sound of her pussy so loud in the quiet. You squeezed your thighs around her hand, couldn’t even trust yourself to breath without giving in to the groans threatening in your chest. God, she was ruining you. 

“Yeah, you think?” Ellie bit out, her hand wrapping around your thigh and pulling you open again. 

A shaky sigh slipped from your lips as you drew a single finger over her clit, achingly slow. Her body trembled, a breath stuttering from her lips. You let your finger trace her in lingering, delicate circles until her hand tightened painfully on your thigh, her hips pushing up against you. 

Without warning you quickened your pace, felt Ellie’s head fall back, a gasp breaking from her throat as her muscles tensed up beneath you. You whirred your fingers faster, pressing hard, and her body jerked, hips bucking up. Her free hand flew to your bicep, fingers curling in. A guttural moan curled from her chest.  

You panted a laugh, lifting your lips to her ear. 

“I win. Again.” 

She didn’t respond – the hand in your underwear faltered, fingers twitching, stuttering. You pulled back just enough to watch her.  

Her neck arched against the wall, those heady brows knitted, blush lip caught between her teeth. The dim light carved shadows along her face, pooling beneath the jut of her freckled cheekbones. She was trying to hold it in – you saw it in the way her breath stalled, the sharp exhales that broke free in uneven bursts. The way her eyes screwed shut, lashes trembling. The way her body jolted subtly with your movements. 

“This what you needed, baby?” 

Her stomach spasmed, hips arching into your hand as a low, desperate hum caught in her throat. 

“Like being spoiled, huh?” You murmured, delighting in your victories but delighting even more in the euphoric set of her features, how she crumbled for you. 

You were the spoiled one, the ruined one, the stolen one – the one pressing pecks to her sallow neck, the one making her shiver with rapture, the one haunted by her hallowed hues and sonorous voice, morphed by her presence into a thing you didn’t recognize. 

Ellie pressed a palm into the floor to steady herself, her mouth widening – little breathless uhs falling out. You rocked your hips into her hand, chasing an answer to the swell threatening in your core at the sight of her, the feel of her delicate flushing skin beneath your fingers. 

You looked down to the bulge of your hand in her jeans, stretching the fabric, revealing her toned v-line, the auburn hair in its midst trailing to the mouth of her wanting. Your fingers roamed down again, prodding into her pussy, her hips swirling as you teased. Her wetness leaked onto your fingers, a kiss of warmth, a beckoning promise.  

You slid yourself inside finally, her tight walls swallowing you to the knuckles and clenching. Her eyes rolled, blissful white between dark, fluttering lashes. 

“Shit...” Ellie choked out lowly, resting a forearm over her face as you curled your fingers and massaged the puffy flesh within. Her lips pulled into an inviting parted pout, her voice higher now, more desperate, with a whispered, “h-holy shit.” 

You pounded your fingers harder at that, the length of your thumb slipping between her lips, up and down over her clit with the movement. Ellie was writhing now, her chest heaving and vibrating with cut-off moans. 

You pushed her arm off her face, tipped her chin until that pretty pout was flush with your own. Her hand shifted to cup your pussy, dragging back and forth lazily like it was more for her own pleasure than yours. You ground into her palm, letting hushed moans of your own spill into her mouth. 

Her thigh squeezed in as her viscid walls shuddered, eyes opened half-lidded to meet yours – blown-out and needy. Her wetness soaked your fingers, dripped down your hand. You applied more pressure with your thumb, flicking over her clit with vicious precision. Her eyes flicked to the door as she shivered. 

“Oh... God. Fuck,” Ellie’s hand wrapped around your arm, “I’m gonna come if you keep doing that.” Her rumbling voice shook with urgent plea, her restraint fracturing. 

Your own need made your head swim, hips rocking faster into her hand as the pleasure coiled up in your stomach. Your hand slid to her jaw, forced her gaze to stay on you. 

“I got you, baby, go ahead.” 

Her face scrunched with the ache of trying to stave off the ecstasy her body was so carnally craving. Her pussy clamped down around your fingers, hips twitching. 

“I can’t-” She trembled, mouth widening, brows knotting together as her muscles locked up – the thigh beneath you straining – so clearly on the edge. “I can’t, I’m gonna...” 

“Just look at me,” you breathed, “focus on me, I got you, I promise.” 

Her glazed eyes on you, her palm pressing up into your pussy, your teeth snagging your lip. Your skin burned, that ardent swirling flooding your gut so good. Nothing else existed but the girl below you – hauntingly lodged in your mind – and your fingers lodged in her.   

“Good fuckin’ girl, Els.” You purred, thrusting through the tautness of her walls and knocking into that gummy spot that made her eyes roll from you again, her clit pulsing under your thumb. Ellie shuddered, sucking in a sharp gasp as the weight of her head lolled into your hand. 

“Oh my... god.” She mewled, perhaps too loud, but you’d ignored her warning. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

She was babbling now; half-formed, whispered words spilling from her lips. tangled with gasps and curses. Her abs tensed beneath the fabric of her shirt, muscles flexing as she came, her thigh jolting into yours in a desperate, involuntary motion. Her hand found your back, clutching, pulling, needing you closer. You pressed soft, adoring kisses to the corner of her mouth, tasting the syrup of fruit on her heavy breaths, feeling the shudders wracking her body as her orgasm ebbed and abated. 

Ellie slumped against the wall, spent and boneless, her cheeks flushed. A contented sigh ghosted past her lips as you finally freed your fingers, the heat of her still lingering on your skin. 

Her attention – hazily, hungrily – shifted back to the hand in your underwear, her fingers fondling through your swollen folds.  

Then, it was her turn to spoil you. Her digits on your clit, back to their lewd caresses, dragging tear-jerking bliss through your veins. Your body curved into her, hands roaming her chest and kneading the perky flesh of her tits. You panted into her skin, her other hand skimming up and down your back. 

You felt her pause. 

“Wait, you hear that?” She whispered, her hand slowing, face turning to the door. 

You didn’t care if the things were halfway through it – the tension wracking your body was so close to snapping you were dizzy with it, your hips moving instinctively, chasing the tug. 

“Don’t stop, Ellie, please.” You whimpered. “I’m so close.” 

She sighed, that familiar resignation or awe, you couldn’t decipher. 

“You’re fuckin’ filthy, you know that?” Were the words that followed, purred low and raspy, awe abundant for sure. 

“Uh-huh,” you sobbed as her pace accelerated back to an eye-rolling rhythm. Your nails tore into her clothed shoulders, dampened forehead resting fitfully on her neck. “Uhh, you love it.” 

An amused huff warmed your hair, her hand trailing up to cup the base of your skull. 

“Love this pussy, wish I could eat it like you been wanting.”  

Your thighs clenched, her words flaring the sparks of ardor flickering through your core. 

“Maybe I’ll let you.” You huffed out. “Next time’s my call, you lost.” 

Ellie’s chest buzzed as she hummed. 

“You cheated.” 

“No, j-just smarter.” You sighed. 

The side of her face pressed into yours, pinning your head in the crook of her neck. Her voice came honey-smooth, yet edged with something rougher, something possessive. 

“Well, I like you better like this. All dumbed-out and making a mess on my fingers.” 

The tone hit like a spark to dry kindling. White flickered behind your eyes, carnal heat snapping through you relentless, washing the fight from your brain. Your lips parted in a silent cry; whimpers muffled against her sweat-slicked skin. 

Your release crashed into you, ecstasy barreling through your body, the knot of your muscles unraveling in deep, pulsing waves of throbbing pleasure. You tremored atop her, wracking with after-shocks, thighs twitching where they pressed into her own.  

Ellie worked you through it, fingers teasing, coaxing, milking every last shudder. Her free hand slid up, cradling the back of your head, thumb stroking soothing circles against your nape as you sagged into her. 

And then, with that familiar cocky drawl, she chuckled.  

“Do I at least get a consolation prize?” 

She pulled her hand from your pants, fingers glistening, smug satisfaction etched across her face. 

“The things I do to you when next time comes will be your consolation prize.” You promised breathlessly, still catching your bearings. 

Ellie’s gaze roamed your face – interest piqued and thoughts surely wondering. 

You gave her a slow, taunting smile in return, rising on unsteady knees to zip your fly. She reached for your hips, fingers digging as if to pull you back down, but something in her expression shifted. 

Her gaze flicked to the door. 

“What?” 

Her lips flattened, eyes flickering with something sharp like suspicion. 

“It’s been quiet.” 

You broke out of her grasp and turned to your bags, made sure everything was tucked safely inside – ready to sling over your shoulders. 

“Good, they must’a got bored and went back downstairs. Now we can bounce.” You said, handing Ellie her backpack. 

“Yeah, I guess.” But she shook her head, wet her lips. “It’s just – earlier I thought I heard...” She squinted. 

“What?” 

She shushed you, eyes still on the door, her head twisting as she strained to listen. 

A second passed. And then another. 

Your ears caught it then. A noise, soft, muffled – but there. 

The hair on the back of your neck rose as footsteps thudded on the carpet outside the door. Slow. Unhurried. 

Your spine prickled with ice. 

“Heard what, Ellie?” You urged. 

She glanced at you, and in her expression, the same apprehension you felt curling in your chest.  

“Music.”  

The apprehension fled your lungs, chased away by a surge of adrenaline. You stood, eyes latching onto the door just as the handle began to turn. 

“It’s not infected.” You snapped. 

The door creaked open an inch, and you were waiting. Stepping back, you lifted your knee and slammed your boot into the wood, hard. The door crashed open, knocked something flying backwards into the office beyond. 

Your someone thudded to the carpet like his boots, with a resonant groan and a hand splayed on his face.  

You were already moving – gun in your palm, aimed at the face beneath the aged hand, finger twitching on the trigger as you stalked forward. 

Deep brown eyes peeked from behind a finger before he dropped his hand. His face was aged too, lined and scarred like the tree trunk, worn but not menacing. Even as he drew his gaze up, scanning the length of your body, he seemed more amused than alarmed – or hungry. 

“Shoot first, ask questions later,” that dulcet voice chirped, his chin dipping, “I like it.”

[kathlare]

the space between

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Lando reflects on the recent breakup with Luisinha, realizing that his unresolved feelings for Amelie played a larger role in its demise than he had admitted.

Wordcount: 1.3 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

September 1st, 2022 - Zandvoort, Netherlands

Lando sat in the waiting area backstage at the Zandvoort press conference, the hum of conversation around him a distant echo. His hands were curled tightly around the arms of the chair, his mind nowhere near the upcoming event. He was still processing the sharp sting of the breakup with Luisinha, even though he knew it was coming. They had been drifting for months, their relationship slowly slipping away despite all the attempts to hold onto something that just wasn’t there anymore.

But that wasn’t the part that was eating at him. No, what was gnawing at his insides was the undeniable truth that the breakup with Luisinha had happened because of Amelie.

He had never let her go. Not really. Even after everything that had gone down, even after the painful split, the resentment, the silence—they had always stayed with him. And deep down, Lando had always known that it was never going to work with anyone else because he was still holding on to the ghosts of Amelie.

It wasn’t even just about her anymore, or what they had. It was about the idea of it. The feeling of being right with someone, of knowing someone the way he knew her. And no one could replace that.

Lando leaned back in his chair, his eyes unfocused as he reached for his phone. He unlocked it without really thinking and scrolled through his photos. It was a mindless distraction, one that didn’t require much effort. That was until he stumbled upon an old video, one he’d completely forgotten about.

It was from an early morning in Monaco, when the sun had just started to rise, and the air smelled like salt and sea breeze. Amelie was in the video, sitting on the hood of his car, her hair messy from sleep, laughing as he made some stupid joke. He could still hear the sound of her voice, the warmth, the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled.

God, he missed her.

The video was grainy, the lighting soft from the early morning glow, but it captured the essence of them. She looked so carefree, so happy, her laughter ringing in his ears as if she were still right there with him. Lando's thumb hovered over the screen, unsure whether to watch it again or just move on. But the urge to remember, to feel that connection again, was too strong.

A faint, wistful smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he replayed the clip, his mind wandering. He could almost hear her teasing him again, the way she would roll her eyes but still laugh at his ridiculous antics. They were so fucking stupid back then, so wrapped up in each other that it felt like the world could spin around them and they wouldn’t care.

A sharp knock broke his thoughts, and Lando quickly minimized the video, not realizing how long he’d been staring at it. He looked up, rubbing his face, trying to push away the heaviness that was settling on his chest.

Carlos Sainz stood in the doorway, a mischievous grin on his face.

—Mate, what the hell are you doing?— Carlos asked, his eyes flicking over to Lando’s phone before he shut the door behind him and took a seat next to him.

Lando looked at him, startled, trying to hide the lingering emotions from his face. —Nothing. Just… thinking.— He rubbed the back of his neck, forcing a chuckle. —Don’t know why, I was just waiting for this thing to start, so I guess my mind wandered.—

Carlos didn’t buy it for a second. He knew Lando well enough to recognize when his friend was trying to mask something. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and giving Lando a knowing look.

—Okay, I saw your Instagram post. You and Luisinha, huh? It was bound to happen, I guess.— Carlos let out a small, sympathetic sigh. —Tough break, mate.—

Lando’s eyes darkened, and he nodded slowly. He wasn’t surprised that Carlos knew, of course. Everyone did by now. He had made it official with the post, and it was like the entire world had an opinion on it. The thing was, as much as he hated it, Carlos wasn’t wrong—it had been coming. He just didn’t want to admit it. He had felt it deep down, but he had tried so hard to ignore the truth: He wasn’t over Amelie. And because of that, he couldn’t truly be with anyone else.

—Yeah, well, it is what it is.— Lando finally shrugged, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. But it was clear it was there, simmering beneath the surface. —I guess I just got too caught up in everything else. Not paying enough attention, maybe?—

Carlos raised an eyebrow. —You don’t have to explain. I get it.— He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. —I saw what happened. The constant social media bullshit, the rumors, all of that pressure… you don’t need that kind of stress in a relationship. It’s enough to drive anyone insane, man.—

Lando stared ahead, feeling the weight of Carlos’s words hit harder than he expected. He had been thinking the same thing over and over for the last few days, wondering if it had been all the outside noise—the fans, the media—that had destroyed what he had with Luisinha. But deep down, Lando knew it wasn’t that simple. It wasn’t just the pressure from outside forces. It was him. It was always him.

He had never let Amelie go, not in any real way. She had been a constant presence in his mind, and when things started getting rocky with Luisinha, the unresolved feelings he had for her came rushing back.

Lando let out a long sigh, his eyes staring at the floor. He had tried to drown out the thoughts of Amelie, tried to replace her with other distractions, but it never worked. And now, with Luisinha gone, he was left to face the truth.

Carlos continued, his voice a little softer now, but still blunt. —It’s just hard to find balance when everyone has an opinion on your life, especially when it’s happening in the public eye. It's tough, mate. I’ve been there too. You just get so fucking tired of trying to meet everyone’s expectations. But, honestly? If someone’s really for you, they’ll get it. But... you’ve gotta let them go sometimes if they can’t deal with it. It’s not easy, but it’s the only way forward.—

Lando nodded, his mind still distant. —Yeah, I guess I get it. It’s just... fuck, you know?— He clenched his fists, frustration bubbling up again. —I’m not even sure what I was doing half the time. I was so... obsessed with not losing her that I pushed her away. I can’t even explain it. Like, I couldn't be there for her because I was stuck in my own head. But the whole time, I just kept thinking about how everything was wrong... because I wasn’t thinking about the one person I should have.—

Carlos raised an eyebrow but said nothing, letting Lando work through his thoughts. He was good at that—just letting people talk until they worked things out themselves.

After a few moments, Lando broke the silence, voice low and almost contemplative. —I think... I think I fucked this one up because I wasn’t honest with myself, you know? I tried to move on, tried to be with someone else, but I was still holding on to something that wasn’t even there anymore.—

Carlos chuckled lightly, shaking his head. —We all make those kinds of mistakes, mate. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last. But you’re doing the right thing now. You’re figuring it out. That’s the first step. Just... don't spend too much time thinking about all of it, yeah?—

Lando smiled bitterly, looking out at the room full of people preparing for the press conference. —Yeah. I guess you're right. But I don’t think I’ll be able to get my head straight until I do something about it.—

Carlos stretched and stood up, slapping Lando on the shoulder lightly. —Well, I think it's about time we head in there. We don’t want to keep everyone waiting. And you’ll get through it, Lando. It just takes time.—

Lando nodded, his head still spinning but his resolve beginning to firm. As Carlos walked off to take his place for the press conference, Lando sat back in his chair for a moment, letting the last few words sink in.

There was no point in dwelling on the past forever. He needed to face what was right in front of him.

And the more he thought about it, the clearer it became: he wasn’t done with Amelie. Not by a long shot.

He had to do whatever it took to make things right. Because, deep down, Lando knew that if he didn’t take that step, he’d never be able to truly move forward.

Not with anyone else. Not with his career. Not with himself.

He had to make it right with her.

And he would.

[that-tall-queer-bassist]

Empires s2 characters and what horse they'd have

Hi. Brainrot about empires and a longstanding fixation on horses led to this. Enjoy <3

(it's a long post btw)

Let's start with the obvious. Sheriff Jimmy Solidarity.

Now obviously he has Bullseye and Arrow, however! I would like to debate their breeds for a bit. I think that while Bullseye has a pattern similar to that of a snowflake leopard appaloosa, I believe he's a full Quarter Horse (normally known as an American Quarter Horse) Fast, turns on a dime, and have a good head on their shoulders. Often used on ranches and such because they're good all rounders while being sturdy and dependable.

(Below has correct coloring)

(Below has correct breed/conformation)

Arrow would be a Quarter Horse/Arabian Cross, for the speed and coordination of the Quarter, and the endurance and heat tolerance of the Arabian.

Now lets talk about the other person with a horse like companion. Princess Katherine.

She has a Unicorn (half skeleton horse??), that is all white. I think she would have a cremello Saddlebred. They're a gaited breed (fancy walk, showy gait) and very flashy. Cremello is a hard color to get, therefore about as valuable as a unicorn /j

Princess Gem

I love Apollo as much as anyone, however if he were a horse, he would absolutely be a Belgian Draft (specifically a bay). They are big, strong, and were first horses of war (factcheck) then adapted to plow horses. With Dawn's canonical beginnings, I believe a draft would have been a great help in the fields.

Great Witch Shelby

She lives in the swamp, which is not great for horses. However, a pony could fit through the many hanging vines and manuever easier through narrow pathways. I think she would have a Kerry Bog Pony. They're surefooted, hardy, and sound ponies that have a long rich history, but the most important part is that they're used to navigating softer ground because of their origins/home of Kerry (Ireland)

Joel, God of Lore

Show off, big, strong, bull headed. Normally, I would never let someone who's (supposedly) 11 feet tall ride any horse, because the weight would be harmful to them. However, I would assign him a Clydesdale. Flashy, easy to remember, and definitely the kind of horse you would get attention for. They're also usually patient enough to put up with any inconsistencies or surprises from their riders.

Fwhip

Shetland Pony. Small, used to pull carts in mines, and feisty as all get out. No further explanation needed XD

Pixlriffs

I would assign him a mule, as stereotypical as it is. Theyre a very dependable creature, used for packing and riding, and are very sure footed even on mountainous terrain. Overall steady, even if they are stubborn.

Mayor Lizzie

Halflingers are ponies only by breed, not by size (14 hands or under is considered a pony, however there are certain exceptions). They're all palominos, and all sturdy and stout. They have a variety of personalities, but are usually a favored mount by shorter riders. I think theyre overall steadiness and stubbornness would be good to balance out any uh. feline traits from Lizzie, but they would still match her in fierceness.

Scott

Now he would have a blanket Appaloosa. Hands down. Do I need to explain? (specifically a chestnut blanket appaloosa <3)

Oli

He would have an old, run of the mill, done with life, tolerant to the point of apathy, POA (Pony of America. ...its a mutt horse that is short.) Probably one that Fwhip sold to him for an extended debt. I think it would probably be a Chestnut, with a supressed sass to it.

False

She's so nervous all the time, I think I would give her a retired ranch horse (thus, likely a quarter horse) that could take care of her and lead her back home from wherever they were. It would have seen everything, and probably been used for hunting at least once, therefore any (totally random) blood would be no problem! /hj I think she would probably have an unassuming bay, with a lighter brown coloration to it's body.

Pirate Joe

Seahorse /j.

In all seriousness, I think I would give him a Paint Chincoteague (shink-o-teeg) Pony. They cross the ocean every year for the round up, and I can absolutely picture Pirate Joe finding a pony on an island and claiming it was the treasure he was meant to find (sea pony!! never been seen before! /j). They can eat seaweed, and iirc they frequently do. Firecrackers they are. Fiesty things with a good heart.

Sausage

I think he would have a Grey Andalusian (grey as in the specific horse color, not the actual color grey). The Andalusian is an elegant horse that was originally a war horse, but has since evolved into a beloved riding horse. They're all rounders, and very majestic looking. Tall, strong, and beautiful, I think that they would be a good fit for the story that Mythical J. Sausage has going on in season 2.

And that's all of them! Of course, giving them all horses would be unreasonable given current story lines, but I thought that it was fun, and a very enjoyable project ^-^

[dawnthefluffyduck]

New game interest unlocked

(crow in bottom right belongs to @patchwork-crow-writes)

[i-c-u-p]

going to start using this platform like twitter again and by that i mean posting relentlessly and going on rants in the tags

[helmetjellyfish]

realized i've somehow never made a minato & asumi post despite them being some of the characters i think about the most in the story. i want them to be friends who get lunch together every other saturday

[florelia12]

HAPPY PRIDE MONTH💖

[gyuswhore]

Cherry Picker [1]

«« "Do me a favour and forget your mouth guard next time. Let the puck punch you in the mouth if I can't." »» 

Choi Seungcheol x reader | part of the winter with you collab hosted by @camandemstudios!

Part 1: 19k | Part 2

warnings: Hockey player! Seungcheol, figure skater! reader, *deep breath* ENEMIES TO LOVERS, angst, fluff, smut [MINORS DNI], toxic friends, cheol has anger issues, kkuma appearance, @miniseokminnies makes also makes a fluffy appearance, injuries, mentions of blood, smut tags in the next part

synopsis: Cherry Picking [ice hockey]: a manoeuver in which a player, the floater, literally loafs (spends time in idleness) or casually skates behind the opposing team's unsuspecting defencemen while they are in their attacking zone. There wasn't much you counted on in life; just your skates, your drive and how it felt to win. And of course, your local ice rink, that is now being colonised by an obnoxious hockey team in all their big, loud, stinking glory. Neither does it help that one particular red donned specimen forgets to leave his cherry picking on the ice.

[a/n] (it's a long one but PLEASE read) : ITS HERE FINALLY this was an extremely bumpy ride and I wouldn't have finished it without all of my friends who quite literally kept me going. I know I made an update saying this was gonna end up being 20k max but it turns out my yap-itis is for life </33

the posting schedule for this fic is going to be a little less predictable, I will try to get part 2 out asap but I do not currently have a date for you.

big thank you to @highvern for betaing and making me feel better about this fic, @amourcheol for talking me out of meltdowns multiple times and for giving me some really good scene pointers, @ugh-yoongi for being so patient w me and explaining how ice hockey works with so much patience. ty to @the-boy-meets-evil @tusswrites @lovetaroandtaemin for also proof reading for me 🥹

HUGE thank you to everyone at @camandemstudios who agreed to be part of this collab and being part of the journey as we grow 🫶 please check out the collab masterlist linked above, there's already so many amazing fics posted ready for you to read <33

that being said, I know more about figure skating than I do about hockey, but even so there are defo some inconsistencies in terms of accuracies in this, please bear with me 🫶 remember to reblog or send me an ask telling me your thoughts, id love to hear what you guys think 🥹 masterlist

“CAN I HELP YOU?”

“I’m sorry,” you gravel out. 

“Sorry isn’t gonna give back my hour and thirteen minutes.” 

The strap of your gym bag cuts into your bare shoulder where the collar had slipped, the tight threading sure to leave a scratch by the time this is bound to be done. You’d managed to avoid coach Carroll’s morning cornering for a couple months, going above and beyond by showing up to the icy rink before she could even pull up in the parking lot in her blaring red Porsche, let alone before her ten minute meditations in her cream coloured seats. 

“There was an accident on the highway. Truck tipped over.”

“It’s eight in the morning,” Carroll points.

“Illegal truck, I guess.” 

Teeth to tongue, you know you’ve done it. 

She’s in her usual tracksuit, green today, that contrasts her bright red hair in its tight curls. Her glasses are her sensible Ralph Laurens, eyes piercing through the tinted lens as she holds her chin in her hands. Silent, calculating. 

“Fine. Change.” 

Your legs want to give out before you can even get your skates on. 

There were many things Isabella Carroll was good at. The industry would have one of them be a good coach; one of the most expensive, the one that squeezed the life out of her students to inject into the golds, silvers and bronzes they would then bring her on an equally diamond encrusted platter. 

She has also mastered the art of impeccable dressing downs. 

The fact she chose to skip out on verbally humiliating you meant you’d managed to strike that cord. She might be leaving in the next 45 minutes, but she has a very particular way of stretching the minutes into years. 

Like a whipped horse, you scurry into the locker rooms, skin crawling. Your gym bag is positively launched into your designated locker, shoes kicked off as you attempt to stick your right foot into your skates, narrowly missing your heel as it grazes right past the toe pick. 

You slow down after that, not needing a scar on your heel to match the large one on the side of your calf. 

By the time you jog back out, unzipping your jacket to throw onto one of the benches, coach is on the ice, following Marina who zips around on the other end of the rink in her step routine. 

It’s difficult to not rush through your warmups when you’re already late, your splits hardly pushed out as you pray all that running around in the desolate locker rooms was enough to stretch everything out. 

There’s a crash on the illuminated ice as you slip off your skate guards, Marina already practising her Salchows. “You’re in the air for enough time, why can’t you rotate?!” 

Right blade first, you step into the cold encircling, gliding into the centre to begin making your usual rounds around the circumference.

There’s a positive screech of your name from across the ice, wind blowing in your hair as you turn to look. “Do I need to hire someone to hold up your free leg? Fix it, girl!”  

Holding your left leg more taut, you attempt to transition into a jump and spin. You fail, landing on both feet. Somehow, falling on your ass felt like a better conclusion to that arc. 

“Wonderfully executed! Let’s try both hands on the ice too next time, really complete the contemporary finish,” coach hollers out to you as she continues to follow Marina at the same time. 

Trying again, you manage to land on your outer left blade. You receive no comment. 

You try the jump again, pushing into a sit spin. 

The momentum is enough to begin the familiar slack in your scalp, your bun loosening its grip on your hair. Biting your tongue would be dangerous right now, but you would if you could, especially considering the ramifications of your hair coming undone in front of her. 

The crouch as you spin burns your thighs like you’re being branded, pulling yourself back up as you finish abruptly. Still no comment, the unintelligible string of nagging coming from the other side of the rink. 

Marina stands hands on her hips, breathing so heavily she’s nearly heaving. Her blonde hair is loosening far worse than yours, strands framing her face. Coach Carroll waves her hands and shakes her head so quickly you wonder how her glasses haven’t flown off. You didn’t get to see what cardinal sin Marina committed to warrant this reaction, but you feel better knowing she’s exhausted enough to let her insults swim past. 

Ten seconds is enough to catch your breath, moving to do something busy enough to avoid another being screamed at across the ice, again. 

By the end of the remaining forty five minutes, you realised your punishment was also punishing Marina. Coach Carroll remained tailing Marina as you attempted to do everything that would please her, far away from her. Not a direction, praise or neutral comment in sight or sound, sealed with her always expected retorts. 

She leaves without a word, leaving you scrambling to the benches for a seat. Putting your skate guards on is torture, your legs refusing to pull up to reach them. You hardly notice Marina slam down into the seat beside you to mimic you slumped down and head lolled back, eyes closed to the bright ceiling. 

“These skates are gonna kill me,” you whine once you’ve caught your breath, unlacing them to inspect the blistering damage. 

“They’re brand new, what did you expect?” she retorts, moving to sit up straighter. Of course, you were grappling at straws expecting anything akin to sympathy from Marina. 

It was your misfortune that the day you had to break in your skates was the day you’d be late, your heavily bandaged foot still aching as you sit idle. 

Your lungs are still burning when you pull yourself back up, knees buckling the absolute slightest bit as you attempt to take the first baby step back onto the ice. 

“We need to get back to it,” Marina says, and you have half a mind to bite that you were up before her. 

She’s faster at slipping off her skate guards though, and you watch her back as she glides back onto the ice. You follow suit, trailing her as you speak. 

“Hey, I’m sorry Carroll was on your ass because of me. My alarm didn’t go off this morning, I overslept.”

She turns to look at you, ghost of a smile on her face. “Time to go old school I guess, I think my brother left behind his old alarm clock from college.”

“I guess—”

“Besides, I needed that. Wouldn’t have known my Salchows were sucky otherwise.”

She doesn’t let you respond and you’re left to watch as she takes off to warm herself back up. 

Strange as it was, you’ve found her behaviour simply doesn’t affect you anymore, choosing to take her as she was. She pushed you to be better, to work harder. Even now, as your ankle burns and your hip screams, you brace yourself into another axel entry, trying your hardest to keep up with Marina. 

It’s another couple hours when Marina leaves for her second appointment with her personal trainer, leaving you alone. 

It’s less crowded now, despite the head count going from two to one, but you appreciate the alleviation as you continue to practise for the rest of the morning. The rink feels more vast and your hip has stopped its incessant aches. 

Having finished a run through of your routine without music, you move towards the sound booth to turn on the tail end of your track, skating back to the echoing rink to brace yourself for the next four agonising minutes. 

You’ve adjusted your starting position about ten times by the time the silence of the song restarting settles. And then it begins, soft piano as you push yourself off into the throngs of this hellsent routine. 

It’s muscle memory by now, but your stomach lurches before you push into a jump anyway. There isn’t much time to ponder when you’re midair, tight yet contorted, trying to land on the right side of the blade. But there’s a phantom pain in your right ankle, right when you’re at the point of your arc, and you feel the all too dreaded panic flood in. 

You land on both feet, less than ideal but with no one to watch the fail, it was better than falling on your ass. There’s been worse outcomes, so there’s little you can do but continue into the step sequence. 

Trying to shake off that bout of panic, you briefly wonder if the music suddenly had more bass than you’d last checked. Perhaps you just hadn’t been practising like you should, but you make a mental note mid-spin to listen to the track again later tonight for any tidbits you’d missed. 

Your heartbeat is trying to accommodate more air than you can let it, especially as you feel the pulse in your ears quicken as you approach your final jump sequence. The music is louder yet muffled all the same, there’s an incessant banging that you can’t figure out is from your head or a corrupted music file. But you find that sweet spot, deciphering through the ruckus in your brain, and you jump. 

It happens again, the strange ache in your ankle that should be long gone, and just like that, all that panic you shook off in the interim comes hurtling back. The world’s gone silent, blaringly so, and for some heaven known reason, you’ve closed your eyes.

You aren’t so lucky this time round, landing directly on your back with a spectacular crash, the ice cutting cold through your thermals as you slide in the direction of your epic fall. Eyelids opening, they’re met with the spotlighted ceiling, head cushioned by the hard plane of ice beneath you. 

The pain in your ankle’s escaped like a fugitive, done it’s damaged and left you crumpled on the floor. The adrenaline is rushing just enough to keep you from identifying any other awakened aches, but you have a sneaking feeling your hip is going to hate you after this. 

You’re still laying flat on the ice when you realise you're laying in mostly silence. Your music is off, and has been since you came to on the floor. The banging, you realise, wasn’t just in your head either. The unmistakable reverberation of the locker rooms is loud and assuming, noises rattling all the way out onto the echoing rink. 

It takes the strength of a village to pull yourself up, but you do it anyhow, ignoring the blatant protests of your mind and soul as you squint across the rink to the sound booth. 

As you skate towards the gate, you assume it’s Hansol trying to get your attention by disrupting you mid session, but the figure shuffling into view is telling you otherwise. 

It isn’t anyone you know, clearer as you grow closer to the gate. It’s obvious he’s the culprit that turned off your music, your laptop shut and the wire to the speakers disconnected from the port. 

You stare at it pointedly as you grapple for your skate guards. 

The man does nothing but remain with his hands in the pockets of his bright red hoodie, hovering over your laptop as he watches you struggle with your skates. SVT stitched onto the back in black. He’s as blank faced as ever, a stark contrast to your heavy breathing as you come round. 

Standing up straight, you dart between your laptop and this person, waiting for an explanation that seems to be lost in the void. You’re still heaving slightly, scowl forming on your face as this strange man offers you nothing.

“Um, did you—”

“Yeah. It’s four,” he responds, like it was supposed to explain enough. 

“And that means…?”

“We have the rink reserved.”

“But it’s Monday,” you respond. It sounds stupid, but it meant something. The rink was reserved on the weekdays for coach Carroll’s mentees, the weekends for the public. 

This man and his big brown eyes gaze directly into your soul as he responds, “And that means…?” 

You’re sweaty and tired, your feet ache with about five new blisters from the last time you checked, and you’re sure you need to get your hip checked out. Perhaps that’s why there’s this unreasonable surge of irritation that rises in the back of your head, irrational and half blinding. 

“That means—”

“Seungcheol! Get your ass in the locker room before I drag you in there myself.” The voice that rings out is heavy and has you flinching, the man’s order echoing from somewhere in the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms. 

The man you assume is named Seungcheol begins to walk away from you without a word or gesture, and you can only blink at his retreating back. 

“Hey! Do you mind not touching my stuff next time round?” you call out as a last ditch attempt to have the last word. He turns his head to you, eyebrows raised and a smirk of mild disbelief growing on his face. Nothing is said as his head turns back to the front, strutting into the tunnel.

He lets you have your last word as he walks away, your gaze the same shade of crimson as his retreating form. 

“AND THEN—THESE—HUGE dudes with fucking botox or fillers in their shoulders storm out—”

Your vent is interrupted by Lorelai who’s burst out laughing mid bite of her sandwich, “What?”

“Botox!” she muffles a shriek through a full mouth.

“They were shoulder pads or something, you get it!” 

The air in the outside seating of this cafe is stellar, the perfect in between you wait for all year. The parasol above you is enough so you don’t have to squint your eyes in the late afternoon sun, the wind perfectly paced in a breeze. Your own sandwich remains untouched, the bread gone stale as you pick at the corner of the crust. 

“Apologies,” she yips. “So you're saying we’re being partially colonised by hockey players?”

“I don’t know! Was it a one time thing, a weekly thing? It can’t be a weekly thing, Monday afternoons are routine practice days.” 

“The routine you’ve been practising for the past year and a half?” 

“I can’t afford getting rusty.” 

Lorelai drops her head like she’s had enough, “Maybe these hockey jocks are a blessing.”

“What?”

“Nothing! Hey, do you want cake, they have cheesecake, I could get some!” 

“Lorry!”

“Okay,” she huffs, dropping back into her seat with blown cheeks. “I’m sorry.” 

Lorelai has a sense of humour that took you more than enough time to decipher, but that wasn’t nearly the first thing you noticed about her. She was beautiful, even more so with the sun gracing her like a loving embrace. The highlights in her otherwise dark hair make the hazel of her eyes pop like two perfectly welcoming cliffs to jump off from. She was the definition of spunk and valour, yet graceful in everything she does. Even now, as she picks up her smoked turkey on honey oat, complete with every fixing and condiment on earth, you question how she can wrench her mouth open to take a reasonable bite; but she does, not a crumb out of place. 

“I have to share a rink with dudes whose hockey sticks are gonna make craters in the ice, why are you not mourning with me?”

“Pretty sure your toe picks do the same thing.”

“Lorelai!” 

“Not the government name!” she wails as though woefully wounded. 

“You’re impossible.”

“Carroll didn’t hate me for no reason.” She smiles in her pride. 

Lorelai’s competitive skating career came to an end sometime last year before the Grand Prix, a decision she announced gracefully with the words BITE ME etched with sharpie on her brand new competition skates. It was difficult to erase the mental image of the scarlet of Carrol’s face when Lorelai marched in with her hair chopped so short it’d be impossible to pull into a bun, marked skates in hand and a mask of determined rebellion on her face. Of course, the whole ordeal could’ve been an email, but it simply wouldn’t have been Lorelai. 

“It’s not like you were trying very hard to please her,” you grumble, nibbling on a fry. 

“Why would I try pleasing that woman?”

“For one thing, your sponsors were paying a bucketload so you could have her.”

“I didn’t want Carroll as a coach. Ever. I wanted Jameson. The only reason they put me with Carroll was because they were putting you and Marina with her.” Her voice is hard, eyebrows raised the slightest bit. 

“What does Jameson offer that Carroll doesn’t?!”

“Oh! I don’t know, let’s see,” she raises her voice as her sarcasm begins to simmer with a lethal edge. “Maybe the fact that an hour training with Jameson doesn’t feel like the subjected wrath of a world war two dictator!”

“Carroll is not that bad!”

“God, you become more like Marina everyday.”

You frown, “What does that mean?”

“It means—!” Lorelai pauses to close her eyes, and you can almost hear her counting in her head. “It means nothing. Eat your sandwich before the bread starts molding.”

“Ew.”

Lorelai smirks. “Bite me.”

You attempt to channel some of that Lorelai energy when you get to the rink past noon on a weekday. You hope you’re reasonable in your hope that Hansol will be in his office as you walk towards the door. 

Three rapt knocks before you hear a muffled voice telling you to come in. The door creaks when you open it. Loudly, might you add. 

“How long is it gonna sing every time I come in here?” you grimace. 

Hansol looks at you from behind his laptop with a tight smile. “For as long as I keep forgetting to oil the hinges.”

Hansol, for as young and qualified as he is, is only the rink manager because his family owns the place. Having graduated the year before with a shiny new law degree, he opted to take a break from moving forward with his career to “slow down” as he put it. The rink was as slow as it could get for him, betting the only important thing on his laptop screen currently was solitaire. 

“Did you also forget that I have the rink during the day on weekdays? 

“Ah. You’ve encountered the hockey team.”

“Yes. They turned off my music mid routine.”

“They're only here till the renovations in their home rink are done, we’re the only other rink in town that’s closed to the public on weekdays.” 

“But they’re cutting into my practice time?” you add, brows furrowed. 

Hansol opens his mouth before closing it again, eyebrows raised. “You clock in here five days a week, ten hours a day.”

“And?”

Hansol huffs out a breath. “Listen, I know you and the other skaters like having the rink to yourselves, and I’d be happy if it was always just you guys. Trust me, these jocks are impossible to clean up after, let alone deal with. Between the launch pad calibre noise and the stupid plastic barriers I have to put up on the railings, I’d love for it to just be you guys. But the only times you officially have the rinks booked is in the mornings when you’re training with coach Carrol, the rest of the week is technically up for grabs.”

“Let me book the rest of the slots then.”

“SVT’s already booked most of the remaining hours.” Hansol’s voice is sympathetic, but his words seemed final. You aren’t sure how bad your face was contorted, because suddenly he’s adding, “But hey, you can look at the leftover hours if they work for you.”

He pulls out the roster on a tablet before handing it to you. It only takes you a minute to scroll before you realise the only viable options were past 10 PM. The rink closed at 11. 

You sigh, shoulders visibly sagging as you let out a bated breath of tension. “It’s fine.” You hand the tablet back to Hansol. “I’ll figure it out.”

Turning on your heel, you make a move to leave the premises. Hansol calls out your name. 

“I’m sorry. Really.” 

You muster a smile, one that you cannot feel the slightest bit. “It’s alright.”

“Only a few months.”

Something in your smile sours, and you nod absentmindedly. “Only a few months.” 

THERE WERE OTHER WAYS the universe could have let it happen, someplace where you might have forgiven yourself. Someplace you had reason to be. 

You were accustomed to physical exertion, how could you not be when you were what you were, but hiking on an incline was never something you fancied yourself with. Gyms and coaches and paved running trails are nothing like rocky terrains and steep mountain paths with no guide but a mobile map. 

The semi finals had passed you by, handing you a gold medal along the way as you thrust yourself into bliss. It was a job well done, so much so that you allowed yourself a weekend of something other than skating rinks and training sessions. So many nights that you can hardly remember, yet flash like lightning under your eyelids. Where you sobbed into your pillow and cursed yourself for ever having the gall to take a step back, to be so arrogant and blustering to announce yourself away from the thing that should’ve mattered the most. 

It only took one tiny crater in the path to twist your ankle so hard you crumple to the ground with a scream you cannot remember. More hands than you have holding on to your searing ankle, like they were holding it together with nothing but their palms and fingers. Lorelai was talking, and talking and talking, but all you could hear was the roaring question in your mind. 

Why did you bring me here? 

Six weeks. 

You watched with your own eyes as the Grand Prix final shuttered away on a reel, like you were watching a movie from an age you could not visit. 

Six weeks. 

Marina sat beside your bed and said words you’d never forget. 

“I’m sorry, but…this is your own fault.”

Six weeks. 

Lorelai wept, and said the same words for an entirely different reason. 

“I’m sorry. This is my fault, it was my idea.” 

Six weeks. 

Carroll kept face, but you could see past the mask. A sigh that said more than any words of reassurance. Disappointed but not surprised. 

Six weeks you were bedridden with an ankle that refused to support your weight on the surface area of your bare foot, let alone on the 3/16th of an inch on a blade. 

Bedrest, meds, physical therapy, and still. The ache in your ankle follows you like a ghost haunting you of your worst mistake. 

It was your fault. You chose to put whimsy above everything you laboured for, for years and years. You chose to look past your shortcomings like they would not become your achilles heel. You chose to get on that trail. You chose to walk out on crutches.

You, who could land a jump on a fraction of an inch of steel, could now barely stand on her own two feet. 

You’d decided on that day, that you were as pathetic as they come.

IT WAS THE MOST natural decision to drag Lorelai out of where she rotted in bed to come with you to the rink. 

“You want me to fight them?” She’s wearing her Winnie the Pooh fuzzy pyjama pants and a university hoodie on top, her short hair concealed in the hood she’s pulled up. “They are hockey players. We are twigs!” 

“Lorry. Have you ever thrown a punch in your life?” you ask her as you pull your hair back into a loose bind. 

“No?” 

“Then why on earth would I ask you to fight goblins triple our size?” 

Her mouth is gaping in disbelief. “Why am I here then?” 

“You,” you start, grabbing your skates and moving out of the locker rooms. “Are gonna sit pretty in that sound booth and make sure nobody touches my laptop.”

“…you realise Hansol has security cameras right?”

“Are you planning on robbing my laptop?”

“No. Although it does have nice specs.” 

You ignore her as you walk towards the benches. “That stupid hockey team needs to know I have reinforcements of my own.”

Lorelai stands there, brows furrowed and in clothes that drown her. She glances down at her outfit and then back up at you. She deadpans, “This is the most unthreatening I have ever looked.”

“Just—” You stand up too quickly and feel yourself wobble. The railing is hardly a foot away, your hand moving over to grab it. Except your palms feel nothing but the flat of something smooth and hard, fingers bumping into the feeling of something unfamiliar. 

You manage to find your balance with a yelp, immediately snapping up to see where you missed the railing. The railing was still there, perfectly within arms reach. There’s a glare in your vision, like looking through a screen. Higher and higher, you realise quickly that you’ve been looking through a clear barrier so high up you can hardly find where it ends in its erect standing. 

Lorelai speaks up first, her voice resonating loudly, “Isn’t that supposed to be on the other side of the railing. Stupid, stupid Hansol.” 

It looks like it stretches throughout the circumference of the rink, wrapping whoever’s inside in a giant plastic fish bowl. 

There’s a clench in your jaw you can’t control, something a little more than annoyance building in your senses. It should be an easy thing to ignore, especially regarding its practically invisible nature, but its presence is all you can think about, even as you step your right blade onto the ice. 

Skating towards the middle of the rink, you feel claustrophobic. 

“Woah! You look like a zoo animal,” Lorealai adds unnecessarily. 

“Just play the track,” you grumble. 

“There should be a don’t tap on the glass sign,” she says, voice muffled as yells from the benches. “You already look like a weasel, can’t have confused people in the stands.” 

“Lorry!” 

“What?” she yells, her voice muffled as she yells from the benches. 

You curse the plastic that cages you as you yell louder, “Play the track!” 

Lorelai nods and makes a noise of understanding, and you watch her as she disappears into the sound booth. 

Taking your starting position, you wait for the quiet lull of the track before the beginning of the unmistakable piano; the low tremor in the beginning existing to prepare you to jump into the routine. You stand there with your arms out like a swan, waiting for your cue that won't seem to arrive. 

You almost yell out at Lorelai again before you suddenly hear the resonating shrill of the piano notes, startling yourself out of your first push. It’s fine, you’ll recover. You’re distracted by your staggered start and it’s enough to have you miss your first jump. It’s fine. You’ll recover. 

By the time the four minutes are up, you’ve missed two of your five jumps, a spin gone wrong, and nearly crashed into the plastic barrier. Not to mention, the aches in your body are enough to seem impossible to geographically pinpoint. 

It’s pointed, the way you make a beeline for the benches, refusing to look at Lorelai. You can almost imagine her expression, the poker face she has when she’s trying to think of ways to structure her next words nicely. 

“What was that?” she deadpans, voice a little far away. Your body hurts enough to take your focus away from her. 

“I don’t know.” 

“I thought your ankle was fine now?” she asks. 

You grit your teeth. “It is.” Lies. The way it was hurting you right now was making sure to remind you of that. 

“You know, you did pick back up a lot earlier than we thought—”

“I said I’m fine, Lorry,” you snap. “Now can you please play the track again.” 

You finally look up, and she looks like she wants to say something. But you’re on the ice before she can. 

You adapt to the excess muffle of the plastic barriers, ears straining to hear the beginning of the piano before you jump into the choreography smoother than last time. This time round, it’s better. The pain in your ankle and the budding one in your hip is apparent, but it’s suddenly easier to drown it out. Focusing on the music, keeping your centre of gravity, pushing into your jumps and spins with enough vigour to hold to what you are. 

Another four minutes pass and it’s over. Immediately, you swing over to the soundbooth to find Lorelai, only to find her joined by an extra set of people.

Impossibly, your blood runs cold. 

There’s a sneaking suspicion you know who it is despite the two men having their backs turned to you, especially judging by the obnoxious red jackets they have on. SVT. You can hear Lorelai speak indecipherably, her voice stern. 

“And you are?” one of them asks. You don’t recognise him, but you do the other one. The one who turned your music off the first day him and his team stepped foot in here. 

“Lorelai!” she yells it for no reason. 

“Gilmore?” The one you recognise snorts. Seungcheol, that’s what they called him the last time you saw him in the sound booth. 

“I’m worse,” she states. 

“Lorry?” you interrupt, arms crossed and gaze directed at her. 

“Lorry?” The one you don’t recognise says. “Like a truck?” 

“You think you’re funny?” Lorelai takes a step towards him, a fair attempt to look threatening if it weren’t for her very unthreatening attire. 

“Oh look at her pyjamas! It’s Pooh bear, Cheol,” he exclaims. That seems to irritate him. 

“Can you replay the track, please, I have to smooth things over,” you intervene. In your mind, ignoring their presence in your space was the best solution, refusing to give them a way to merge into your lane. 

“Woah, we have the rink booked today,” Seungcheol stops you. “4:30.”

Snapping around to find the clock on the adjacent wall, you read the time. “4:17. You can wait.”

He raises his eyebrows. “And thirteen minutes makes what difference?”

“You said 4:30. It is not 4:30 yet.”

The other one thumps him on the back, all smiles. “We can wait, right, Cheol? Besides, we have to put our skates on.” 

His gaze is hard and doesn’t leave yours. “Fine.” 

You break away first to find Lorelai still in the same position, staring at the exchange. You ignore the two men that stand there and address her, “Play the track.”

Before the music begins, you glance back to the benches where the two men have seated themselves, apparently strapping in to watch you. You dig your nails into your palm to reign yourself back in. No point in getting upset. 

The piano begins, and you're determined to not mess up. Especially not right now. 

It goes well for all of 45 seconds, you're hitting the right beats, you feel like water. But then the first jump comes along and you see a flash of red from the stands. An irrational feeling hits you as you push into the first jump, it’s enough to make you stumble when you land. You manage to not fall, but it’s obvious you’ve messed up. 

Somewhere beyond the music you hear a distinct, “Solid 4!”

It distracts you again, and you miss a move. Somehow your second jump ends up worse, and you feel your bottom hit the hard ice. 

“8 point 5! Nice!”

It doesn’t take long for you to realise what they’re doing, anger crashing into you like a flash flood. Scoring your falls? You’re determined to make the next jump combination. You make it fine, but your quad Salchow turns into a triple. The oafs are too shallow to notice, so you hear no jeer. 

But you know that you messed up the only quad in your entire program. 

The last jump goes from a triple axel to a double, and you want to break something. 

The song ends, and you know you have another nine minutes left to yourself, but all you can think about is getting out of the vicinity as soon as possible. Away from all of the eyes that are trained on your hunched form. 

There’s nothing you know about Seungcheol, and yet, the thought of him even looking at you right now is unbearable. Twice you fell, countless times you failed. 

Lorelai says nothing while you pack up, and nothing as you leave the rink. 

“CHOI SEUNGCHEOL, CENTER,” LORELAI reads aloud from your bed with her mouth still full of salt ‘n vinegar chips. 

“Perfect, he already thinks he’s the center of the universe,” you grumble from your position on the floor of the bedroom. Your foam roller feels like heaven under your calves, but the position is beginning to cramp. 

“Surprised you haven’t heard of him, he’s half a celebrity.” 

You turn to her, “I have two gold medals and five podiums for every major skating event.”

“Do I ask for your autograph?”

“He’s not special.”

“Hm. His skill and popularity would beg to differ.”

“Why are you so hellbent on liking him?” 

“Because he’s cute,” she grins wide. “Although the other one was cuter, very angel-like. And he liked my Pooh Bear trousers. Can’t find his name on the team roster though.”

“He was wearing the same stupid jacket—”

You’re cut off by a gasp, a loud one at that. “He coaches the babies!” 

Her face is contorted into something between an “aw” and a sob. 

Lorelai’s phone is dropped dramatically on the bed as she thrashes on your made (now unmade) bed. You swipe the phone and read. His picture is there, the name Yoon Jeonghan, Junior League Coach.

“Good for him.”

“He just got five times hotter,” she states like she’s out of breath. 

“Give it another meeting and he’ll give you five other reasons to hate him.”

“God, you’re so negative,” she huffs. 

“They’re hogging my rink!”

“It is not your rink.”

“It’s as good as!”

“Whatever.” Lorelai rolls her eyes and sets back on the bed, no doubt searching the man up by name. 

“Ow!” you yelp as you stand up from the ground, ankle twisting slightly in the process. 

Lorelai jumps. “What?”

“Nothing,” you mumble quickly, hoping she’d drop it. But she catches your lingering stare on your bad ankle. 

“It’s still hurting, isn’t it?”

“I just twisted it weird,” you defend, walking to pack up your foam rollers. 

You’re met with silence, but you know she’s thinking. Lorelai speaks, “Maybe you should skip out on the shelter today.”

You snort, “Why would I do that?”

Once, sometimes twice a week, you’d volunteer at the local pet shelter. It wasn’t hard work, mostly taking the bigger, more energetic dogs for their runs because it seemed you were the only one who could keep up with their stamina. And now Lorelai is trying to take that away from you. 

“I saw how you struggled at the rink today, there’s not a day you don’t rest. Like, actually rest.”

“That has nothing to do with me struggling!” you retort. 

“What is it then?” she asks, sitting up straighter, defiance in her gaze. “What is it that’s making you skate like you bought your first pair yesterday?”

The irritation is growing into something hotter, her defiance pushing you into a corner. 

“I know what you want to hear from me.” Your voice is shaky. “I’m not going to say it.”

“Because it’s not true? Or because you’ve been convinced it’s not?” 

You know what she’s talking about, and you know you’ve been avoiding the topic like it’s the plague. The ache in your ankle comes alive, and in that moment, you cannot tell if you’re imagining it or not. 

“Convinced by who?” you snap, shoving the box of foam rollers under your desk. 

“Does that have to come from me too?” 

“Lorry, I don’t know what you want from me!” 

“I—”

There’s a knock on your door, loud and demanding. Wrenching it open, you find Marina behind it. 

She has a frown on her face. “You’re still here? I thought you were running with the dogs today?”

“It’s none of your business if she goes or not, Marina.” Lorelai’s tongue drips with venom most commonly reserved for her most hated people. 

Marina, still in her workout clothes and duffel bag, furrows her eyebrows. “Who shoved a pole up your ass?” 

“I’m leaving in five,” you hiss, before making a motion to close the door. 

When you turn around, Lorelai is still on your bed, hands in fists like she’s holding herself back. There’s more behind her eyes than you could even consider unravelling. 

She leaves before you. 

THE ENTIRE WAY TO the rink was just one constant string of prayer. 

All of them go unanswered when you walk in to find the rink full of hockey players in red and black gear. 

The only thing you can do is curse under your breath, only watching frozen in your tracks as a million players skate across the rink passing and yelling at each other. No one you recognise, their helmets and gear eluding any semblance of individuality. 

Where you stand, a little ways away from the plastic screen and the benches, a dark circular puck suddenly slams directly into the boundary at eye level. On instinct, you flinch at the loud bang, half expecting to get hit. 

When you open your eyes, somebody’s skating up to the boundary, and you lock eyes through the cage of his helmet. 

Your blood is suddenly charged with something electric, fingers curling into fists on instinct. 

Suddenly, all that rings in your ears is the distinct jeers of numbers over the muffle of plastic as you continue to fall, and fall, and fall on the cold, unforgiving ice. The amusement in your failure, the joy in your defeat. 

Spinning on your heel, you stalk to Hansol’s office. 

In your blinding anger, you take a wrong turn, looking up to realise you’ve walked into the locker rooms. You’re one step into the men's locker room when you come back to your senses, startling yourself once again as you spin back from where you came, only you’ve been caught. 

For all the luck you’ve received in this life, it seems to opt out at that exact moment as you hear the unmistakable noise of a herd of ogres walking in, the glare of red on the walls surrounding them. Frozen in your spot, you can only grip the straps of your duffel bag harder, tense up like you were preparing for impact. When they turn the corner, the brilliant idea of simply walking towards the women’s locker rooms befalls you. But it’s too late. 

Seungcheol saunters into the hallway, leading the pack. 

His helmet is in his hands instead of on his head, revealing a sopping mop of hair drenched in what you can only imagine is sweat. He’s laughing at his teammate who’s making futile attempts to escape his own helmet, not noticing you in the way. 

Until he does. His smile fades immediately, eyebrows raised as he registers you in the doorway. You feel his gaze on you for a few silent moments, his teammates shushing at the shift in the air. Seungcheol opens his mouth, and you already know all that’s going to leave it is dung. “Didn’t realise the rink had a vacancy. Do I need to show you my ID to take a shower?”

A rustle of chortles and chuckles flitter from the group. “Go ahead. I don’t need an ID to tell you need a shower.”

Somebody ooh’s, despite it not being your best work. You suppose it was your delivery that did it. Deciding to continue riding that high, you simply turn towards the women’s locker rooms, refusing to give Seungcheol the luxury of your eyes on him.

Hurtling into the women’s locker room, you throw your duffel bag somewhere you’ll regret and crumple into one of the seats. You count to ten, attempting to take the image of Seungcheol out of your brain. 

It was difficult to rile you up to this extent, a trait you needed to possess if you were to be coached by Carroll in any capacity. There was so much you heard from her mouth, swallowing it like a prescribed pill and nothing more. Take what you were given, because it was given by the best, bought for you by the best.

Yet for some reason, Seungcheol manages to irk you in ways you previously have never encountered. Irritating people come and go, but you doubt you could place him as something as simple as just irritating. His presence felt like an intrusion, his air was thick like a concentrated gas. Everything he’s said to you so far has come from nothing but disdain and condescension, his haughty personality the only takeaway when he enters a room. 

You’re still in your outdoor shoes and jacket by the time twenty minutes are over, coming to a conclusion as you get up from the empty, soulless locker room. Hansol is in his office when you make the formality knock before barging in. His head is on the desk, like he’s asleep. It takes him a second, by he lifts his forehead from the papers on the tabletop to regard you at the door. You hear him sigh. 

“The hockey team’s done. It’s two.”

“I wanna book a slot.”

“The rink’s empty you don’t—”

“Let me book the slot, Hansol.”

“For fuck’s sake, you’re turning out worse than those baboons,” he curses before setting his forehead back onto the table. “Write it on the sticky note, I’ll put it in the schedule.”

“Now. I wanna book a slot for right now,” you grit. 

Hansol whips his head up again, eyes wide like he’s holding himself back, nodding furiously as he pulls his keyboard towards himself with an unnecessarily aggressive tug. “Fine. 2:16 till closing. Enter. Print. Here.”

He hands you the printed receipt of your slot, ripping it from the printer tray as he does it. You take it from him in the same vigour, hardly a thank you as you spin on your heels and walk out the door. You stop for a minute, turning back around to yell into the office. 

“Go home if you’re just gonna nap on your desk!” 

Not waiting for a response, you stalk towards the locker rooms. Within minutes you’ve tugged on your skates, laptop and shoes in each hand as you emerge out the tunnel to the rink. 

The ice is empty, mostly. Placing your laptop in the sound booth and your shoes under the benches, you step foot on the ice. They’re there, on the other end, sitting on the cold ice with their jerseys still on, eating what looks like cups of dippin dots. 

Seungcheol and Jeonghan, you remember from Lorelai’s squealing, either don’t notice you on the ice, or simply choose not to. Because it’s easy as you skate up to them, gaining speed from across the rink, you slide to a stop, sending a perfect spray of ice from your skates, directly into their ice cream cups. 

Seungcheol’s full spoon hangs mid air, halfway to his mouth, now garnished with ice shavings. 

“Thought you’d have the respect to keep the dippin dots out of this,” Jeonghan comments, disbelief in his eyes as he looks up at you. 

“Ice is booked.” 

“What time?” Seungcheol asks. Your gaze flickers to the left side of his face, a nasty bruise blooming purple and blue that you hadn’t noticed before. 

“2:16. It’s nearly fifteen minutes past.”

“You’re only one person.” He’s significantly more annoyed than when you saw him outside the locker rooms just minutes ago. 

“And?”

“And…you have about 97% of the rink to yourself.”

You raise your brows, hands on your hips. “But I booked 100% of it. So I’m gonna need that plane of ice you’re currently sitting on.” 

“What if I don’t move?” Seungcheol presses. It’s menacing, the way he looks at you, like he’s a lion only waiting to be provoked. Maybe he’s already halfway there, because it sure looks like it. 

“We’ll find out another day,” Jeonghan sings before you can snap back, grabbing onto the collar of Seungcheol’s red and white jersey to yank him up. He continues to glare as he obliges with his friend’s tugs, nearly as angry as you are. “Let’s go, sport.”

You watch as they walk to the exit of the ice, realising they’re wearing their shoes instead of their skates. 

Jeonghan calls from the benches, right before he and Seungcheol move out of view. “Trash those for us, would you?” 

Their half eaten dippin dots cups, with the ice now melting on them remains on the floor of the rink. Once again, the unexplainable urge to kick something befalls you, hearing them laugh and talk from far away as they exit the rink behind their long gone teammates. 

You give in, swinging a leg over to kick the cups and spoons, dippin dots and plastic scattering across the ice. It’s another sprawl of mess you’ll have to clean up, but it feels good to ruin something of his, no matter how inconsequential. The empty rink encourages you, needing to scream so loud the plastic barriers crack and break. You know it’s impossible, but that doesn’t stop the urge. 

You channel it into the most aggressive warmups on ice you’ve ever done. Your spins are faster, your jumps higher. But this also means you crash heavier, fall harder. It’s then, sitting on the bench to take a break, breathing so heavy you can hardly sip your water, you find an unmistakable headline on your browser home page. 

Everything stops. 

!HOT TOPIC! 

SEAT AT RISK FOR SVT HOCKEY TEAM’S SHINING STAR? Read All About It Here! 

!HOT TOPIC! 

SEAT AT RISK FOR SVT HOCKEY TEAM’S SHINING STAR? Read All About It Here! 

Choi Seungcheol’s seat for next season at risk? Insider reports that the hot headed center may be at risk of contract termination due to recent controversy. The hockey player, renowned for his aggressive playing tendencies, seems to be taking his temperament outside of the rink. Multiple games played by SVT have been subject to eventful halves and quarters, the center seen getting violent in the benches with opposing team members, and sometimes even team members of his own! While his short temper has always been a recurring subject in the news, his skills as a player have always remained top notch—we do wonder if he even has to try! The tables seem to turn a little differently this time around, because it looks that SVT higher ups have been fed up with the increasing reports of Choi’s aggressive behaviour. Insider sources report that talks of a contract termination may be coming into order. While he has proven to be an effective player on the ice, it seems as though it won’t be saving him from this particular ramification! 

Stay tuned, hockey fanatics, as we bring you more updates on Choi’s sticky situation! 

BEFORE EVERYTHING, BEFORE YOUR ankle, before it began to feel like your world was crumbling at your feet, came the scar on your leg. 

In hindsight, it feels like it was the very thing that set the ball rolling, the beginning of your demise. 

Coach Carroll was only on her first handful of sessions with you, Lorelai and Marina, all of you still learning her quirks and expectations as a coach. 

It happened when you were on the sidelines, hanging over the boundary as Lorelai handed you a water bottle from the benches. Marina was practicing her routine, taking up most of the ice as Coach followed on the side. It seemed unclear, to this day, whether you’d drifted inwards on the ice as you sipped from the bottle, unaware. But when you felt the hot searing pain in your calf, there were only two people on the scene. 

Marina skated past, her free leg in the air, meeting your calf as she skated past, effectively slicing into your leg in a deep gash. Blood was wiped off the ice, your leg bandaged and wrapped. Not without Coach and her comments, of course. 

You heard her berate Marina from the other room, for moving closer to the boundary than what was required for her routine, heard the way she gave her the blame. And then she round up on you. 

“Idiot! No reason to be on the ice when you aren’t practicing, did you want it to be your ankles too?!” 

It was the first time you realised that Carroll was beyond your perception of the word demanding, her gaze remained in a high place, no regard for what it took to get there. Even if it meant destroying her skaters. 

Marina apologised. “I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t see you there, I would’ve dropped my leg—”

“It’s okay, Marina. Really,” you smiled through the still aching wound. “I know you didn’t mean it.”

She smiled a little too, “Lesson learned, I guess. Don’t loiter on the ice.” 

It was difficult to keep the smile from fading as you heard her say that.

“What shit apology is that?!” Lorelai yelled as soon as you mentioned it to her later. You cringe as you realise what slipped, and to whom it slipped to. 

“It’s the best I’m gonna get from her, Lorry. Honestly, I don’t care.”

“You’re out of service for a week till that slice heals and that’s all she has to give you?” 

Lorelai is breathing heavily, mostly because she’s been practicing her triple axels for her routine, but also because she’s extensively heated for you. You watch her from the benches. 

“Lorry,” you sigh. 

“Listen, I wanna win too but—”

“Are you trying to say she did it on purpose?” you ask. 

“No! Let me finish, woman,” she snaps. “I wanna win, you wanna win. We’re doing everything we can because we want to win—”

“So this was a subconscious attack?” you interject. 

“Fuck this, I’m leaving,” Lorelai begins to skate backwards and away, leaving you on the bench. 

“NO! Wait, okay, I’m sorry I won’t interrupt.”

“Too late.”

“Lorry! Lorelai!”

It wasn’t until you were back in your shared apartment, Marina out doing whatever while Lorelai hijacked your bed that she got to finish her sentence. She was rubbing ointment on a bruise while you changed the  bandage on your calf. 

“Her need to win is ruining her. And it’s like she’s taking us down with her. I know she doesn’t mean it like that, doesn’t want to hurt us. But she thinks this kind of hurt is good, if it’s the kind of hurt that pushes you to win.”

You cringed at the sight of the wound, still red and ugly. 

“She might not have meant to hurt your leg, but—don’t loiter on the ice? Really?”

“She only meant it as a reminder.”

“Exactly! You don’t need that reminder because I think you’ve learned better than anyone else to not stay on the rink when someone is practising. A couple weeks ago she made some stupid comment because I left the gym early. Nothing inherently rude, she’s never actually rude. But it was pointed anyway. I’ve been up since six in the morning I think I deserve slacking off a little, it was nearly midnight for fuck’s sake!” 

Cleaning the wound was taking everything you had, the need to hiss at the contact of the wet cloth was near abominable. 

“Her…her perception’s a little warped. But her heart’s in the right place!”

Lorelai had rolled her eyes, screwing the cap of her ointment tube back on with unnecessary force. “I never said it wasn’t, just—stop defending her! I’m sorry but half the reason she continues to act like this is because you listen to her.”

At that moment, you felt a little offended. Of course, Marina had her moments where she’d say something a little less than healthy, especially coming from a friend. But you’d always thought you handled it better than most. 

You met Marina when you were still only splotchy faced preteens, during a competition where she came second and you came third. She’d been skating for longer, so it was expected, but you also couldn’t conceal your surprise when you’d found the state of her later on. You were ecstatic simply because you managed to make it to the podium, but it seemed Marina’s tears held another thought process for her. 

You found her crying in the locker rooms later on, her coach who looked like she…should’ve been comforting her, but it was more like a stern talking to, to suck it up and work harder next time round. 

When you tried to help her, out came words you felt oh so strange coming from a stranger. “What do you know? You came third!”

It hurt. Possibly the first genuine stab of the feeling you’d ever felt. In the following weeks, when Marina apologised and you’d begun to build a friendship, you felt something peculiar. Practice sessions on the ice became harder, your two hour sessions were suddenly extending to four, sometimes five hours a day. All of it, your own doing. 

It was subconscious when it was happening, the silent tug of You came third! What you first considered an achievement became an intermediate step. 

If there was anywhere that you’d pinpoint the shift, from when figure skating went from fun to a responsibility, you’d pick that exact moment. When someone congratulated you later on, it wasn’t a big smile and a thank you.

“I only came third.”

Your calf healed and all that was left was a scar, but there in the discolouration of your skin, also lay a realisation. 

SEUNGCHEOL HOSTS ABSOLUTELY ZERO thoughts in his mind as he shoves the collar of his hoodie over his head. Slamming the door shut on the rest of his red SVT paraphernalia, he makes quick work of his hair, shoes on and out the door within the minute. Jeonghan is still fast asleep when he leaves, mouth open and drooling onto his pillow when Seungcheol walks into his room to let him know he’s leaving. 

Jeonghan might tag along to practice for the fun of it despite leaving his competitive hockey career behind him, but his distaste for 6 AM practice remains forever unchanged. He’d see him later though, on the rink lingering once the sun is higher in the sky and Jeonghan deems it less of a sin to be awake. 

Seungcheol leaves without a response from his friend. 

By the time he gets to the rink, most of the team has already geared up. The locker room is splotched with red, moving towards the back of the room to get to his own locker. They weren’t assigned, but he liked to have his claim. He had one in the old rink, the one locker everyone knew was his. And now he has one here, despite the temporary nature of the ordeal. The rest of the boys know to steer clear, as does he for the others who have their lucky spots. 

Mingyu bumps into his shoulder when Seungcheol is looking down, immediately whipping around to bow a full ninety degrees. He’s laughing as he apologises, not really sorry, but Seungcheol is too exhausted to humour him too much. 

He’d been up playing games all night, under the covers in the dark, his phone brightness up too high and his eyes too wide open. He could feel the regret when his alarm blared while it was still dark outside, his eyelids stuck together, refusing to open. It cost him fifteen minutes of warming up, but he’d make it somehow. 

Seungcheol can hear coach Mason’s booming voice from outside, moving closer and closer to hustle the rest of the boys out onto the rink. He shoves his foot into his skates, making sure all that’s left is to lace them up. 

“Look alive, boys! I want you on the ice within the minute,” he booms into the locker room. 

Seungcheol doesn’t look up. When he gets up to leave the locker rooms, his hockey stick and helmet in hand, he’s the last straggling few to leave. Chan earns himself a hard thump on the back from Coach as he scurries out. 

There’s a hand on Seungcheol’s chest as he’s about to exit, Coach stopping him from leaving. 

He looks up, expecting a hard look from Mason, ready to hear a mildly violent threat about being late to call time again. Except Seungcheol finds him with his own gaze on the floor. 

“Rink manager said I could use his office. We should talk there.”

Seungcheol could’ve said he knows what this was going to be about. The game last weekend had less than ideal results, not because they didn’t win, but more so because of the WWE level brawl that went down in the benches during one of the intermissions. 

He tenses, but it was more like he was squaring up. His shoulders are hard, his grip on his hockey stick tighter. Of course, he wasn’t about to swing at his coach, but one could say it was simply a subconscious response. 

The entire walk to the office, Seungcheol thinks of new ways Coach could address his issue. But the gist was always simple. 

Choi, stop fucking fighting. 

He’d usually just rip Seungcheol a new one in front of the boys, berate him and verbally throttle him in the hopes that he’d keep his anger under check. But as they turn towards the door to the office, Seungcheol has to remind himself that this was a first. Being led aside, like he was being led into some formal meeting. 

A plea deal, perhaps?

Choi, what is it going to take?

The office is barren, hardly looks like it’s used with how sparse the equipment is. The amount of dark brown gives it enough warmth to not make it look like some sick form of solitary confinement. That doesn't stop Seungcheol from feeling a hint of pity for whoever has to work here. There’s no nameplate. 

Coach doesn’t take a seat, opting to lean against the table in front of him instead. His arms are folded, and he’s not looking him in the eye. A crawl of suspicion creeps up Seungcheol’s neck, as though in an attempt to ambush him. 

It’s silent in the room as he waits for Coach to speak, refusing to be the one to break it. 

When he does speak, it’s not in his usual Coach voice. Without the built in bass and tremors he was born with. 

“There’s no easy way to break this,” he starts, eyes drifting up to somewhere on the barren walls. “But I’m gonna try my darndest.”

Finally, he feels Coach’s gaze lock with Seungcheol’s expecting pair. 

“They wanna drop you.”

“What?”

Coach squeezes his eyes shut, like he’s recalibrating. “Your contract is up by the end of the season. And the tie wearers and the shoe shiners don't wanna re-sign you.”

Seungcheol’s eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean don’t wanna re-sign me, on what grounds?!”

“You’re temperament—”

“I’ve scored at least two goals for every game you’ve put me in, I’m your most consistent player!”

“They have no qualms with you when you’re on the ice.”

Seungcheol knows where this is going. He knows what knocked up alley this is turning to and he hates it. “Which is all that should matter.”

“In most cases.”

“Is this about last weekend? You didn’t hear him, he deserved more than a broken fucking nose—”

“I didn’t need to hear him, because I know. I know he’s a jackass, I know they’re all jackasses! They know that too. You need to learn to let things go, let them chirp—”

“He was coming on to my mother!” Seungcheol bellows, now properly angry. He remembers the guy’s name, Jason or something. 

“His coach came onto my entire bloodline when we were young, this is Kim’s strategy! You’re playing right into their hands like a dog! For fuck’s sake, Choi! Punching someone in the chiclets isn’t always the answer!” Coach Mason is shaking his hands in front of him like some violent prayer. 

Seungcheol drops his hockey stick and helmet, mouth open as he huffs and puffs. He wants to pace, wants to point his fingers at Coach and make a few threats of his own. 

“Just—”

Seungcheol rounds up on him. “Seungkwan punched a guy in the mouth. Wonwoo kicked one in the balls.”

“Seungcheol. This is becoming nearly. Every. Single. Game. Not the occasional tousle we can pull people out of. You can’t keep sending people to the hospital, it’s a wonder nobody's pressed charges yet!”

“So that’s it? I’m being punished because some dick runs his mouth?” 

“This is about you, Seungcheol. You need to get a fucking grip. You’ve started picking at your own teammates, shoving Mingyu around—seriously?”

Seungcheol’s mouth opens but nothing leaves it. He ends up gaping like a fish. 

For all that it was worth, for everything he’d been through, Seungcheol always assumed his seat was safe. Always assumed he’d have the position he does. Because he showed results, won them nearly every game and put up a damn good fight in the ones they didn’t. 

Seungcheol knew he was an asset, but not for one minute, stop to realise that this was all

conditional. 

For everything he did for this team, for every fiber of his being he poured into its chalice, they were spitting it all right back into his face. Chewed and warped and rid of anything worth salvaging. 

The red in his chest, back, stomach, spelling out the unmistakable letters of his team. The red in his helmet that rests beside the red in his hockey stick. 

“Listen, as much of a pain in the ass you are, you’re good fucking player. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters. But it’s not up to me, so we need to work around that. They’re worried about the repercussions of your behaviour. And you are gonna make sure you keep yourself in check.” 

Coach walks closer, finger digging into Seungcheol’s chest through his jersey. “I want no more fights, no more kicking and punching and swearing no matter how much that motherfucker deserves it, I don’t care. Do whatever it takes. God knows I’ll never forgive you if you make me agree to those prissy hands in suits.”

Coach left Seungcheol in the barren office, stepping over his stick and helmet as he exited the room, leaving him alone. His fingers flex under his gloves, like he’s trying to remind himself to stay in the moment. His exhales are stronger than his inhales, his vision blurring as the desk turns into two, and then disappears for a second. 

He can hear the distinct sound of the puck slamming into hockey sticks. Practice had started. By the time Seungcheol walks out, he’s the last person to go through the mandatory drills. 

The rink is mostly empty as the team gears up for a practice match, leaving Seungcheol enough reign to slam into every puck like he had some personal vendetta against every last one. It’s one after the other, sent directly into the open net, waiting. 

Practice goes fine, as good as it could go with the scrambled eggs that had become of Seungcheol’s mental state. He found himself whipping his head around to Jun when he fumbled an assist, face scrunched under his helmet as he prepared to send him to hell in a handbasket. 

He sees Jun physically tense up in defense, and the insult (for once) dies on Seungcheol’s tongue. 

“Just—keep up, alright,” he says instead. His tone is empty, and on a downward slope. 

If anyone finds it odd, they don’t say. 

It’s a couple more hours of passes, assists and hollers across the ice, regrouping the teams every so often to keep the rotation consistent. 

Over here, everyone is in red, everyone is on his side. The bleachers are empty, devoid of spectators to watch him lose his cool on anything. But he thinks of the way Jun recoiled, like he was preparing for the worst of his teammate’s words. He and Jun are friends. 

Somewhere amidst his thoughts, the puck flies directly into Seungcheol’s face, banging into the cage of his helmet with a noise that resonates across the rink. He’s startled enough to skate back a little, not before hearing another resounding thwack! from next to him. The puck rebounded from his helmet and hit the plastic barrier with a noise that had everyone looking over. 

Skating up to where the puck fell back onto the ice, he looks up to where it hit the barrier. 

Through the plastic he sees…you. You're staring at the same spot he is, where there’s a slight mark from the force of the rubber. 

And then your eyes drift up, locking with his own. 

Like every other person he’s around, he watches you tense up. But it’s laced with something more than just bracing for impact. 

It’s apprehension, your form turbulent and agitated. It’s all he can see when you spin on your heels and walk away in the opposite direction from him. 

The all too familiar irritation sparks in the back of Seungcheol’s mind, as it does when you’re around. All he does is slam his stick into the ice with force, pushing the puck back into the middle of the rink. 

They’re nearly done by that point, and he finds that Jeonghan has graced himself in the benches. He’s wearing his old jersey, likely because he doesn’t want Coach to notice him and accuse him of distracting his players. 

Jeonghan would’ve gotten away with it anyway. 

Seungcheol tells him to wait up, walking towards the locker room with the rest of the rest of the team to wash up. He finds some reprieve in Seungkwan’s attempts at fumbling with his helmet, letting out a laugh as he fights with it. Looking up as they take the turn towards the locker rooms as a group, he somehow finds himself in your presence, again. 

It’s the same thing, like you’ve been connected to a faulty circuit and you’re trying not to show it. You look like you want to say something but all Seungcheol can do is send a snarky remark of his own. 

Even as you walk away after the ordeal, he feels anything but settled. 

It’s like the world has it out for him, because as he opts to stalk back to where Jeonghan was, forgoing a shower, there’s only another calamity waiting for him. 

Jeonghan is in the rink, sitting on the ice with two cups of what looks like dippin dots. He looks up when he hears his treads on the ice, having taken his skates off already. Seungcheol crumples to the ground and on the ice next to his friend. 

The first words he utters are the only ones that’ve been on his mind all day. “They want to drop me.”

Jeonghan only grimaces in response, only running his hands through his hair as he sighs loudly. “I know. I heard.”

Seungcheol perks up, head lifting from the ice. “...How?”

That’s how Seungcheol has Jeonghan’s phone so close to his face he’s hardly an inch away from the screen. He reads and reads and reads. And his blood boils and boils and boils. 

!HOT TOPIC! 

SEAT AT RISK FOR SVT HOCKEY TEAM’S SHINING STAR? Read All About It Here! 

Choi Seungcheol’s seat for next season at risk? Insider reports that the hot headed centre may be at risk of contract termination due to recent controversy. The hockey player, renowned for his aggressive playing tendencies, seems to be taking his temperament outside of the rink. Multiple games played by SVT have been subject to eventful halves and quarters, the center seen getting violent in the benches with opposing team members, and sometimes even team members of his own! While his short temper has always been a recurring subject in the news, his skills as a player have always remained top notch—we do wonder if he even has to try! The tables seem to turn a little differently this time around though, because it looks that SVT higher ups have been fed up with the increasing reports of Choi’s aggressive behaviour. Insider sources report that talks of a contract termination may be coming into order. While he has proven to be an effective player on the ice, it seems as though it won’t be saving him from this particular ramification! 

Stay tuned, hockey fanatics, as we bring you more updates on Choi’s sticky situation! 

Of course, to add to the absolute media pandemonium, you had shown up on the rink itself after Seungcheol had to read through the entirety of that stupid article. Jeonghan was smart to pull him away from the situation before he wrapped both his hands around your neck in an ultimatum. 

The way you stood there, hip popped like you owned the damn place, face haughty and demanding. You stood while they sat, looking down at Seungcheol like he was some pesky ant. There was nothing he would’ve rather done in that moment than swing his leg clean across your ankles, and watch in delight as you crash onto the ice in front of him. 

“What the fuck is her problem?” he grits as soon as he’s in the locker rooms. Collecting his things to leave and take a shower at home. 

Jeonghan walks behind him, hands in his pocket in idleness as he watches his friend pack up. He’s humming a tune that’s possibly too familiar to Seungcheol. “Hm. She does seem a little wound too tight.”

“Wound too tight?! I’ve seen her thrice just today and every single time she looks like she wants to skin my fucking hide!”

Jeonghan only snorts. “Thing two isn’t any better. She’s cute though.”

Seungcheol whips around. “Who gets that territorial over a sound booth?!”

“Down, boy,” Jeonghan soothes, half in jest. “Surprised she isn’t here today either.”

“Yeah, you’d like to see her.”

“I would, actually, yes. What was her name?”

“Something to do with a train or a bus or something—”

“Lorry! Right,” Jeonghan furrows his brows. “I don’t think that’s her real name.”

Seungcheol throws his duffle bag over his shoulder as he motions he’s done. “I don’t think anyone who actually loves their child would name them after a bus.”

Jeonghan halts in his steps. “My dead dog’s name was Lorry.”

Seungcheol is extra nice for the rest of the way home. 

SEUNGCHEOL CAN'T SLEEP.

His dreams are full of voices, of every single teammate he’s ever had. The junior league, his high school team, up to his college team, and finally, his team right now. 

They’re all murmuring like they were paid to do it, uttering the same things, over and over. He doesn’t belong here, they don’t want him here, he doesn’t deserve what he has. 

And with the way his heart is racing when he jolts awake, cold sweat and all, he realises he’s kicked his blanket off of him sometime during the night. He looks over to his alarm clock that glares bright in the dark of his room; 5:08 AM.

He doesn’t need to be up, but it seems his own subconscious has given him a good enough scare to make sure every last essence of sleep escapes him. He lays on his back, catching his breath like he just ran a marathon. 

Seungcheol hasn’t woken up from a nightmare like this since middle school, one that knocks the breath from his lungs and fills his head with all the horrible things in the world. With every moment that passes after that conversation with Coach Mason, his ordeal becomes increasingly real. 

In that moment, laying in his bedroom, staring blankly at the dark ceiling above, he wonders if he’s made the right choice to come this far. 

With all the confidence he’s exuded, the thought is downright terrifying. 

Seungcheol was a difficult child. Too much energy, too much to say, too much to do. His parents didn’t know the first thing about hockey, just that it involved enough hitting and running and practice to let their son let out all that pent up energy, so maybe, just maybe, he’d sit still and do his homework. While they attempted to sign him up at the local rink, he was already zooming out towards the benches to see the fabled giant block of ice his parents told him about. 

And there it was, just like in the movies, a giant expanse of ice that made him shiver even in his thick Winnie The Pooh puffer vest. There’s sounds, loud ones, of deep clacks that echo across the rink. It seems to be coming from the dozens of people skating on the rink, decked out in red gear. 

SVT, he reads on their jerseys. 

His mother chides him for straying when they finally find him near the gate, watching the team practice. The rink manager is there as well, showing his parents around. 

“The SVT’s practice here and have a junior league too, but I’m afraid it’s full. But our coach is great too, I’m sure he’ll do well.”

Seungcheol’s parents didn’t mind, but he wanted those jerseys, wanted his name in red splashed across his back as he glided across the ice. 

It didn’t take long for his coach and his parents to realise that putting him in a helmet was a good idea. He was smoking the rest of the kids from day one, his balance on the ice better than any other his age, his hold on a hockey stick like second nature, his aim as he hit his first puck, dazzling. 

As he got older, entering his preteen and teen years, he had another realisation. That he was as horrible at school as he was good at hockey. 

“Perhaps you should take a break from hockey,” his high school guidance counsellor had said. His grades were displayed in front of her like a case study, the hopeless clear in her intermittent sighs and the occasional purse of her lips. “Utilise that time to fix at least one of your grades. Pour all your eggs in one basket.”

The thought was absurd. No, he would not be dropping hockey when it was the only thing that pushed him to wake up in the morning. 

He’d felt the tremble of irritation rise in himself, sitting there in that office. It angered him, made him feel like his success was measured by a criteria not made for him. He had said nothing as he slipped out of chair and left the room. 

The day before his graduation, sweat dripping onto the ice as he sent free pucks into the net, he was missing more than he was getting in. It was making him more mad than it should, hands shaking with fury as he berated himself for not being able to succeed in something so simple.

His last puck was before him, and he swung his stick harder than ever and watched as it flew directly into the net. The sound is louder than usual, resonating across the rink. Seungcheol looked down at the detached pieces in his hand and quickly realised that he’d effectively broken his hockey stick.

It wasn’t expensive, so the quality wasn’t nearly what it should be, wasn’t nearly as durable. But this was new to him. He’d never broken a stick before. 

Anger. Perhaps that was what he'd forgone, perhaps that was what he needed. To get on his knees from his back, to get on his feet from his knees. 

When he graduated the next day, Seungcheol knew what he was going to do with his life. Finally had an answer for the infinite questions about his future. 

Hockey. Seungcheol was going to play hockey for the rest of his life. He was going to get into SVT, he was going to become the best player they’ve ever had. He was going to make more money than what he would have as a doctor or a lawyer or whatever else the entire world wanted him to do instead. 

Seungcheol was going to be on the ice wearing red if it’s the last thing he does. 

That’s what pushes him out of bed at 8:45 in the morning, his dream that was once in his hands now flitting through the gaps of his fingers. 

The anger that pushed him here, was now pushing him out. 

He packs his things and leaves the house, welcoming the cold of the outdoors. 

There’s the distinct sound of blade cutting through ice when he gets nearer to the rink itself, a shout of a shrill voice he can’t decipher. Official practice doesn’t start for another couple hours, and he doesn’t remember Coach Mason cutting the pitch in his voice for anything ever. There’s only one other person that could possibly be gracing the rink.

Seungcheol finds three people on the rink. The bright red curly mop of hair catches his eye first, her arms folded over her green puffer jacket, apprehension in her entire posture. He assumes this is your coach. 

There’s a blonde one breathing heavily as she straightens out of a spin, listening to the coach as she shakes her head violently as she speaks. 

Seungcheol finds you a little ways away from the pair, practising jumps. 

He doesn’t emerge into the benches, remaining in the shadows where he wouldn’t be so blaringly obvious. There’s no reason for him to hide, but he doesn’t think of this as hiding. 

Seungcheol watches for the next few minutes, watches you make most of your jumps, fall for some. Your coach shouts for particular names for jumps, something about axels and lutz’ that he can’t tell the difference from when put into action. At least he thinks that’s what you’re doing. 

And then he hears it as your coach moves closer to the barriers. “What’s gotten into you? Keep acting this stupid and I’ll excuse myself from the job, I have better people to coach.”

Her tone, her words, the sharp edge of her tongue, it’s all triggering a very specific part of Seunghceol’s brain. 

“Is it your ankle? Because if it is, then I’m here to tell you to get out of your own head. Your ankle is fine, you wouldn’t be able to get on the ice at all if it wasn’t.” 

There it comes. Those words aren’t directed towards Seungcheol, nor could they apply to him in any capacity. But the way this coach is speaking is making him irrationally angry. 

“Are you gonna keep pretending you have a handicap? Because if you are then I have no work here.”

“I’m sorry.” 

For whatever reason, the sound of you apologising makes the fire rage doubly. It’s enough to blur his vision, enough to make him question what on earth this coach could have on you to let her speak to you in that way. 

The choice words are already in his head as he claps back in his own head, like he was the one at the receiving end. 

He doesn’t stay, disappearing even further into the tunnel to where the locker rooms are. He doesn’t understand why he’s huffing and puffing as much as he is. All that occupies him is what possible reasons you could have to just take it lying down. 

Seungcheol’s phone vibrates in his pocket, slipping it out to realise it’s Jeonghan. 

He picks up, and barely has time to say hello before his voice perks up from the other line. “Where are you?” He sounds like he just woke up. 

“I’m at the rink.”

“Why is your angry voice on?”

“My angry voice is not—” he begins to grit, seething, but closes his eyes and takes a moment. “I’m not mad.”

“Do I need to sing?”

“No, you do not have to sing—”

“Everything is honey—”

“Jeonghan, stop!”

“—everywhere I see—”

Seungcheol hangs up before he can go on. To his utmost irritation, he feels significantly calmer. 

The rink is devoid of your red headed coach when Seungcheol makes his way there after a few minutes. The blonde one is nowhere to be seen, leaving you alone in the rink as you skated across the expanse. He only watches as you land the couple attempts at jumps, the ice breaking ground in a spray every time you put pressure on your blades. 

Seungcheol is just standing there, blank faced with an empty head. His mind was quiet for the first time since he’d woken up that morning. 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing there, standing idle as he follows your figure around the rink like a fixation point. 

The sound is more consistent, less of the loud jabs of hockey sticks meeting the ice, more constant lines of scraping as you migrate across the rink. The speakers boom no sound, but the musicality in the noise of the ice is enough to imagine a rhythm. 

No part of him desires getting on the ice to oust you out, no part of him wants to touch his hockey stick that sits in the locker room. He doesn’t need extra practice, not with hockey at least. 

And when you notice him, unmoving in the benches, he watches as something hard overcomes your expression. You skate over, and he keeps his gaze fixated on the ice.

Skating up to the gate, he sees in his peripheral vision as you slip on your skate guards, stepping out into the real world. 

“You don’t have the rink booked, I checked,” you huff, moving to find your things on the other set of benches. 

Seungcheol’s jaw tenses. “I don’t want the rink right now.”

“And yet the ghost loiters.”

“I’m here to tell you to start filling in the stupid craters your skates make in the ice. The guys keep tripping.” 

“You big hockey thugs getting defeated by a toe pick?” 

Seungcheol turns to finally look at you, and you look nothing as graceful as you did on the ice. He wants to scoff. 

You continue, “I have to deal with your stupid barriers fucking up my sound system. I think your guys can deal with a couple digs in the ice.” 

“Great, we’ll just lose a couple teeth, who really gives a fuck.” 

“If this is about giving fucks,” you get up from your water break, leaving the bench. “Do me a favour and forget your mouth guard next time. Let the puck punch you in the mouth if I can't."

Seungcheol’s entire being is ablaze. He reshuffles his footing. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem?” you repeat, voice moving a pitch higher. “My fucking problem is that you and your overgrown posse of baboons drop in here out of the blue and then act like you own the damn place!”

“Right, because it’s your name on the fucking lease. Excuse us for trespassing on public property!”

You’re yelling. Seungcheol is yelling. It’s either that or the hollow of the rink is now carrying your voices farther out. 

“I’ve had enough of you acting like you don’t take up this entire fucking space!” Your arms wave wildly, gesturing to the large area of the rink. “You’re everywhere, all the fucking time, it’s sickening!”

“Everywhere, huh?” He takes a step closer to you. And then another. He revels in the sight of your face turning a splotchy red. “Thought I was only a bother on the ice? Where else have I been plaguing you in mystic hallucinations?”

Seungcheol’s eyes give away nothing but provocation. He knows he didn’t start this, but in the true essence of who he is, he would be the one to end it. 

It’s clear you’re taken aback. At this moment, he’s the closest he’s ever been to you. But it’s for nothing if it isn’t to press on you further, to tower over you and your outburst. 

“Get your head out of the gutter, you brute.”

“Then is it not me taking up all your space?” he asks. “Because there’s three feet of air between us, and yet the least in our very short time together.”

He watches as you take a small step back.

“So where else have I been any closer, so consistently, if it wasn’t part of your imagination?”

There’s a certain kind of venom in your stare, in the sneer that lifts your mouth, enough to ensure that it’d render him six feet deep. But he lives in reality, so he deems it safe to take another step closer. 

“You’re a screw up,” you almost whisper. Appalled and scandalised. 

“So I’ve been told,” Seungcheol breathed. “But something tells me we’re not so different in that department.”

“You don’t know a thing about me.”

“I know that I’m all you can think about,” he says, eyebrows raised. “That feels like a lot. You’d agree, because everywhere, all the fucking time is a lot.” 

Seungcheol has hardly finished his sentence before he feels the light breeze of you gathering your few things, shouldering him hard and walking away from him. Into the tunnel, into the locker rooms, into hell, wherever it was that you ended up by the close of the day. 

He isn’t afraid to admit that he stumbled.

LORELAI HAD MADE IT quite clear that any figure skating talk was off the table, and talk surrounding Marina even more so. You tried not to point out the obvious predicament, but the fact that you lived with Marina did not affect her demand. 

Miraculously, not talking about skating or Marina was the most free you’d felt in ages. It was mildly embarrassing in the beginning, when on a run with Lorealai who was also helping out at the dog shelter, because you realised all you talked about was, maybe not Marina, but definitely a lot of skating. 

You slow down a little to give Kkuma a couple minutes to breathe, but Lorealai is still running at her pace with her significantly more energetic husky, Bennie. 

“Stay there, I’ll catch up!” she yells over her shoulder as she takes the left around the block to circle back. 

You oblige, moving to a walking pace as Lorelai appears from behind you after a couple minutes. She slows to a jog and loiters around you for a minute, you increase your speed to match hers. 

“Jeonghan…” she pauses to take a breath. But your interest is piqued, especially if she was talking about the same Jeonghan you were thinking about. “Jeonghan invited me to the game this weekend.”

Hold. 

“What?” you snap.

“Game. This weekend,” she huffs, still breathing heavily. 

“Like, a hockey game?” you ask, brows furrowed. 

“No, for disney on ice,” she announces. “They’re doing beauty and the beast, Jeonghan’s the beauty, Seungcheol is the beast. It’s a whole production, really. Real good stuff.”

You can only roll your eyes at the elaborate sarcasm. She continues, “Of course, it's a hockey game! What else do they do at that rink all day?”

“Gosh, sorry,” you frown. “Since when do you talk to Jeonghan?”

She looks over, wicked smile on her face. “Since I found him on Instagram.”

“You followed him?”

“No, why would I do that? Bumped into him at the gym a while ago, and we went out for coffee afterwards.”

Nothing of the ordeal is making sense, your brows still knit together and your mouth downturned in confusion. 

“Catch you in a minute!” she yelps as she takes off into a run again, Bennie right next to her as she circles round again. 

The few minutes that it’s just you and tiny Kkuma are flooded with questions. How did she just bump into Jeonghan? Lorelai hardly goes to the gym. Asking her to come to the hockey game? 

And then worst of all. 

Are they dating? 

By the time Lorelai is back, she’s out of breath again, and fully unequipped to answer all of the questions you shoot at her like rapid fire. 

“Why were you at the gym? He’s a junior league coach, he’s not even gonna be playing!”

“God!” she groans, heaving. “Slow…down.”

“Fine!” You stop in your tracks entirely, to which Lorelai is happy to oblige as she crouches with her hand on her knees. Bennie tugs at her leash, the big bounding ball of fluff ready to race the winds again. 

You count to ten, hands on your hips as Kkuma lets out a small, confused yip now that you’re completely idle on the track. 

“Talk.” 

With an all too dramatic flip of her short hair, she pulls herself up and into an explanation. “I couldn’t tell you because we weren’t talking when it all happened.”

It’s true, it did take a while for you to go back to normal after that run in with Marina in your bedroom. You suppose it won’t be happening again with the new no-Marina-talk rule, since she seemed to be quite the common factor in many of your rifts over the years. 

“I went to the gym to blow off some steam—don’t look like that, I’m being serious!” 

You make an attempt at fixing your face as she continues. 

“He saw me first and came up to say hi. Went our separate ways but once we finished up he asked if I wanted to grab a coffee since we were both done working out.” 

“And you said yes?”

“I said yes. Because he is cute, and I had been stalking his very public Instagram and it was just the perfect opportunity!” 

“So you’re dating?” you ask sharply. 

“I don’t know.”

“He asked you to the game?” you point out. 

“Well, yes, but he hasn’t asked me asked me.” Somewhere in her voice there’s the tiniest hint of disappointment. “Besides, he said to bring you as well.”

“Fuck no.”

“Come ooon! Jeonghan’s gonna be in the benches and I don’t know anyone else there!” she whines. 

“Hey, we should switch dogs!” you announce as you yank Bennie’s leash out of Lorelai’s hands, stuffing  Kkuma’s leash into her free hand. 

You take off into a sprint, and Bennie is happy to keep up with you as you quite literally run away from the situation. Lorelai is yelling your name, her annoyance abundant. 

Ignoring her is easy. Just the thought of walking into one of those games is enough to force a scoff, to watch your rink inhabited with like minded buffoonery as they ruin the bleachers and the ice. 

By the time you make it back, the hilarity of the situation hasn’t left you. And it seems neither has Lorelai, who remains standing with Kkuma at her feet, waiting to trap you. 

It’s the easiest thing to do, to turn right back around and circle the other way. 

“You can’t run away from me forever!” she shouts behind you as you disappear again. 

Maybe you couldn’t, but you wouldn’t go down without a fight. 

“You can’t run away from Seungcheol forever! Quit pretending like you aren’t dying to fall into those giant arms!” Lorelai has a very specific talent of injecting all the drama in the world in the tone of her voice. She’s sure to utilize that skill as she hollers after you. 

That seems to do it for you, slowing down, half ready to whip around and holler a profanity or two right back. 

You’re more triggered than usual, but mostly because all the jab does is remind you of the last time you saw him. The arrogance in his demeanor, the way he belittled you with just his eyes, the shadow of his towering frame, caging you like a lost animal. 

You hated it. Despised it. Despised him. His disgusting innuendos, the all so misleading innocence on his face as he cornered you with both his body and his words. 

Lorelai could deal you whatever card there was tied up her sleeve, but getting you anywhere near the rink for the game this weekend was going to require more than just dessert bribes and sweet talking. Dragging you by the ankles could be a possibility, but all for naught when you dig your nails in anyway. 

It was impossible. Not doable. Non-existent in the cards of your destiny. A repelling force. 

So why, would one ask, were you decked out in the most  heinous red scarf with the letters SVT stitched on like a warning, sitting in the bleachers and looking down at the same rink you practice your spins and jumps in everyday? 

Neither you or Lorelai could answer that question, both your stories as blurry as fog as to how either of you managed to get you in that fabled seat. 

You could see the exact place you and Seungcheol had your last showdown, the opposing team in black now occupying that side of the benches. The thought puts you in an impossibly sour mood. It’s not like Lorelai could say anything about it, half because she knows you’re one snide remark away from jumping into the merch table, and half because she was too busy making heart eyes at Jeonghan who’s just spotted her in her seat. 

“I’ll be back,” she informs haphazardly as she positively bounds down the steps to the end of the bleachers, where Jeonghan waits for her. The people in their seats shuffle, annoyed at the overenthusiastic fan who practically slides down in front of their legs towards the railing. But Lorelai couldn’t care less, not with what stood beyond that very railing. 

Tearing your eyes away from the lovebirds, you take in the hustle and bustle of the pregame happenings, most of the bleachers in disarray as they humour the merch stands and the food stalls. The rink smells different because of it, both the added number of food trucks and drink stands, but also with the amount of people that occupy the expanse. 

The only times you see the rink this packed is when you’re too wracked with nerves to notice anything other than your own two feet. Hands wringing and head spinning, the chaos of the world is nothing against the pandemonium in your mind. You’re usually wearing a sparkly dress that glitters even from the very last row of bleachers, hair taut and makeup caked on like a layer of icing. 

Taking your time, you let your eyes flit over all that you forgo the other times. The stands are a mix of red and black, and so are the benches and ice that are occupied by men in full hockey gear. 

You’re too high up to make out the names on the back of all those jerseys, let alone a face underneath the already concealing helmets. The problem is forgotten when you feel the weight of two hands slam against your folded arms, tugging you out of your seat like it was stolen property. 

“Jeonghan said we could sit closer to the benches downstairs!” Lorelai is frantic, like this wasn’t a matter of reserved seats but the last plane to leave hell itself. 

“Lor—” Finishing a sentence when she’s in this state is a luxury you learn quickly to live without, because all that concerns her right now is getting closer to the man that seems to have enraptured her like never before. 

It’s disgusting. But you follow her anyway, down the steps that you nearly eat shit on, gracefully of course, because what figure skater doesn’t fall with an epic crash worthy of an Expendables cameo. You stabilise yourself enough to get to the seats Lorelai is talking about, and sure enough, Jeonghan would barely have to get on his tiptoes to hoist himself into the bleachers altogether. You question the safety of the context but decide that it wasn’t your problem if someone decided to pounce on one of the players. 

Besides, you’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t revel in the absolute scene of Seungcheol getting jumped by an over-passionate fan. You’re suddenly very grateful for the front row seats. 

There’s a bucket of chicken tenders and fries in your lap out of nowhere, matching the one in Lorelai’s hands. “Also Jeonghan?” you hum as you inspect the sauce options. 

“Mhm, he’s friends with the vendor outside,” she grins. 

You narrow your eyes at the revelation, finding it utmost strange how close he seems to be with nearly everyone. “Why is he on the benches, again?” you ask. 

“Because—” she draws before you cut her off. 

“Friends with the coach?”

“How’d you know?!” she exclaims. Her attention is diverted as the speakers suddenly boom with something other than generic pop music. So is yours, when you hear a deep baritone of a commentator’s voice carries throughout the rink. 

The shuffle around you is suddenly doubling in speed, everyone getting into their seats. You look over in front of you, where the benches are in an equally panicked shuffle. You spot Jeonghan easily, mostly because he’s one of the few in the vicinity without a helmet or what looks like a giant space suit. The next thing you note is the person he’s talking to, his back turned to you, but familiar all the same. 

CHOI, 95, reads his jersey. Automatically, your jaw clenches.  “Don’t look over there!” Lorelai chides, grabbing your jaw and moving it to force you to rip your eyes away from him. 

“Lorelai, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but unlike your boy toy, he’s actually gonna be on the ice,” you verbalise through clenched teeth. 

“Don’t look at the ice,” she blurts. 

Rolling your eyes, you only listen as she realises what she’s said. “Okay, um, look at Jeon instead! Or Kim, or Boo, just. For god’s sake, there’s fifty other players on the ice, just don’t let one of them ruin your night!” 

“I’m fine,” you grumble, sinking into your seat. 

It isn’t long before your eyes trail over anyway, and Seungcheol still doesn’t have his helmet on. You can see his face now, and he looks like he’s mad at Jeonghan about something. 

Inevitably, your mind wanders to the fated article that somehow made its way into your recommended, the certainty it put in you that Seungcheol didn’t stand a chance in his team anymore. It seemed true enough, his anger, that he continues to display, seemed to be his default emotional setting. 

Your hockey knowledge was subpar at best, but one thing you did know was the aggression factor of the sport. Of all the things that could cut his career clean down the middle, this was the last of your guesses.  

Even now, as you watch him absentmindedly point and jerk like his supposed friend had managed to bring him something that was personally offensive, it’s all connecting too well. 

But when you snap into reality, you realise very quickly that he was pointing…at you. 

Seungcheol is mad that Jeonghan (effectively) brought you to the match. 

A chortle of disbelief is quick to make itself known, wanting to yell across the throng that you were every bit as upset that he was in your vicinity too. It also brings you satisfaction, a pure grain of hope, that maybe this would be enough for him to completely fuck up on the ice today. 

You say a quick amen before the baritone of the commentator makes itself known again. The echo is too much for you to decipher what’s going on, but you have your answer when you watch the reds and the blacks form what looks like a line across the width of the rink, right in the center. 

You don’t register when the puck landed, or if it was always there, just that the loud clacks and bangs are in tandem with the cheer from the crowds. The puck is an impossible commodity to keep up with, even with just your eyes. It appears for a moment before it’s lost again, shooting around in your peripheral vision like a pesky fly you can never get a hold of. 

“What is happening?” you whisper to yourself. 

Lorelai answers anyway, snorting, “Fuck if I know.”

The numbers on the lit screens are doing nothing to help out your predicament, too much happening for you to even begin to deconstruct. You choose to lay back and enjoy your chicken tenders and fries, complimenting the sauce choices to Lorelai along the way, who continues to calibrate her attention on the man that remains in the benches. Jeonghan looks over periodically to send her a wave and a blinding smile. 

You’ve made a good enough dent in your chicken and fries bucket by the time it’s intermission, about ready for a drink by now. Lorelai makes herself useful and runs down to get you both something, mostly because Jeonghan was now more focused on the team that’s huddled around one another, another man you assume is their coach huddled right with them. 

The scores are 2-2, as provided by the person behind you who was apparently sick of your placid obliviousness. It did feel slightly awkward to be the only person not as excited to be front and center, so you remind yourself to thank him profusely. 

Your attention drifts back to the benches, inevitably as you’ve been so unfortunately placed to be able to breathe down the player’s necks. They’ve dispersed from their huddle, but are not yet on the ice. They’re sitting down, catching their breaths, drinking from water bottles. On the other side, the opposing team, a sea of black and white flooding their own end of the benches. It’s a sinking colour, not an ounce of depth in the shade. It’s taking over the benches. 

Except it’s the players that are moving, like they’re diffusing into the scarlet territory. 

You watch, as one player in black moves his mouth, speaking, upturned and eyebrows cocked. It’s clear he’s gone well past enemy lines, the front lines suddenly at attention. There’s not much you can make out, nothing much besides the very haughty expression on the player’s face. His eyes are covered by the sweaty mop on his head, but you don’t need to see them to find the malice that infiltrates his entire stance.

The scene, where both sides seem to be closing in on each other, has you automatically sitting up straighter. The air is going static, especially as you realise the player's mouth is moving faster as he jabs at — Seungcheol. 

They’re fighting, only verbally for now, but it’s undeniable the way the heat grows by the second. All you can see is the back of Seugncheol’s jersey as he begins to step back from the ordeal, like he was fighting the urge to take a step forward instead. 

Jeonghan’s hand is on Seungcheol’s elbow, and one glance at the rest of the players on this side shows every last one on edge. Their coach is nowhere to be seen. 

But he doesn’t stop talking, still standing in their territory. He yells something loud enough to hear the pitch of his voice, but not nearly enough to understand what he’s saying. 

You could see it on the player’s face. Hook, line and sinker. 

It happens so suddenly. Seungcheol surges forward like a dart, something flies out and hits the player square in the face. 

Seungcheol had spat his mouth guard into his face. 

You gasp out loud as you register what’s happening. The player removes his hand from his face, and for some reason, emerges grinning. 

Seungcheol swings first, his fist rising and coming down on his cheek with a sound you can hear. You feel nauseous. 

It’s pandemonium. You can see Jeonghan practically on top of Seungcheol, a number of other players attempting to get him off the man he continues to grab and shake up like a fugitive. The other player is throwing his own punches.

For one, horrifying moment, the force of the punch pushes Seungcheol’s face towards the stands enough to let you get an eyeful. All you see is red, beyond just his jersey. His mouth is full of blood, the front of his jersey dripped with it, his knuckles clustered with it. 

The hand clasped around your mouth is your own, eyes blown in horror. 

All around you, the world has their phones out like it was some show meant just for them, like this was exactly what they came here for. 

It’s sickening. Sickening. 

You brave another look, and they’ve been yanked off of one another. Seungcheol is being pushed down the tunnel and away from sight. Jeonghan has his hands clutched around Seungcheol like he’s nearly ready for another outbreak, his face grim. 

Your eyes keep away from Seungcheol’s face on purpose.  “Goodness, what is going on, I could barely get through the crowd,” Lorelai’s irritated voice infiltrates your ears, and you’re immediately brought back down to earth. 

Arms full of more snacks and drinks, it only takes her one look at your rattled self to know. 

“What happened?”

“I…they were…fighting. I don’t know, it just—Seungcheol was throwing punches and there was…blood, so much blood.”

She’s gotten a grip on your hand, her fingers warm under your cold, shivering ones. “Do you wanna leave?” she asks slowly. 

One look over her shoulder is enough to tell you it’d be impossible. Everyone was too excited to care to cater to two people going in the opposite direction of the action. So you tell her there was no point, and you attempt to calm your racing heart as she sits next to you. 

Snagging one of the packs from her mountain of snacks, you rip it open and let the sickly sweet smell infiltrate your nostrils. Popping one of the confections in your mouth, it’s hard to not make a face. It’s the sourest thing you could’ve picked, the tartness enough to distract you from the outside world. Eyes scrunched closed, you swallow the rush of saliva to ask Lorelai what the fuck she brought.

You chortle, and it has Lorelai looking over. “Whoops! That one’s mine.”

She snags the bag from your loosened grip, replacing it with a tamer bag of original flavoured potato chips. The chips are trying, but there’s not much you can do besides wait for the residues of the godawful candy to subside. 

The ordeal seems to have calmed you the slightest bit, finally able to turn back to the ice. The rink is back to being occupied, players from both ends pouring onto the ice. You note a minor shoulder shove at the gate, but look away like it’d stop the calamity from intensifying. 

The game ensues as normal, but you note the blatant absence of CHOI in the sea of red and white jerseys. You don’t mention it, and neither does Lorelai. 

You’re about to burst by the time the finals moments are upon the game, the overtime minutes beginning to tick as the crowd grows restless by the second. With the little you’ve managed to grasp, you’re sure that SVT is only one goal away from the overtake. It’s making you nervous, like you’re waiting for your own score to be announced after a free skate. 

The puck is a mere percentage easier to navigate after a couple hours of keeping after it; it skips between players you’re beginning to recognise from the back of their jersey. Kim, Boo, Wen, Kim, Lee. The opposing team intercepts for a moment, and you find yourself letting out an irritated shake of the shoulders. Back to Kim, Lee, Lee, and then, right into the net. 

The jittering crowd suddenly went so silent you could hear a pin drop. 

And then the world around you erupts. It’s impossible to classify the sound as cheers when racketeers off your entire being like an unearthly sound, the stands on their feet hollering and screaming and yelling at their players that are fighting to keep their new overtake in the final seconds before the game officially ends. 

And when it does, you’re sure you need to get your ears checked out. 

Looking over, you catch Lorelai’s eye, and you can’t help but laugh. A delightful laugh that releases itself in the midst of the chaos of red, scarlet and cherry. Somebody’s thrown a red blanket over you, another has begun to hand out congratulatory cherry lollipops (you pass, but Lorealai would be damned if she did), people are hugging each other so tight and you get the inkling they’ve only met each other today. 

The ice is one giant dogpile, red on red as they suffocate one another in celebration. 

Perhaps you didn’t realise how important the game actually was, or maybe every game is like this, loud, proud and exultant. You find yourself imagining how they feel. 

The lost feeling of bouquets and flowers whisked in your direction, stuffed animals and hundreds of other things that scream adoration as your performance comes to a close. It’s a physical manifestation of an adoring crowd, as though making it tangible makes it a little more real. 

The rush, you can feel it resonate off of the scarlet side of the benches, and it’s enough for you to realise that yes, this was an important match. For them anyway. 

The way out of the rink is reasonably packed, but you manage to squeeze through the doors and towards where Lorelai had parked with fewer than expected obstruction. “Thought you might wait to see Jeonghan before we leave,” you hum as you walk to the parking spot. 

“I was going to, but he’s probably dealing with what happened,” she utters slowly. A flash of red at the mention, gone as soon as it came. Lorelai adds with a little extra pep to her voice, “It’s okay! I’ll send him a text, we were planning on dinner tomorrow anyway.”

The side eye you send is met with a light shove. “This one seems serious. Dragging me here for his sake and now dinner with him?”

Lorelai was infamous for taking it excruciatingly slow, the time between the talking stage and the first date stretching for months. She claims it’s to make sure she's not roping herself into something she’d regret, which you’ll admit has seemed to work out in her favour. Her last relationship lasted years before Josh had to move away. 

Jeonghan seems to have her under some warped spell, because Lorelai was hurtling into this relationship like a too compressed cannon ball. There was nothing you knew about Jeonghan other than his friendship with Seungcheol, his position as junior league coach and his habit of loitering on the ice; which means there wasn’t much opinion to be had on the whole conquest. Regardless, you decide to caution her some other day, when she’s not glowing and over the moon like a robust teenager. 

Slipping into the passenger seat, you slump like never before, already dreaming about the bedrotting session you’re about to have; glorious enough for the books. 

“Do you wanna grab food and rot on the couch?” she asks. 

“You’re still hungry after all that?” you huff, your mouth still flavoured with artificial sweetness paired with the savoury of the chicken and fries. You pull out your phone for the first time in nearly three hours, the home screen alarming full of missed notifications. Text messages, mentions and phone calls. For whatever reason, you swipe right past and open your browser. 

“It’ll take about an hour till we’re settled, should be hungry enough by then,” she comments, a gentle growl coming from beneath you as the engine comes to life. 

Somewhere between the lines of the seatbelt sign pinging, and the radio blaring itself into the space, you’ve read a headline that’s enough to halt your world. 

“There’s this new Chinese place that opened nearby here. Or this Persian restaurant but it’s like 20 minutes in the other direction. Or do we just do soup—”

“Lorelai.”

She turns to look at you in the passenger seat, seatbelt alarm still dinging as you remain with your seatbelt off as she pulls out of the parking space, like the official soundtrack to your doom. She brakes, hard. Lorelai is always Lorry with you, her full name only ever when you’re feigning irritation. 

There’s nothing irritating about the situation, but everything is wrong with it. 

It’s like you were in the benches, taking punches while simultaneously throwing a few yourself. You’re out of breath still seated, your skin tingles like a million arachnids crawling under your skin under your layers. You’re in the eddy of a horrifying whirlpool, that’s pulling you down, down, down, down, down, down—

!HOT TOPIC!

FIGURE SKATER OR FIGURINE? NOTHING GRACEFUL ABOUT Y/N L/N’S FALL FROM THE PINNACLE OF THE SKATING WORLD. Read from the Source!

From a pocket princess, to a rising star. From a rising star to the top of the world. From the top of the world to… a bottomless hell? How did Y/N L/N end up here? 

It’s nothing new that L/N’s presence was notable during the flashy ISU Grand Prix held in Beijing last year, the podium notably shuffled as a result. The skater’s ankle injury was never awarded a career ending title, but with the way her comeback remains as foggy as it did since the initial announcement, one must begin to wonder if we’ll ever see L/N on the competitive ice again. 

Or perhaps she’s simply lost her spark? 

Trusted sources report that L/N’s sponsors are growing weary of her extended vacation, and are just about ready to pull the rug! In addition, sources also report her floundering lack of consistency in practice sessions on the ice, her condition beyond someone as onerous as even Isabella Carroll to manoeuvre into success. Talk about futile! 

Now, we’re all hoping that our glittering gold medalist is only a victim of mindless chatter, however, we must concede, neither we nor our sources are holding on to too much hope. 

Keep on the lookout for more updates from us on our fallen (?) star!

[a/n]: hehehehehe remember to reblog and tell me your thoughts

[tetsvya]

clueless, kuroo tetsuro

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  kuroo tetsuro has a thing for girls with long hair. so what if you're a girl with long hair? that doesn’t mean anything!

➼ pairing! kuroo tetsuro x fem!manager!reader

➼ warnings! none, just fluff and humor. maybe ooc because i haven't written in years??? unfortunately, because this is based on the scene of kuroo and yaku arguing about their preference, this is really for my long haired girlies 😣 i apologize to the short haired readers

➼ word count! about 1.4k

➼ author’s note! "haikyuu renassiance!" we all cheer in unison. anywho, this is my first time posting in two years. please be nice to me 🫡

"So, you prefer girls with short hair then, Yaku?" Kai asks, shedding off the white button-up of his school uniform and revealing his black practice t-shirt. The three third-year Nekoma players had found themselves in an empty classroom, deciding to use it as a makeshift changing room. Luckily for them, they had all worn their clean practice clothes under their school uniforms. Doing so allowed them to save time and cut back the number of minutes they were already going to be late to practice, thanks to Yaku getting distracted by a group of girls, which Kai noted all had short hair. Hence, his question.

Yaku paused his work of ridding himself of his tie to send Kai a proud grin, pointing towards him with both hands, “Yesss!

"And you, Kuroo?" Kai turns to him, now curious to know his captain's answer as well.

"Long." Kuroo's answer is firm, leaving no room for debate. Still, he glances at Yaku, as if daring him to try.

Yaku only snorts, shaking his head in amusement as he too turns to look at his captain, "Like that wasn't obvious."

"Ehh," Kuroo's eyes narrow, head craning down to peer at the libero, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Yaku starts, taking a step closer as he peers right back up at Kuroo, "Everyone knows you have a crush on our manager, who just so happens to have the longest hair I've ever seen!"

"Ehh?" Kuroo repeats, louder this time as he cranes his head down even more, "Who says I have a crush—"

"Hey!" The door to the classroom slides open with a shocking force, startling the boys and drawing the attention of all three of them to it. Kuroo and Yaku both grow rigid as they find you standing in its opening. Quiet pants slip past your lips, and you take a moment to catch your breath as you stare at the three of them before you begin speaking, "There you guys are! I've been looking for the three of you everywhere."

"Hello," Kai greets kindly, the only one not left in a stupor at your sudden appearance, smiling as you make your way into the classroom. "We apologize, we're running a bit late."

"Yeah," You huff, coming to a stop a few steps away from them as you cross your arms, "It was your guys' turn to set up the nets. So when you guys didn't show up in time to do so and none of you answered your phones, Coach sent me to find you guys. Didn't know I'd be going on a wild goose chase."

Your words leave you in a huff before your eyes land on Kuroo, raising an eyebrow at the captain. His shoulders tense even more at the sudden eye contact and he's quick to snap his head in the other direction. Kuroo suddenly feels warm, realizing how you could have easily heard the conversation transpiring between the three of them. Stupid Yaku, Kuroo curses the libero in his head, doesn't even know what he's talking about.

"Sorry, Y/N." And of course it’s Yaku who disrupts his thoughts, pulling Kuroo's eyes to him just as he sends you an innocent smile, "We got carried away, talking."

There's a teasing tone to Yaku's voice, and Kuroo knows it's directed at him. Why is he friends with him again?

"I don't even want to know," You speak, and Kuroo can envision you shaking your head at the three of them, "Just get dressed and get to the gym as quick as possible, please."

All three boys give some noise of recognition in response to your words, and Kuroo takes the chance to glance at you then. He's quick to regret it. Your hand rises just as he locks eyes with you, reaching up to tuck some of the more unruly pieces of your hair (which most likely came undone due to your seemingly frantic search of the three third years) behind your ear and out of your face. Kuroo's eyes follow the movement of your hand, trailing downwards and taking in the long strands of hair that fall well past your shoulders. Once again all too aware of the conversation he was just having with his teammates, the tips of his ears burn as he pulls his gaze away from you once more. He shakes his head, trying to get Yaku's words out of his mind. Just because he liked girls with long hair, and just because you so happened to be a girl with long hair, did not mean he liked you.

Right?

A snort of laughter suddenly leaves Yaku, having caught the interaction, and Kuroo turns to him with a heated glare. You don't miss the exchange between them either.

"Are you two having one of your petty arguments again?" You accuse, eyes glancing between Kuroo and Yaku who are suddenly staring back at you like two deers caught in headlights. "Seriously, you've been fighting like this since first year. What topic could you guys possibly still be discussing?"

Yaku's smirk returns as he glances at his captain with an all too knowing look before he turns back to you, "Well, if you really want to kn—"

"Nope!" Kuroo is quick to interject, speaking for the first time since you entered and drawing your attention away from Yaku and back to the captain himself. Your eyes widen as he begins to take long strides in your direction. "No arguing here!"

Your lips part, confusion taking over your features at the odd behavior your captain is displaying. You don't get the chance to say anything, however, as Kuroo makes a show of glancing at the clock on the wall before turning back to you with a dramatic gasp, "Oh, would you look at the time! We should really be heading to practice."

"You still have your school shirt on, Kuroo.” You point out when he stops in front of you, pointedly glancing down at Kuroo's attire, which consisted of his practice shorts and white button-up, with his red school tie hung loosely around his neck.

"I'll just change it once we're in the gym," Kuroo responds, waving away your interjections before he drops his hands onto your shoulders and forces you to turn around and back toward the door. You attempt to dig your heels down when he begins to push you in the direction of the door, but you're truly no match for his strength. Stupid volleyball training.

"Kuroo," You voice your protests, attempting to swat at his hands in order to get him to release you. Once again, your attempts remain futile, "Let go of me!"

"No can do! As captain and manager, it's our job to be on time to every practice. What would our team do without us?" Kuroo shakes his head, clicking his tongue as if he's scolding you. He turns back to Kai and Yaku, flashing them a warning smile, daring them to say another word. Yaku merely watches on with an unamused look, while Kai holds a placid smile. There's extra sweetness in his voice as he practically chirps out, "Bring my stuff to the club room, will you?"

"I was on time!" You retort, not giving Kai nor Yaku a chance to respond to their exasperating captain as you send them a pointed look, all the while succumbing to your fate and allowing Kuroo to push you out of the classroom. After all, he did have a point. It probably wouldn't be long before Lev managed to push somebody's buttons (most likely Yamamoto’s) one too many times and ended up in hot water. "The only reason I'm not there right now is because I came looking for you guys!"

"Ah, now is not the time to deal blame, Y/N. Our juniors are waiting on us." Kuroo argues back, shaking his head as he removes one hand from your shoulder to slide the door shut behind the two of you. Still, Yaku and Kai face the door as the sound of your guys' bickering persists. It grows quieter and quieter with each passing moment, and it isn’t until they can no longer hear your guys' voices does Yaku glance away with a shake of his head.

"He's clueless." Yaku deadpans, glancing back down at his tie as he continues to work on untying it.

Kai nods, neatly folding his button-up before placing it in his bag. "Completely."