#also i predicted the big thing at the end literally this morning

[ninthprime]

severance 2x04 spoilers

seth milchick planning this ORTBO like “i’ve bought a large supply of kier branded marshmallows. i’ve ordered the creation of custom made animatronics of every member of MDR to guide their path. i’ve filmed an informational introduction video with musical cues. i’ve brought a riveting story of kier’s youth to warn the team against the dangers of wanton lust. miss huang is playing the theremin, for atmosphere. MDR is going to be so satisfied by this, nothing could possibly go wrong” and by the morning of day 2 he has to murder someone

[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

[anthonsgi]

★’･ﾟ:｡･:*:First kiss with HSR characters PT.1:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★

【Note: Hello! I haven't written anything in a while, but I recently got a surge of motivation, so why not take advantage of that? :) There will be a few parts because I want to write for many characters and the process of writing each one is really long for me so I prefer to spread them out a bit, so if the character you would like to read about isn't here, keep an eye out for future parts, perhaps I will include them there! As per usual, English isn't my first language and I'm learning as I go, please be patient with me. Requests are open! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧】

【Pairings: Kafka, Argenti, Blade x GN!Reader】

【CW: I may have added some angst here and there, but I couldn't resist (I tried to end it with a good, slightly bittersweet conclusion each time though)! I wanted to make the characters' traits as similar to the game's as possible, but a few things may still be out of character, sorry in advance!】

a lil note: this is literally just all of these characters being absolutely SMITTEN for you and them fawning over you, but every day is a good day to get praised left and right, no?

☆〜KAFKA〜☆

It shouldn't be much of a surprise that you fell in love with this young and exceptionally charming woman. As a Stellaron Hunter, she ensures that Elio's predicted plans are carried out. That being said, you were a completely unpredicted element in a series of missions; there was never a mention of you ever being included in situations that you always found yourself stuck in. Kafka always saw it as "the usual result of the unforeseen nature of destiny," as she liked to explain to you.

After a while of simple acquaintance, she has grown more fond of you than she has of anyone. Not only were you beautiful in her eyes, which was a big thing for a connoisseur of beauty such as herself, but she felt at ease with you. She may be a sly, unbothered criminal whose prize for capturing her is enough to provide many good-lived lives for a bunch of Vidyadharas, but she actually really appreciates the times when she doesn't feel like she's being chased by people or by time itself.

Being with you was as enjoyable as studying the waves—a peaceful activity, a thought-provoking process. She desired to look at the horizon and discover more than meets the eye, however, it was quite impossible. The job of a Stellaron Hunter is challenging not only because of the relentless pursuit of destiny and the never-ending dangers but also because it entails never staying in one place for too long, never forming more meaningful connections, and never attaching yourself to finite, frail matters. Even though she knew she was more unlikely to run into the same individual twice as a Devil Hunter than she was now, her options were usually limited.

Kafka isn't one to fully hide her true feelings; she spoke very highly of you, your way of being and thinking, your appearance, and your tendency to be the miracle of one's destiny (*cough* talking about herself there). She has developed a habit of complimenting you just to see you squirm away from her gaze and bite your lower lip to try and stop a smile from forming. These occurrences weren't rare; they always followed the same pattern: she said something = you discreetly reacted = she noticed and couldn't stop noticing.

A kiss from her would be more of an indication of her love than a reveal, showing rather than declaring it. It may have happened during one of your late-night chats where you slowly opened up to one another, or it could have happened in the early morning after she invited herself into your home after you had just woken up and weren't sure if you were still asleep. In any case, without having said much, she leaned in, rested her hand on your cheek, and left a tender and delicate kiss on your lips. It didn't last long, but it meant more than a decade of stolen glances and conversations with hidden meanings.

It didn't feel like a goodbye kiss, it never did, but it was clear it was some form of leaving you wanting more, leaving you yearning for her to come back and see you again, and leaving you wondering how long it would be before she does it once more.

☆〜ARGETNTI〜☆

Knight of Beauty, a follower of the fallen Aeon Idrila. He's constantly on the journey to honor the principles of beauty itself, spreading the grace of his Goddess all over the universe. Discovering numerous forms of beauty in the ordinary and in the extraordinary. When he first laid his eyes on you, it was as if time began to bend around you, a black hole in which the concept of time didn't seem to exist, trapping anyone and everyone residing in its proximity.

Recognizing refinement in people was second nature to him, admiring their souls that mirrored their personalities and beliefs. He wished nothing more than to convey compassion to those who possessed honorable qualities, pure hearts, and desirable traits. Your beauty shone with such radiance that it put the stars to shame; your existence was an excellent reminder of Idrila's presence in the universe.

To Argenti, love is a miraculous feeling that is a joy to experience; it reflects a person's deepest desires and is an act of care so poetic that it almost brings a tear to the eye. In a way, having never experienced it before and having no opportunity to try due to his commitment to traversing in solitude, he decided it wasn't he who was supposed to feel it and that he was merely destined to admire the beauty of it from afar.

Meeting you meant the world to him; you made him feel love for another person for the first time—the all-consuming love from every classical novel he had read. The purest form of it is tragic love, one that breaks down the foundations that hold one's life in perfect balance. He spent several days and nights with you, staying in one location longer than he ever did since becoming a knight—the place where he started to ponder his destiny and his vocation.

He made every effort to push these thoughts away, thinking such things felt like a violation of the universal code of chivalry he upholds, yet when he gazed at your gentle smile as he held your hand, it was a tougher battle than that of a wax candle facing the sun. He was melting into a pitiful puddle as your very being formed him again, never to be the same as before.

One beautiful night, when the birds had gone to sleep, no expectations were laid forth, and no secrets were to be unveiled, Argenti took you by both hands, kissing each knuckle as if they would break if he put pressure on them. He spoke of you as if you were the one he had devoted his life to worshiping, his lips singing silent praises; perhaps it was a prayer, perhaps an apology. His eyes met yours, a nonverbal plea, and you leaned in, connecting your mouths in a passionate kiss, electricity coursing between each soft teeth clashing.

What an outstanding farewell kiss that was. The thought alone made you gulp down the lump growing in your throat. Argenti has to leave, or rather, ought to leave; otherwise, he's afraid he may decide to stay. He's certain your paths will cross one day; it's just the way of the world. Either way, he always finds himself drifting towards beauty. Behind him, he will leave a timeless tale of a wounded and repaired heart, as well as a dose of fate that makes no mistakes.

☆〜BLADE〜☆

The undying man who became a blade, a shell of a person, a mara-stricken monster with no hope for craved demise. His story is one of endless agony and misery. In this everlasting life, Blade's abilities are used in matters including bloodshed, spreading the pain he felt himself, and only then would he feel himself disappear, even for a moment. As bitter as that was, it was reality, his burden to bear. Blade didn't have "companionships" and never needed attachments. The closest he had to an acquaintance was Kafka, whose voice managed to calm the monsters who grew inside him relentlessly, and possibly Silver Wolf. However, he didn't understand her, nor did he wish to.

How you were able to capture his wounded heart remains a forever-unsolved mystery. He, of course, didn't decide one day that the way you laughed made him feel emotions so intense that he wondered if what he was feeling was some form of suffering he'd never experienced previously or that his intensified urge to protect you wasn't just due to the fact he was always nearby when danger struck, but because he genuinely cared. It was a lengthy process imbued with a myriad of understatements and denial. An "I love you" leaving his lips was as bizarre as the prospect of hell freezing over... yet when it did happen, you only wished to hear it again.

He frequently wonders why he finds himself faintly grinning primarily in your presence alone (and obviously during combat). When you resided in his vicinity, everyone could feel a shift in the atmosphere surrounding him, as well as a change in his usual behavior. It was almost comical to observe, especially to his fellow Stellaron Hunters, who never missed an opportunity to tease him. Nonetheless, love expressed by a presumably loveless man is as fascinating as it is arduous. Your existence was curative, helping him to rediscover parts of humanity he thought he had lost, yet healing is a part of him he has come to loathe with every fiber of his being. At one point, he distanced himself, as if limiting your healing influence on him was the sole thing that he could control about his 'condition'.

That didn't last long, and he scurried back to you like a moth to a flame. Blade didn't grasp the concept of physical touch as a kind of comfort; it never failed to remind him of how many times he had been hurt. You, once again, were the exception. Gentle arm touches, random lacing of fingers, your scent, and that insufferable (not really) look in your eyes whenever you stared at him drew him in. As much as he despised life, he did not detest the idea of living simply to be with you; that paradise that always seemed to be out of his reach, a mere push away, appeared to be standing right in front of him.

A minor brush of your body against his made you excited, but a kiss? It's overwhelming to even imagine. You'd have to initiate it, subtly steering the conversation to a topic where it wouldn't be too odd to inquire about moving to the next step in your relationship, acting as lovers. If Blade didn't wear a stoic expression on his face more than half the time, you could tell by his nervous swallowing that he would be at least blushing a little. He wasn't an adolescent, and he didn't think of a kiss as the grandest gesture of intimacy; nevertheless, that didn't free him of hesitations. Being vulnerable and helpless in the hands of another, all of his shortcomings could be easily revealed.

Kissing Blade had to come naturally when you were alone and indulging in small talk; there was no need for a perfectly timed gust of wind or a captivating blanket of stars above, just two imperfect people pouring all of their desires, yearning, and passion into a single imperfect kiss. Your lips met, linking your souls and creating a sensible spark deep within. There was no distance between you, and you were both entirely defenseless against the other's will. After you moved away, it was as if a thousand sentences were pulled from your mouths, yet no one spoke a word. With swollen lips, you were unable to resist a grin while Blade leaned in for another kiss.

lil ending note: hope you enjoyed! also, I have to mention that I know that both Kafka and Blade are Stellaron Hunters so the main problem portrayed in Kafka's part (the never being in one place too long) could potentially be brought up In Blade's part as well, but I decided that would be pretty repetitive so I wrote about Blade's history instead :D

[sl-newsie]

American Woman (Thomas Shelby x American OC) Ch. 60: Black Tuesday

Masterlist: https://www.tumblr.com/sl-newsie/739551758747090944/american-woman-thomas-shelby-x-american-oc?source=share

October 29, 1929

The coming of a new decade is supposed to symbolize a fresh start. A new ten years of trends waiting to happen. After this last decade of the Roaring 20s one would think the new decade might be special too.

They are downright wrong.

“Vader… Are you absolutely sure?” I ask once more, gripping the phone and holding myself steady against Nicolaas’ kitchen table.

On the other end the tired man sighs. “Yes, Verena. This morning, at six o’clock, the market crashed. Wall Street has fallen.”

“That’s not possible! We’ve had the best economy for years!”

“That is what caused this,” he admits sadly. “Too much of a good thing. Overproduction. Your Uncle Colon will know more than I. Apparently nothing good can last forever.”

All confident thoughts of the past year’s profits fly out the window. I slump against the table and hold my head in my hands, calculating the bills. Of all times to be away from home. Not that I’m not enjoying staying with Nicolaas’ family in Grand Rapids but in order to handle this I need to be back East.

“Do we have enough?” I ask after a period of silence.

Vader mulls over my question and tries to sound optimistic. “We… We’ll manage.”

That does not sound absolute. And if we’re tanking business then I wonder if Thomas miraculously predicted this and stocked up beforehand. Literally. Is Michael faring well in Detroit?

“I’m going to make another call,” I admit slowly and hang up. “Please put me through to Shelby Company, Detroit, Michigan.”

“One moment.” A few seconds go by. “I’m sorry, the person you’re trying to reach is not available.”

“Damn!” I hiss and hang up.

Nicolaas walks in and gives me a cautious look. “No answer?”

I groan louder and pour another drink. He’s probably going back to England. Michael won’t want to stay here to take the heat so he’ll run back home to Thomas. Slapjanus.

Ring! Ring!

I hastily pick up the phone again and hope it’s Uncle Colon with more news-

“Verena! Did you hear about Wall Street?” Ada’s anxious voice rings out.

I hang my head. “Everyone here has. I… I don’t know what’s going to happen, Ada.”

“Me neither. The- Wait a minute. There’s another call on the line.”

The phone clicks and I hear another familiar voice. It’s Finn.

“Verena?”

“Finn, please tell me you all were prepared for this.”

The young Shelby groans. “Tommy thought so. I guess Michael didn’t listen.” He changes to a lighter tone. “They’ve been letting me do things. Big things. This week I’ve been popping in to see Tommy and helping with the records.”

I attempt to smile at his proud news. “That’s wonderful!”

The phone clicks again and Ada speaks. “He also got himself shot.”

“What?” I gasp and dial back to Finn. “Finn! You got shot?”

“Just a small wound-” He tries to explain poorly.

“Finn! We do not need any more Shelbys getting shot!”

“I-”

“No excuses!” I order.

An idea begins to form and my heart clenches. This plan could work. I would have to see him again… And remember the pain he caused. All for a paycheck. You’ve sunk low, Verena.

And He said unto them, “Take heed and beware of covetousness, for a man’s life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth.” (Luke 12:15)

But this isn’t about gaining money for me. Remember your family. This is to help my family. As vader said, things are going to get worse. I will not allow my fragile emotions to get in my way. I will not let earning some extra money break my heart.

“I’m coming over there,” I declare evenly despite my chaotic nerves.

On the other end I hear muffled noise and I think Finn nearly drops the phone. “Wait. What? I’m putting Ada back on.”

More waiting in silence.

“Did I hear that right?” Ada asks in disbelief.

“Yes, Ada. I’m coming back. The crash is going to hit all over the world, not just here. I have a few ideas of how to reach out.” I pause, trying to form my words without sounding too selfish. “And… My family needs the money.”

“Well you are the foreign representative. Or at least you’re supposed to be even though you’ve been in America for the past four years. I heard from Polly there’s going to be a board meeting tomorrow.”

I shake my head. “My trip will take too long. I’ll have to catch up later. Keep me posted.”

“Will do,” Ada assures. “Safe travels. And good luck.”

“You as well. And tell Finn to stop running into bullets.”

Ada hangs up and I ask the operator for the connection to our contact in Chicago.

“Hello? Yes, this is Ms. Steenstra. I’m afraid given the recent circumstances I will have to cancel my appointment in Chicago next week.”

“We understand,” the man answers calmly. “When can we expect news from Shelby Company Limited?”

“I am preparing to speak with Thomas Shelby himself on your behalf.”

I hang up and begin walking to my bedroom. Nicolaas, who has been watching in silence, doesn’t seem too convinced.

“Are you sure, zus? I don’t think moeder or vader will let you go back. Especially now that money’s going to be tight.”

“That’s exactly why I’m doing this, Nicolaas. My job pulls in just as much as vader’s store so it makes sense that I use my position to earn more. Abel’s going to need help too.”

“Abel’s in Germany. He chose that when he got married. You are not married. You should be here-”

“What?” I challenge him, putting my hands on my hips. “I should be here getting married too? You know I’m not ready to settle yet.”

My broer grips his head. “Verena, you’re not going to be 27 forever.”

“Let moeder and vader do the responsibility rant.” I pat his shoulder and continue walking. “I’ve got packing to do. Again. I’ll head for New York tomorrow and board a boat to Liverpool.”

“Good luck!” Nicolaas calls mockingly.

Turns out that my plan isn’t going to go as smoothly as I hoped. Nicolaas was right.

“Verena Nora Steenstra. Being involved with gangsters is no place for a young lady,” moeder tuts firmly. “You must know the way to run a proper home and raise a family. To tend and care for a husband.”

Same broken record. I just had to stop by Brooklyn on my way to the docks. There’s no way I was ever going to be able to slip away undetected.

“Moeder, I do not wish to marry yet!”

“You are of age!” She argues. “Your broers are all married. It’s unusual for a woman to never court. People start to talk.”

Does she think I don’t know that? Can’t they see that I’m doing this for them?

I turn to look at vader, who’s stayed quiet this whole time. “Vader, please?”

The tired man sighs and takes a sip of his whiskey. “You like England now? And this man asks of you to leave your family for him?”

“No, Vader,” I answer softly. “Thomas did not ask me. I want to go. I need to go. That family needs all the help they can get, as well as Abel’s. And it will mean a handsome paycheck for us.”

Vader watches me with wise eyes and thinks for a moment. After a while he shares a glance with moeder and nods to me.

“Then you must do what God is compelling you to do.”

Moeder immediately disagrees. “Can this man really afford to pay you?” 

He most certainly can after what he’s done to me.

“Yes. Yes he can,” I respond firmly. “And I promise to come back once I’ve earned enough. I’ll keep sending money while I’m gone.”

Moeder tugs at her dark hair and mutters to herself. “I still think it’s improper…”

“Do not worry, liefje.” Vader takes her hand. “She will be back. And she will be escorted.”

My head perks up. What?

@meadows5

[amberskywrites]

Little Problem

Fic Masterpost | Ao3 Link

Fandom / Genre: Stardew Valley / Fluff

Pairing: Sebastian/Elliott, Elliott & Robin

Prompt: Requested by @cooltuna69 :

Elliott is thinking of proposing to Sebastian, but his cabin is too small and needs an upgrade to fit in another person. So one day when he thinks Sebastian isn't home he goes up to the mountain to secretly ask for an upgrade from Robin, but Sebastian walks in on them. I was also thinking of the timeline being after Elliott's 10 heart event but before Sebastian's to fit your other fic, "Together".

Warnings: None! Lmk if there's any I need to add ^^

Summary:

Elliott considers what he could get Sebastian for their two-year anniversary. There's just one little problem… Luckily, he knows exactly who to ask for help.

Elliott leaned back in his chair, rocking it back slightly onto just two legs. He stared at his calendar, pinned above his writing desk and scribbled over with a myriad of notes and dates. At the end of the month, circled just about a dozen times and with little hearts doodled around it, was his and Sebastian’s two-year anniversary.

He still hadn’t decided on a gift.

What do you give someone, who has brought you absolute joy for 224 days? Who has been a light in a storm you didn’t even realize you were in? Who was willing to change to make things work and who helped change you? Who has become one of your most cherished treasures in the world?

What do you give someone?

The sappy, romance-adoring part of himself had an idea.

He’d been thinking about it for a while.

The letter from Lewis, Welwick’s vision at the fair, and Gunther’s recent book recommendations certainly did not help… but they just made him consider the idea more seriously, rather than passerby daydreams.

A mermaid’s pendant.

He may not have grown up in the valley, but the stories were not kept secret from him. And when he and Sebastian had been more open with their relationship, when others discovered how long they had been together already, it was soon that people began asking not a matter of if but when. Robin’s teasing questions, Evelyn reminiscing with Elliott on the mornings he visited her garden for inspiration about her and George’s proposal, Sam and Abigail poking fun at Sebastian good-naturedly.

Elliott would watch Sebastian, anytime someone brought it up.

In the beginning, he would bluster and his face would tinge pink but he’d roll his eyes, would say “yeah, right” or “we haven’t been serious for that long” and Elliott was never hurt, really, by these statements, because he understood and Sebastian was right, and while of course he had hoped everything would work out and they’d live happily ever after… even he knew one could not predict the future.

But as of late, Sebastian’s face would not tinge pink and he would not roll his eyes and he would not bluster. Lately, Sebastian would grow quiet, and not his usual quiet, but more contemplative, like when he visits the docks on a rainy day and looks out into the distance and just thinks. Lately, his face would bloom a deeper red and he’d look away.

Sometimes, he’d shrug and say “maybe” or “we’ll see where things go”.

Elliott hadn’t figured out a good way to broach the subject, just yet. He was terrible with this, talking about his feelings and discussing big changes. He remembered confessing to Sebastian and how he had nearly screwed that up, tripping over his words and almost making Sebastian think that Elliott didn’t even want to be friends anymore. But, well… he did hope that maybe, possibly, Sebastian would want to get married.

There was one little problem, however.

Literally.

Elliott glanced around his cabin. His bed tucked against the wall opposite his desk, his piano swamping about a fourth of the room. His bookcase takes up even more of the floor.

He didn’t have much, and for one person it worked out perfectly fine.

But if there were two people…

He sighed, leaning forward again, his chair hitting the wooden floor with a loud thump that reverberated through the cabin. He didn’t even have a kitchen, or any sort of appliances to actually cook. He usually swung by the saloon for dinner, or shared dinner with Willy or Leah. It wouldn’t be practical to have another person move in when, really, his cabin was barely big enough for one person.

He wouldn’t be able to move in with Sebastian’s family, either. He had no doubt that he’d be welcomed - Robin already did her best to make him feel at home when he visited, or was invited to dinner. Maru was easy to talk with, when it came to topics of sci-fi or medicine. And Demetrius was Demetrius - a little standoffish, he didn’t quite seem to get Elliott, but he was polite and still welcomed him for dinners or when he visited Sebastian. But their home was already constantly bustling, and there wasn’t much space for another person there.

And, most important of all, Elliott knew Sebastian already didn’t wish to remain there.

Elliott would never ask him to stay somewhere he didn’t want, and it would be cruel, he thinks, to ask Sebastian to somehow fit Elliott into the home he already wanted to leave just so they could be married.

He sighed heavily and slumped onto his desk, resting his cheek on his arm. What to do…

-

It was by chance, the next day that he found himself walking up to Sebastian’s, the memory of Robin offering to renovate his cabin anytime hitting him earlier in the morning and with a text from Sebastian that he would be at band practice all afternoon, but would stop by Elliott’s this evening. Much as he loved Leah, and she too had offered multiple times to help expand or decorate his cabin, even she conceded that Robin was more skilled when it came to architecture.

And besides, there was more than one thing he needed to ask Robin.

One thing at a time, Elliott reminded himself, knocking on the door before opening it - because no matter what Robin said about always being welcome, he still had manners - and returned Robin’s smile when she caught sight of him.

“Elliott! It’s so good to see you,” she rounded her desk as she spoke, enveloping Elliott into a tight hug. “I’m sorry, but Sebby’s not here. He’s with Sam and Abby right now in town.”

“I know,” Elliott reassures, extracting himself from her hug.  “I actually came here because I needed to speak with you. I was hoping to ask you about home upgrades?”

“Oh? Well, by all means, take a seat!” She pulled one of the chairs from the wall and moved it to her desk, gesturing for Elliott to take a seat. “Yoba, I remember building that cabin of yours, let me pull up the layout. You haven’t changed it since then, have you?”

“Not really, no. Nothing besides furniture of course.”

Robin nods as she opens a large book, flipping through the first couple dozen pages before stopping. She pushes it so the book is between them, and Elliott sees the blueprint of his cabin, exactly as she had shown him when he had first come to town and needed a place to stay.

“Alright, you said you were interested in home upgrades? What did you have in mind?”

-

Back and forth it went, Robin pulling out another book to sketch their ideas into as they spoke. She would ask questions upon questions, from how large he wanted a room to be, to the color or style of the walls, if he wanted to change anything about the existing room. She took meticulous notes, and Elliott truly lost track of time as Robin engrossed him further into the process of working out the details.

Eventually, the questions about the house renovations tapered off, and Robin began to create a new blueprint for his cabin that she said she would place into her book, once the renovations were complete. The questions grew more casual as he watched her map out the new blueprint.

“So, what sparked you to upgrade now?” she eventually asked. “You’ve lived in Pelican Town for a few years, but are only now expanding.”

“Well,” Elliott started, and he could feel his face warm just slightly from nerves, “that’s actually something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

Robin paused in her drawing to look up at Elliott, tilting her head, and Elliott couldn’t help but notice that this, this is where Sebastian gets his curious look that he tries so hard to stifle around others to feign disinterest, but has been so open with Elliott for so long now. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Elliott took a deep breath. He prayed to Yoba his words would come out clear, that he wouldn’t push the wrong idea across. “You see, I’ve been thinking about Sebastian and I, and where we are in our relationship. I’ve heard about a certain tradition in the valley, and, well… my cabin is too small as it is, if it were to ever fit two people…” he trailed off, realizing suddenly that he had looked away from Robin with a steadily warming face, and he snapped his eyes up.

He was greeted with her hands covering her mouth, but behind them he could see what he could only describe as a beaming smile.

She cleared her throat and dropped her hands, but didn’t manage to stifle her grin. “So, you want to marry-”

Robin was cut off by the door swinging open, and Elliott jumped as it hit the wall, not terribly hard but loudly. Robin’s mouth shut so fast and eyes grew so wide, that Elliott spun around to see who had entered only to find-

Sebastian, standing in the doorway of his own home, keyboard slung over his back and blinking in confusion at Elliott sitting in front of his mother’s desk.

Silence, for about thirty seconds, and Elliott could see Sebastian trying to work out what was going on before he had a chance to ask anything else. When he finally did speak, it was slow, the gears still turning in his brilliant head.

“El, what… are you doing here? I thought you were gonna be home?”

The warmth which had been on his cheeks since he started speaking with Robin only grew deeper as he stood, unsure really on what to say, because he hadn’t been planning on telling Sebastian just yet that he was hoping to upgrade his home. And, he usually did tell Sebastian when he would be stopping by, and rarely did he ever come up to the mountains on his own terms unless it was to the spa.

Before Elliott could think of anything to say, Sebastian’s eyes caught sight of the desk and his eyebrows rose. He stepped closer to get a better look, and a minute amount of tension bled out of Sebastian but upon seeing the blueprint of a different layout of the cabin he was growing so used to, confusion plagued his face once more.

“You’re renovating your cabin?” He looked up to Elliott, head tilting the way Robin’s did just a few minutes ago, puzzled but determined to understand the situation presented to him.

“Um, yes! I ah, it was a bit of a spur of the moment thought, really.”

“You never mentioned wanting to upgrade it,” Sebastian said, not accusatory but still something in his voice was off - a little hurt, if Elliott had to guess, and his heart clenched. “You’ve said before you liked how cozy it is.”

“Well, yes, of course-” Elliott stammered. “And I do love it the way it is now, but-”

“But Elliott stumbled across some cookbooks this morning at the library, and came up here wanting to discuss getting a kitchen,” Robin chimed in. “I convinced him to upgrade a liiitle more,” she said with a small laugh. “It was all very ‘spur of the moment’, as Elliott has put it.”

“I was going to mention it later when you came over,” Elliott added sheepishly, thankful also that Robin did not mention the true reason he was seeking to renovate his cabin.

The hurt that had creeped into Sebastian’s eyes dissipated at this, and Elliott could see even his hold on his keyboard strap relaxing. He even chuckled slightly after a moment, shaking his head and looking again between the blueprint laid out on the desk and Elliott. “Of course you’d randomly decide to renovate your place because of some cookbooks.”

Elliott laughed even knowing his cheeks were flushing a deeper red, and he nodded to the blueprint. “Would you like to see what I have in mind? Your input as well would be very valuable, if you wouldn’t mind sharing.”

And - there it was, a spark in Sebastian’s eyes that Elliott loved to see, a glittering of happiness at being asked to join a discussion, to share his thoughts. Elliott vowed the first time he saw it to at any chance return it to Sebastian’s expression, and he was filled with pure joy each time he managed it. The spark was only emphasized by the soft smile Sebastian gave in return to the invitation.

Robin was already pulling up a chair as Sebastian nodded. “I’d love to.”

Sitting back down, side-by-side with Sebastian and across from Robin, Elliott figured he would broach the subject once more with Robin another time.

He wasn’t aware that she already had her answer for him.

[pagodazz]

Youd be willing? YAY!!!!

Could we have some more hcs about vinny and habit, then? :3

YESYESYES OF COURSE!!!!!!!!

I absolutely ADORE DOING THESE AND THOSE GUYS ARE MY HEART AND SOUL SO!!! get ready for some,,

also, I've decided to just. incorporate playlists of the characters I write for:

I personally think their dynamic is one of most misunderstood when it comes to the slenderverse. And I understand that's probably an unpopular opinion amongst many but, TO ME. PEOPLE GET THEM ALL WRONG.

HABIT and Vinnie have basically a very domestic life from what it seems. I mean, You can see that they can move around each other with ease and HABIT has no issue being affectionate with Vinnie, (Vinnie most likely would never initiate it, he knows better. even tho he's immortal and would heal, he's not looking to get gutted.)

You can see that vinnie has no issue talking back to HABIT and being a smart ass. He KNOWS HABIT needs him around, so he's gonna treat HABIT how he wants while he's yk,,, literally being held hostage.

NOW ENOUGH ABOUT THAT!! AND ONTO HCS!!

-----------------------

I think that HABIT is actually a really good artist, I think he probably has a Chicken scratch art style which I find to be really nice.

I think Vinnie is also a pretty good artist, especially after he was left alone for awhile, he definitely picked up some extra talents. probably just a bunch of little things that he could find to entertain himself.

I think that HABIT is a hot chocolate drinker, Vinnie is a tea one. But they both like having coffee in the morning. HABIT likes his with more cream than coffee and Vinnie likes to have a nice Even amount.

I've seen that many people think HABIT makes Vinnie clean up the blood of the victims or the house and stuff and I really don't think he would force him at all, if Vinnie WAS cleaning, it'd be out of his own free will. But I honestly feel like HABITS got his powers. he can do that shit himself methinks.

-----------------

They're both absolutely insufferable, I know that for a fact. But they seem to actually connect on things, they have common interests and they both want to take down slenderman.

HABIT isn't out killing everyday I don't think, I mean for example, what if the weather is just fucking horrible out?? you think HABIT is gonna go out? NO WAY.

I think days, or nights like that, they'll turn on a movie, (most likely a slasher/horror/gore movie) or play a video game, or maybe they'll just go off and do their own things but, obviously in their personal places.

I think this obviously built up over time too, after years of HABIT being the only person Vinnie interacts with, I think it's bound to get a little friendly.

I think it started off with HABIT forcing Vinnie out of his room and making him sit in the living room and he just basically calls him a big sad loser and he needs to unwind because it's making HABIT feel like a big sad loser. (he's lying of course, but he really does want Vinnie to stop moping. it's annoying.)

over time they got comfortable enough to sit on the same couch together. and even more time for HABIT to be able to put his legs over vinnies as he points out the flaws of the kills In each movie.

Habit is ALWAYS talking during movies, and what's worse, so is Vinnie. THEY'D BE HORRIBLE TO WATCH MOVIES WITH. they'd be making fun of the characters and the plot, or they would be talking about what they would be doing instead. Probably ending in them making fun of each other for being so predictable. (they have no other friends. they basically function the same.)

Vinnie actually finds that listening to HABIT ramble can be calming sometimes, mainly because it's a good sign that HABIT is in a good mood and he doesn't need to be walking on eggshells.

--------------------

I think HABIT has taken the time to learn vinnies favorite meals, so on days Vinnie is "really good" (There was no need for the canon use of "im a good boy" and "you've been a bad little boy.") he'll make Vinnie his favorite thing.

Vinnie is always so suspicious of course, and that always makes HABIT happy, He's always glad to know that Vinnie doesn't trust him, atleast not completely. HABIT likes that. He's found someone who he can respect and someone who respects him.

Vinnie knows his place and that might just be one of HABITS favorite things about him.

-----------------------

I think that they actually like to watch each other work, even though they actively complain about it.

Yes this even goes for Vinnie filming HABIT torturing. He doesn't really enjoy the whole torture part, but he likes watching HABIT work, and it gives him content, wether he can even post it. Hes sick in the head guys, his curiosity will ALWAYS get the better of him.

Although I think Vinnie much prefers to watch HABIT clean and sharpen his weapons. HABIT'S weapons are his pride and joy, he loves them more than anything. ANYTHING. and Vinnie can see that when HABIT takes care of them, He admires it a little.

He think it's kind of beautiful, the way a entity so awful like that could find love for something even if it's in some sort of twisted version of it, it's still love right?

And I think HABIT really likes to watch Vinnie work on his computer, or well, he likes to BOTHER Vinnie while he works. I see him basically as a cat who is desperate for any kind of attention.

I could see him basically throwing himself at Vinnie and touching all over his face and hair and messing with his laptop and asking several questions that he definitely knows the answer to, he just wants to watch Vinnie's face as he gets annoyed. He finds it fun.

Vinnie can never EVER stay angry for some reason, maybe it's because sometimes for a split a second, HABIT looks like Evan.

---------------

HOPE THESE WERE ALRIGHT... I didn't want to write WAY too much.

[hyena-frog]

Light Bringer predictions post

I’ve been jotting down notes all day, trying to remember all my big and little predictions for Light Bringer. Some of these have already been discussed to death, some have been idle thoughts floating in my head. But I want to write it all out before LB finally comes out, so I can look back on this and either laugh at my naivete or feel vindicated by my genius.

I’m sure I’m still forgetting some things, so I may end up editing this later.

The new POV is either Diomedes or Volga.

Two or more POVs interact.

Light Bringer starts off in some way no one has theorized, because that's what Pierce Brown does best. (This happened with Dark Age too.)

Pierce Brown introduces even more plot points that won't be resolved until Red God.

There will absolutely be at least three huge things happen that no one predicted or even considered might happen. This is how Pierce Brown do.

Not everything will be resolved by the end of Light Bringer. (This is a given of course; I mean some of the things people are theorizing or want won't happen until next book.)

The Morning Star was originally commissioned by Octavia as a gift to Lysander. Since it is now in enemy hands, it is repaired and handed over to Lysander, as the "rightful" owner.

Cicero becomes important.

Someone we don't expect is sympathetic to the Republic, or is otherwise an unexpected Reformer (ie not Diomedes because everyone suspects him).

There is an epic showdown at Lorn's castle, or on Europa in general.

Rhonna and Char survived and fight on Mercury still.

Holiday remains true to the ideals of the Republic; she was never a traitor, and the people who keep repeating that theory despite having zero evidence will finally shut the fuck up.

We learn more about whatever Oculus is and what Quicksilver's intentions are.

Mickey comes back.

Evey comes back.

Evey is working with the remaining Sons in the Rim.

Faust/The Duke of Hands comes back.

Deanna dies. Holiday dies. Screwface, Pebble, and/or Clown die. I don’t want these to happen but I also don’t want to think about what kind of death made Pierce Brown cry. I don’t truly think any of these would really make him cry, but this is as close as I want to get to considering what the real answer is.

Lysander plots to kill Atalantia.

Atalantia becomes pregnant with Lysander's child but dies by DNA poison backfire.

Atalantia dies, Atlas remains alive to deal with in Red God.

Lysander gets worse, despite the guilt over Cassius.

Lysander doesn't face consequences yet but the winds shift against him.

Ajax seeks revenge on Lysander.

Ajax and Diomedes bond as cousins. Alternatively, they duel, but I think that is too obvious.

Ajax joins Darrow (out of revenge against Atalantia, not love for the Republic).

Cassius confronts Lysander. In person? Over holos? It is epic and emotional.

Pytha turns against Lysander and returns to the Archimedes. Alternatively, she remains with Lysander as a spy for Cassius.

Darrow and Cassius have a heart to heart.

Cassius talks to his mom. For better or worse. Julia will help Cassius despite hating the Republic because he is her only remaining family.

Cassius finds closure with Virginia.

Diomedes/Cassius or Screwface/Cassius becomes canon. Listen, I know these have a snowball's chance in hell, but I can dream.

We get a detailed explanation of how Cassius escaped the Rim. Either Diomedes and Aurae worked together, or Aurae worked independently. There’s not enough information yet to guess.

Cassius meets Pax and Electra; Pax has a celebrity crush on him but Electra is not happy, since Cassius literally murdered her grandpa.

Cassius demonstrates that he has matured as a person.

Cassius faces consequences for killing Fitchner or otherwise expresses regret for doing so.

Cassius returns to Eagle Rest. He repairs it and the city ransacked by Fa.

Lyria finds Volga and they kick Fa's ass together.

Lyria and Volga fall in love.

Volga is changed by her time with Fa, more hardened, but Lyria brings out her kindness again.

Volga gets that damn farm, and a womb, and has a child.

Volga’s heart being on the opposite side becomes plot relevant when Fa tries to kill her but goes for the wrong side of her chest.

Volga becomes queen of the Obsidian.

Valdir shows up again and joins Darrow.

Valdir is confirmed to love Darrow romantically.

Fa is being slowly poisoned by the DNA poison in Sefi after eating her heart. Alternatively, Fa does not get sick, proving he is not her real father.

Pax is involved in the war effort somehow. Maybe helping Lyria? Darrow has complex emotions about this.

Darrow is able to show Pax that he still has his hoverbike key and it's a touching father/son moment.

Darrow and Pax ride the hoverbike together again -- for fun? In battle?

Pax makes more friends his age. Diomedes' younger siblings? Baldur comes back??

Pax struggles with the weight of essentially sending Ephraim to his death; logically he knows it’s not his fault, and that Ephraim knew the risks, but by god, Pax is only a child. Darrow is able to help ease his distress with an epic dad speech or something.

Pax kicks the Abomination's ass.

The Abomination becomes good, or otherwise decides being the Jackal sucks, actually

Lilath dies for real. Painfully. But definitively.

Atlas is the big bad; a blind spot even in the Jackal's plans.

Virginia and Victra save Sevro.

Darrow and Cassius save Sevro.

Sevro is brainwashed by the Jackal and Virginia has to fix him.

Sevro learns what happened to Ulysses. Pierce Brown writes this scene in such a profoundly sad way, the entire the fandom dies instantly.

Darrow and Sevro have a heart to heart.

The Darrow/Sevro/Cassius trio do something epic again, like they did when they stole the Minerva standard in the first book. I am starving for these three.

Cassius is jealous of Darrow/Sevro. I think that would be very funny.

Virginia and Victra bash sisters moment.

Virginia and Victra actually become friends, not friends by virtue of their husbands being best friends.

Mars becomes the capital of the Republic under Virginia.

PsychoSpike tech comes back in a big way, as either a boon or a detriment to the Republic.

Victra is called on by Volga and Lyria to fulfill her promise to aid them whenever they need it.

Darrow and/or Victra will face (or at least be threatened with) consequences for the destruction of the Docks of Ganymede.

Eagle Rest becomes a campus to teach lowcolors important life skills they might lack, following what Sefi was doing for Obsidians, but expanding the idea.

Rhea is resurrected and becomes habitable again; possibly a new home for the Obsidian, depending on how the Rim ends up.

Diomedes joins the Republic/Darrow.

Diomedes is captured by Darrow's crew and comes to an understanding with them while in captivity.

Diomedes discovers Atlas' plans, which include destroying the Rim, which motivates him to join Darrow.

Diomedes becomes Sovereign of the Rim.

Aurae joins the Republic/Darrow with Diomedes. Alternatively, Aurae is revealed to be a Sons of Ares agent, perhaps one of the survivors of the SOA purge in the Rim.

In Iron Gold, Aurae played music during the dinner scene. So my predication is, if she joins Darrow's crew, she will entertain them with music. idk I just think that would be a nice moment.

Diomedes is confirmed to love Aurae (beyond Lysander assuming so for a brief sentence), or at least this is expanded on in some way.

Apollonius tries to duel Diomedes but the latter is Not Interested in a moment of comedy.

Reaperstang reunion??? Please???

We see more of the Raa family, and get to know established members better. Vela, Gaia, Diomedes' remaining siblings, etc.

Virginia, Diomedes, and Volga become a Triumvirate, ruling over Republic, Rim, and Obsidian factions respectfully, in a peaceful political alliance, rather than warring to get everyone under the same empire banner again.

Big damn Reaperstang reunion kiss.

At the end of it all, somehow Darrow's banishment is the only way to maintain peace.

Darrow is believed to be dead throughout Light Bringer, until an epic reveal at the very end. This miraculous second resurrection is why he is the Red God.

Darrow lives. He lives and he is happy. (Shh I know there is another book coming, let me have this.)

[silverjirachi]

4-6 exile vilify pls

4. What detail in [insert fic] are you really proud of?

The whole thing with Thelem. Since I made the realization about the ending of the book very early on, I was able to shape every single scene and every piece of his dialogue around this point. There are some very subtle things going on with him; things he says, things he leaves out, little things that he does in every scene he has that make his knowledge apparent, and I'm hoping it's one of those things that deepens meaning for the reader with each re-read and recontextualizes things after you get through the book the first time. There's even some bits in the wording and tone of the prose that point to Thelem too.

5. What do you wish someone would ask you about [insert fic]? Answer it now!

Oh god well I feel like I talk about this fic a lot actually, and I've gotten a lot of great questions. But I don't think people have ever asked me just like... what my favorite parts were. So, small list of fav moments:

the scene where Azelphir gives Astor The Prophecy™

Astor's first "prediction" when he says "Because Fate has decreed it" at the ceremony and Azelphir's reaction to that

the time Astor saves the Queen from drinking the poisoned goblet

the time Thelem yells at everyone in the abbey

Astor saving Rose from the Malice (I love this detail because despite how Astor spends his entire life hung up on this fear of killing her, what he ultimately ends up doing is buying her time).

The part immediately after Astor dancing with Rose where she loses her earring and he brings it to her

Astor's short encounter with toddler Zelda just as he is leaving for exile

Astor's "you could, but you won't" moment when the Yiga Clan almost kills him when they capture him

And of course the heart-wrenching..,, "I know, Astor. I always knew."

6. What’s one fact about the universe of [insert fic] that you didn’t get a chance to mention in the fic itself?

Astor is the reincarnation of Ganondorf's royal seer and does not remember the pact he made. This is a big part of the reason Ganondorf is so aggressive toward him. The robes Astor obtains in the Yiga Clan hideout are literally his old robes. I mention the mark of the Order on them, but I'm never direct about how Astor ended up selected by Ganon from the time he was born.

This is my personal headcanon, but took it out because I wanted the focus of the story to be on the cruelty and randomness of fate, not karma. While Astor being unable to escape a pact he doesn't remember making--and made in a past life that should not affect him in the present--does still speak to the cruelty of fate, it also reads as karma to me, and that's different, and not the meaning I wanted to give the book. So that fact is like, canon-but-not-canon. I wrote Exile//Vilify with it in mind, but also in a way that it can also be excluded. It's up to the reader to decide if they like it or not, or even got the implication at all.

Other honorable mentions:

Thelem and Azelphir actually do love each other, but can't be together per laws of the abbey. Thelem is aware of his crush on Azelphir, Azelphir repressed his own.

Azelphir is always the first one into the chapel in the morning per his job. Something very important happens in the chapel toward the end of the book. I will... let you connect the dots there.

Astor loves Rose (I think this is obvious but maybe not obvious to him.. there is a lot of unrequited love in this book). Thelem knows Astor loves Rose.

Azelphir is the prior at the time of the Great Calamity 🤡 poor buddy

The abbey doesn't have an abbot because their abbot is Fate 😊

Check out the abbey's location on the BOTW map!! Isn't that fucked up and bad!!!!!? (There's also a floormaster/gloom hand that spawns at the abbey's precise location in TOTK??? the game's files also apparently refer to it as a "Miasma Lord" which is..... an interesting thing to note, given the circumstance.)

Azelphir has a major gap in his psychic abilities. I want to share it, but also don't so it's a surprise in Trouble Will Find Me. There is one kind-of hint of it in Exile//Vilify, but it's subtle, and in my revisions I'm doing currently I'm going to make it slightly clearer.

Ask me writing things!!

[radiomogai]

/// SLURS MENTION, DESCRIBING AND WRITING OUT SOME SLURS, INCLUDING ONE VERY ADJACENT TO THE T-SLUR you asked how to tag troon and shim, and said "not sure how to tag these slurs. lmk if anyone knows" - i don't know about the shim one (is it even possible to make a miscellaneous slur tag? would that be feasible to backtag somehow? it would help with finding purposes to have a tag for all posts under "theme: slurs" that are NOT otherwise tagged with specific common slurs, though that method wouldn't catch posts with multiple terms) - but i do know troon is used rather synonymously with the other t-slur, both as a noun interchangeable with that one ("a troon") AND as a verb ("trooning out") to describe transitioning, such as "i predict this person will troon out by the end of the year" and i would put that in the same category as a "variant" of the t-slur due to how similar they are. /// SLUR USAGE OVER, THE REST IS JUST ME TALKING

I could go into more detail about how various slurs are used, but while i was writing about what is unfortunately a hyperfixation of mine, i realized i was typing a lot of slurs, and it was a dense text with a lot of slurs which you probably didn't want to read, actually TWO walls of text since i deleted the first one and tried again later, and even though i was interested in explaining the history and usage you might be sensitive to that kind of thing (especially considering how strongly you've reacted to various things in the past /neutral) so i didn't want to put that informative but possibly upsetting wall of text in your asks without asking. I hope you have a nice day! (also, as someone who has repetitive offensive thoughts involving slurs and other offensive things as well as urges to stim by saying slurs out loud, i do wonder if there are more slur-related terms for slurs in general or if sluranonic is the only one, i relate to the sluranonic term and even if i don't call people slurs on anonymous its literally me because i am anon and i have the brain disease that makes me feel that I NEED TO SHOUT RACIAL SLURS IN THIS LIBRARY and noooo stop you cant say that word anon please stop shut up brain and no you cant go BAROOOROOOROO RRRUFF GRRRRRRUH stop dont tell me to make dog noises either no please brain leave me alone)

I'm about to go to bed but the idea of you just leaving a wall of slurs in our ask box in an attempt to explain something is making me wheeze. Honestly, if you want to go into detail about it, go ahead. It would be interesting.

The only slur we're really offended to see is an old, kind of obscure one for two-spirit people. There's a big difference to us between having slurs said in conversation to us and being called slurs out of hate, and we don't mind the former at all.

I'll add the t slur tag to that post then tomorrow morning. A miscellaneous slur tag is possible, and I'll consider this a request for one. Tomorrow morning I'll decide on what that tag should be and see if I can't begin to backtag it.

Absolutely no idea on the slur-related terms thing. I suppose we'll find out tomorrow for you once we work on backtagging that misc slurs tag; if we find any we'll reblog this with links to them.

[fallenrain40]

I feel like compared to a lot of diabetics, I do have an okay relationship with food but I have SO many thoughts about this so I'm gonna talk about it !!! I've thought about the relationship with how I eat and my diabetes for so long now. I really wish it was talked about more. It's such a difficult thing to explain to people that yeah, being diabetic makes it so that eating for me is. weird. it can't just be simple. i can't just go get my food and eat it. if I don't eat at generally the same time every day I feel like I'm gonna die both mentally AND because it could actually make my blood sugar less predictable. And eating low carb things for snacks is stressful for so many reasons. 1, if I do that, I might feel less hungry later and then disrupt the routine I have by having a smaller meal and therefor making me worry that my bg is going to be less predictable. 2, sometimes it?? raises blood sugar anyways?? even though we're told that it doesn't do that. it just freaking does. want to have bacon??? and your blood sugar is normal rn??? well haha if you eat it its probably going to go a little bit higher unless it doesnt but if it doesnt thats probably cause its going low unless its just not doing anything. and then there's foods with higher carbs. yeah I can have them but then thats more carbs which means I have to adjust my dosage of insulin which you'd think could be simple but I ALSO need to take into account how hungry I am and if I'm going to eat less if I have that high-carb food, or if im going to eat more, if im going to eat more that means i'd take more insulin than usual with would then make me worry that its going to do something unexpected. if i eat less, then half or maybe even ALL of my meal will just be taken up by that one high-carb thing and i won't be able to have anything else until my next meal, which probably would make me feel BAD until I get to that next meal. and since its such a big THING to just have a meal. I'll only eat twice a day. I wouldnt miND eating 3 times a day but thats so much... having to figure out what my bg is going to do? and making it a lot less predictable. I eat in the morning and in the evening because those are both times my bg starts to rise. not becuase they are the times I WANT to eat. its because they are the times I NEED to. I almost NEVER wake up hungry. I hate eating in the morning. but i literally HAVE to or else my body is going to throw a fit and go "wtf u need sugar for energy!!! why arent u eating!!! *dumps 125423154265 pounds of sugar into your blood* also I feel like mentioning the fact a lot of people are like "omg sugar bad 1!11!!!!!!!1!!! !!1!" and im just sitting here like..... being diabetic has made me love skittles lmao its forced me to eat them probably way more often than i would if i WASNT diabetic (apple juice too btw) becuase thats literally!!! the only way to treat lows!!! and no lows arent always avoidable becuase GUESS WHAT !!! your body doesn't always react to insulin in the same way and sometimes it can be a lot more sensitive to it than normal!! so taking your normal dosage can still make you go low!! I feel like I had more to write but I already spent way too long on this and my adhd is telling me i have 0 focus left for it so. might add onto this later bhgvfgjbh edit: and not to mention the fact that apparently food labels dont have to be 100% accurate so when something says it has 20 carbs, it could something else! and if you eat several things like that! then you have no idea how much you actually had!! LOW TIME !! (or high time) edit 2: another thing I tend to do is, after i've had my first meal which HAS to be as soon as I wake up (unless i just let myself go high bc im. upset), then I will wait till the end of the day, PAST the point I started to feel hungry, till I feel like i cant go any longer and THEN I will eat. I don't alwayss do this but I do it a lot just cause. I feel like the later I eat the less likely im going to feel hungry right before bed? and also i just dont want to deal with it until it's unavoidable anymore?

guys if i'm being so real. being diabetic IS having an eating disorder. like, there is no way of being diabetic that does not include disordered eating. and that's not even counting the diabetes-specific eating disorders that we have names for, like diabetic bulimia. like i feel like there should be a name for the relationship between the diabetic, the food that they eat, and the body they put it in. but right now we just call it "diabetes" and it's just a washed over part of the process of being alive with this shit

[katealpha]

Two months had gone by since Raya had spent her time meditating in her blue dress. The baby had grown noticeably bigger, and she was now past the projected due date, making her officially overdue. Her loved ones were now predicting that Raya would indeed be having the same gestation time that Sisu had. An entire year. That meant two months to go, and more growing would come with it. Raya couldn’t get this dragon out of her body soon enough as she slowly trudged out of her bedroom door, the dim morning light showing her the way into the hallway. The frizzling rain outside provided a pleasant noise to distract from the irritated growls of hunger exuding from her taut tummy.

The young woman yawned and stretched up both arms, her brow furrowed with as she felt a popping sensation in her lower back. This aching was now a normal thing for her at this point. It was almost constant, even. After her stretch, her hands lowered down and held the sides of her belly, feeling her size. Raya simply couldn’t believe how big she was now. She was now roughly Sisu’s size even she was due with her pup. She just couldn’t get her eyes off the tan bump that had slowly expanded fourth from her core. A rumble from within signified that it was time for breakfast, and lots of it. Being pregnant with a dragon imparted the appetite of a dragon into herself. Raya stepped forward and around into the blue and gold hallway of her palace’s second floor.

Raya slowly walked through the hallway, feeling nostalgic to her days as a girl being here before the Druun ruined her teenage years, leaving this place abandoned to decay and become overgrown. But now, it was back the way it was before. Her moment of solitary peace came to an end however when suddenly, something appeared to her left from the guest doorway. Before the princess could even turn her head, her closest friend Sisu was already bumping into her side with her infectious smile, her raspy voice reverberating around the palace halls. The Former last dragon had been living with Raya since Kumandra was made whole, and much of her time was spent in her human form, which was now a second skin for the dragon to get around the palace easier.

“Woah! You’re up early, mama Raya!” The dragoness in human form slid out from her bedroom and right up against Raya’s side, making sure she didn’t ram into her best friend.

Raya grunted softly and smirked before she gave a shove to Sisu with a thrust of her hips, getting her off for the time being. She didn’t mind Sisu touching her, but she liked to be feisty with her friends. “Good morning, Sisu. You know I went to sleep early. I ate way too much last night at the banquet.”

“No kidding! I think you ate more than me, and I was in my normal form for that dinner party. How’re you feeling now??” Sisu rasped, her voice hoarse and easy to recognize.

“Like a toot’n boom beetle that’s about to go boom. Is that a good description?” She quirked her brown, resting her hand atop her belly as she began to slowly walk down the hallway.

“HAHAHA!! Good one! I was gonna say you look like an overfilled water-skin with a big fish swimming around that’s not meant to be in there.” Sisu leaned back against her pregnant friend, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

“That’s actually pretty spot on. I’m just hopping I don’t pop and rip open. The baby dragon likes to wiggle around more with each day that goes by. I don’t know if my body can handle much more.” The princess gazed down to her belly as she rested her other hand on top of it.

Sisu could hear that little snippet of dread in Raya’s voice. She knew it was s fear that existed in all mothers who were expecting their babies. The fear that things will go wrong, and that they may not be able to see the fruits of their labor, literally. The dragoness understood this feeling completely, not only from having experienced a pregnancy herself, but also learning what happened to Raya’s own mother. Why she wasn’t around at all. She didn’t want her friend to be worried too much. Sisu smiled and patted Raya’s shoulder.

“Hey don’t think like that, girl. I know dragon pups are big and strong, but so are you. You’re the strongest person I know, Raya. You’ll ride out whatever storm they cause in there and you’ll give birth to the coolest dragon this generation has scene.” Sisu grinned with pride and support towards her friend.

Raya smiled back warmly, taking a deep breath of relief. She felt better having heard these words of comfort from Sisu. She’d been having the odd disturbing thought about things that could happen in such an unorthodox pregnancy, but she knew these were just that: Thoughts. Raya knew deep down that Sisu nor any of the other dragons would let her get hurt doing this.

“Awww…Thanks Sisu, I really appreciate that. Hopefully they’ll be as cool as you are.” Raya once again smiled, bumping her hip against the human dragon.

“Nah! They’ll be as cool as their mama is when she’s swingin’ that sword around! Even when you’ve got this belly, you’re still training with that thing like a champ!” Sisu grinned and gave Raya’s belly a poke, inciting a wriggle from the dragon within.

“I’ve gotta stay in shape somehow, Sisu! Can’t let my weight get in the way so my figure is ruined after I push them out. I know not to push too hard, but it’s still good to get in the arms and cardio. I just wish Namaari were here. She’d make a great training partner.” She sighed. Raya and Namaari had gotten closer since they reconciled, but didn’t meet all that often.

“Pfft!” Sisu snorted. “If Namaari found out that YOU are this far along with a baby DRAGON…I think she’d faint at the sight of you!”

Raya gave a brief belly laugh as she and Sisu approached the steps towards the first floor where their breakfast awaited them. “I think she would!”

With that, she held onto the railing and began her slow decent down the steps, holding onto her big belly with one hand as Sisu helped her down. Down to eat for two…or at least that’s what she thought…

————————————————————

Here’s part 2 of this little series I’m doing on Raya! I always loved her and Sisu’s dynamic in the film and wanted to capture that here. Julius-Rocks delivers once again an amazing piece. Both look simply stunning and I hope you’ll agree! Stay tuned for part 3 where we’ll be seeing Raya at her absolute zenith!

[thisismysecondrodeo]

"This Means the World to Me" Part 8

wc: 3.8k

Story Page | Story Tag

AN: At the end this time :)

You weren’t so drunk last night that you didn’t remember your evening but you were so hungover this morning that it took some time to piece everything back together. You had gotten distracted with Jason and forgotten to plug your phone in, so instead of checking it like you normally did first thing in the morning, you leaned over to his side of the bed and checked the clock. It was 11 am, no wonder Jason was out of bed somewhere. It was very unusual for you to sleep that late, especially when you’d be drinking, but it was a very unusual sort of night. 

When you finally made your way downstairs, showered but still bleary and yawning, Jason greeted you with a laugh from the living room where he was playing FIFA. 

“She’s alive!” 

“Ha ha,” you retorted sarcastically, heading into the kitchen for a much-needed cup of coffee. You knew Jason would greet you with a kiss as soon as his match ended and it pleased you that there was this routine to your lives together. Even after the Emmys. Even though most of it still felt unreal to you. You remembered Jason insisting you wear his shoes last night, the picture Hannah sent, his speech when he accepted his award. Your stomach fluttered when you realized those photographs and interviews from the red carpet were online right now, which meant people were surely bombarding you with notifications, analyzing your appearance and your relationship with Jason. Maybe you were glad you hadn’t plugged your phone in after all. You hopped up on the kitchen island as you drank your coffee, able to watch Jason play from your perch. 

Just as you predicted you heard Jason tell his friends he’d talk to them later and he found you on the counter, slotting himself between your legs and kissing you deeply. That brought back memories of after the Emmy’s, you and Jason’s suits crumpled on the bedroom floor, the feeling of his mouth over the thin lace of your bodysuit, your hands pressing into his chest as he fell back into the sheets. 

“How’d you sleep,” Jason asked, his hands running up and down your thighs. You could tell from the way he asked that this was a pleasantry before a real question, which made you a little apprehensive. 

“Like a rock apparently,” you answered, taking another sip of your coffee. “Fun night.” 

“Indeed,” he smiled. “You been online this morning?”

“No my phone is dead,” you began, “is there something I should be worried about?”

Jason was still smiling so you weren’t overly concerned yet. And then he asked, “Depends, what does ‘Paris looks nice this time of year’ mean?”

You froze, your eyes wide and a blush creeping up your cheeks. “Fuck.” That was one memory that hadn’t come back so swiftly. Your forehead fell forward onto his shoulder and you spoke without looking at him. “It may or may not…be a reference to a threesome. Oh god, that was offensive, wasn't it? Did I offend you? Or Donald? Shit, I’m sorry, I should delete that,” you moved to get off the counter but he held you in place with a hand at your waist. “I didn’t even think about people seeing that, it was just a funny little joke…”

“Oh, it was a very funny joke. Heather sent me a Buzzfeed article calling you 'the most relatable' and one titled 'Y/N is all of us',” Jason chuckled making air quotes with his fingers. “You are downright viral.” 

“Are you taking glee at me accidentally telling the internet I’d have a threesome with you and Donald Glover when you should be upset that I not only overshadowed a wonderful night for you but am also a big ol’ idiot who should know better?”

Jason shook his head and kissed your nose, “I meant it when I said you can do what you want. But it may be worth talking to Heather about it. No matter what, you’re not an idiot, you’re just…what did Heather call it…’chronically online.’”

“That is… accurate. Alright, let me go get my phone and face the music.”

You left Jason in the kitchen and started scrolling through literally thousands of notifications across various platforms, plus text messages and missed calls. You groaned and started with the Instagram post. The reaction was generally positive like Jason had suggested, so you decided to take it in stride. You edited the caption, adding, “Whoever sent this to Jason: you’re on my shit-list because I just had to explain this caption 🥴.” It played into the relatable vibe while also playfully acknowledging that you didn’t truly intend for the post to have the reach that it did. It was the articles and tweets where things fell apart. Though a number of news outlets declared your funny post as proof that the two of you were a good fit together, the negative reactions hit hard. People saying you weren’t attractive enough, you were a nobody, that Jason had downgraded. And even that didn’t upset you as much as the comments making Jason out to be a creep, implying that he was taking advantage of you. By the time Jason came to check on you upstairs with a snack, you were furious. His eyebrows shot up as you immediately started reporting what you had read. 

“Maybe let’s take a little break from reading people’s opinions, hm?”

“I should say something. I mean, yeah, obviously I seem out of place but they don’t know us and they don’t understand…”

“So you’re going to make them?”

You sighed, falling back against the headboard, tossing your phone away. “I don’t know. I just hate to let people think you’re some Hollywood creep taking advantage of me because of the age gap.” 

“I appreciate that you want to defend me, but the response really isn’t that bad surprisingly. Here, I’ll call Heather now, we’ll talk about it.” 

Heather was surprised to hear how upset you are considering the actual media outlets are trending positive about the relationship, but she understands. As a publicist you’re sure if Jason had run the relationship past her, she too would have advised against it. Hell, maybe he did run it past her and then just didn’t listen. Heather suggested that Jason do a print interview, something where he could be thoughtful and charismatic about the relationship without the pressure of being on camera.

“You mean without reminding people I’m old,” Jason smiled.  You looked at Jason over the phone he held between the two of you, thinking carefully before you spoke. 

“Could we do it together? Like, as a couple?”

“Well, Y/N,” Heather started, addressing you directly, “I’m not technically your publicist, but if you’re game for it I’d happily help facilitate. I’ve read your book, I know you’re good with words. Jason?”

“I don’t want you to put yourself out there like that, unless you want to. You’d be opening yourself up to a world of scrutiny.”

“It seems like I already did that on accident. I want to. I mean it. Besides, people are more likely to believe me when I say you’re not a creep than if you say it.” 

“Fair.” 

-

Excerpt from the interview

So, Y/N, Jason, you two come from very different worlds. What drew you to each other?

JS: She is by far the smartest person to ever give me the time of day. I loved her writing before I ever met her, and then I got to spend time with her and found out how funny, and kind, and gorgeous she is, inside and out. We really just connected in a way I haven’t experienced before. You know, creating chemistry with people is kind of my job, but I don’t really have to turn it on with her and I think we still find each other rather charming. 

Y/N: God, I need to stop letting him answer questions first *laughs*. I had been a fan of Jason’s since SNL days, so obviously I was attracted to how funny and handsome he is. But he’s also incredibly thoughtful and quick-witted under that midwestern charm. I was drawn to this image I had of him and imagine my surprise when the real thing was even better. 

How do you respond to people that are concerned that the age gap is inappropriate?

Y/N: I’m going to say something that will probably surprise people: They should be concerned about people in relationships with large age gaps. You should absolutely be looking out for your friends and people you know that are in imbalanced relationships because there’s so much potential for someone to get taken advantage of. But those people that are concerned don’t know us, and I promise, this relationship is not imbalanced. I’m nearly 30, I had a life before Jason—I’m choosing to be here and I’m choosing him. I think people that are making a big stink out of it are honestly taking away my agency, taking away the idea that I could choose something and know what's right for me.

JS: I don’t think I can say anything more eloquent than what Y/N said except that I am so lucky that she’s chosen me, chosen us. And on top of all that, I wasn't sitting down and designing my dream woman and really hoping she'd be 26 *laughs*. I mean by definition a large age gap relationship that lasts forever still means we're getting less time together than if we had been high school sweethearts and that's a bummer. But it's worth it.

Are your family and friends supportive?

Y/N: You know, I have to say I don’t think I saw anything said online that I hadn’t heard from my parents already *laughs*. But yes, my friends have been supportive since day one. I think at a certain point when you make decisions that are authentic to you, people sort of fall in line with that. Joy can be contagious that way. 

JS: Honestly everyone who meets Y/N not only loves her but they’re rightfully so impressed with her. So yeah, my friends and family that have met her, they’re all very happy for me. 

But you two haven’t met all the family?

Y/N: No we were in a bit of a bubble until the Emmy’s. 

And that instagram post. 

Y/N: And that. *laughs*

JS: I thought it was funny. I mean I did literally have to be told what it meant, but after that I definitely got a kick out of it. *laughs*

Y/N: You know, like you said, we come from two different worlds and I didn’t think about the people that would reach, but, you know I appreciate that people were like, “that’s what I would say if I was in your position.” 

We asked Donald Glover about it…

Y/N: Yeah? Was he offended? 

Not at all. He said he bought your book because of it. 

JS: Everyone should, by the way. It’s fantastic. 

-

You and Jason laid low after the Emmys and the interview, letting the entertainment news cycle find a new interest. He spent time with the kids while the two of you were still in California and you were able to meet them quietly and with little fanfare, pleased that it seemed to go well. You were supposed to be heading back home after the weekend, but for the life of you, you couldn’t think of any good reason to, when you were still enjoying yourself. Part of you wanted to go just to prove that you weren’t overly attached to Jason, to prove that you were still your own person. But you truly didn’t feel like you had lost yourself, only gained a new understanding of what you could be. 

After a few more days in California, Jason needed to head back to New York to pack for more shooting in London. You were going as well to meet with Sasha face to face and get detailed updates on the status of your book adaptation and then you figured you would finally get back to your apartment and, weirdly, to what your life was like before. That life was quickly starting to feel as unreal as this one. 

You watched Jason pack up his things from the bed, in comfortable silence. It only took one look at you for Jason to inquire after your thoughts. 

“I can hear the gears in your head whirring over there. What are you concerned about, hm?”

“Nothing really,” you start, but Jason looked at you skeptically, “it’s just, you know, this has felt like a dream for these past 3 weeks and its just starting to settle in that there’s a life outside of this. Not in a bad way. Just…food for thought.” 

“Well when we get to London, we can figure out the, ya know, what’s next of it all.” 

When we get to London?

“I’m going to London?”

“Oh, I, uh just assumed and bought you a ticket, I’m sorry,” Jason scratched at the back of his neck sheepishly, “I guess I also just got all swept up in the dream. I mean you said it yourself, you had a life before me…I just…I like having you around.” 

“Oh, baby, I’m not saying no! I also like being around. I just want to make sure that I don’t go with the flow so hard that I …get lost. Dragged by the current.” 

Jason tossed another shirt in his suitcase and came and sat across from you on the bed. You immediately scooted towards him so you could place your head on his shoulder. Talking was always easier with a point of physical contact. 

“I don’t want you to get lost either. I want you to do what you need to do. But being away from you for even just a month again…now that I know what being with you is like…it would be rough.”

“I agree 1000%. So let's not be apart for months. We’ll go back to New York for a few days, I’ll see what happens with HBO, you’ll go to London, and I’ll talk to my job about working in a different time zone and meet you there. At least for a little while. We’ll figure out a schedule that works. I promise.” 

Jason lifted your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. “Sounds like a plan. But just in case it wasn’t clear, I’m, like in this. I know we haven’t been together that long and I do want you to figure out what your life looks like, but I want to be in it for the long haul, Aaron Paul.”

You chuckled, “Very good Tedism. I, uh, gathered that from the interview and your concerns about dying before me." You both laughed. "I’m in it too, by the way. Getting to be a part of your life, to meet the kids…I’ve never been happier.” 

Jason grinned and pressed his lips to yours with a softness that told you everything you needed to know about how he felt. 

-

On your last day in New York, you met with Sasha in her office, with plans for a very fancy dinner with Jason later that evening. You hoped you’d have good news to celebrate, but if it didn’t work out this time you knew this wasn’t the end of the road. Especially because all the extra publicity around you had done wonders for your book sales. You would have been embarrassed about Jason mentioning your books constantly if his support wasn’t so genuine. And so effective. 

Sasha wrapped you in a hug immediately, with the warmth of a sister. “Girl, let's catch up on YOU.” 

The last time the two of you had truly caught up was before the Emmys so you started at the beginning, all the way through your conversation about figuring out what your life should look like and going to London in two weeks. 

“This is truly the unhinged Wattpad romance of my dreams,” Sasha laughed and you had to agree. 

“I know, I feel like at any second this bubble is going to burst. After the conversation we had, I know Jason doesn’t want long distance, but I don’t want to follow him around like a puppy. I never pictured myself being anywhere but the town I’m in. But it doesn’t mean it's bad.” 

“I am in awe of you. Seriously. To get thrown into the deep end and still have that much self-awareness and presence of mind…,” you raised an eyebrow, surprised at Sasha’s sincerity, “I mean personally I would fuck that man silly all over the globe, but that’s just me.” 

“There’s the Sasha I know,” you laughed. 

“So,” Sasha switched into work mode, and you were at the edge of your seat, “about HBO. Unfortunately, I don’t have any more news for you at the moment, BUT I know for a fact they’re announcing a new round of programming next week, so if it's getting greenlit this round I expect to hear something in the next few days. With an executive producer attached I really do think there’s a good chance.”

You let out a breath you’d been holding. “Alright. Jesus, this is stressful. I appreciate you though Sasha, I hope you know that.” 

“Of course I do, I’m with you every step of the way. Now, show me some pictures of you and your man,” you laughed and pull out your phone. 

-

Dinner was less celebratory than you had hoped because everything felt so up in the air. There was no HBO news and it was a goodbye to Jason, albeit temporary. It helped that Jason looked incredibly handsome sitting across from you in a brown cable knit sweater over a white button-down shirt, his beard grown out temporarily until he got to London and shaved down to just his Ted 'stache. And the cherry on top: his dark brown professorial glasses that he knew drove you crazy. Jason was as warm as ever over dinner, but you could tell he felt the tension too. Since the Emmys, you’d stop needing your 3 rules for figuring out how to interact with him; there was a freedom to things being serious that meant you didn’t have to worry about rocking the boat. 

“Are you worried about us? Being apart?”

“Oh, not worried no,” he responded immediately, “I think I’m just surprised at how much I’m dreading leaving you here. Which, by the way, feel free to invite Willa to the house while you’re here still.” 

“Oh, that’s a great idea. And also I hear you, but you’re not leaving me here, I’m staying. It’s…different.”

“Uh-huh, well whether I’m leaving or you’re staying it’s two weeks of no Y/N walking around in my shirts, or reading aloud, or putting her—”

You could tell Jason was about to say something dirty because he clammed up as a waiter approached to refill your water glasses and you laughed. 

“Well,” you said as the waiter walked away, “rest assured I won’t be putting my anything anywhere until I see you again.” Jason chuckled and was about to respond when your phone clattered on the table. It was Sasha. 

“I should take this, I’m sorry. A call is either really bad or really good.”

“No, no go!”

As you get up from the table to walk outside, Jason’s phone also started to vibrate and you were surprised at the coincidence. He picked up his call at the table since you were going outdoors. 

“I have two things,” Sasha jumped in as soon as you said hello, “both very important.”

“Hit me.” 

“HBO is greenlighting the show.” 

As soon as the sentence hit your ears it felt like the world around you slowed and then stopped. The people walking past you, the cars on the street, all sounded like they were underwater. You were thrilled, of course you were thrilled, but you were also reeling. You hadn’t truly let yourself believe it would happen. Sasha was good at her job in more ways than one, but specifically right now, when she stopped talking to give you time to process.

“That is…I don’t have words right now. Just know I am stunned and excited and all of the things. But you said there were two things?”

“The executive producer is Jason.”

You didn’t know how to respond so you laughed. Of course it was. Of course he would. 

“Not to mansplain to you,” Sasha says quickly, “but executive producer means that he’s heavily invested in the project. Like he’s bankrolling the whole thing, basically. I need to know if this changes anything for you because you can walk away if you need to.”

“I–”

“Wait, wait, before you say anything. I know you are fiercely independent, that you wanted to get here by yourself and this may not feel like that. But as your friend and agent, I have to say, you still did this. This is still your book. This is still your show. It's okay to let people help you. Less deserving people get by on their connections all the time.”

You breathed out slowly. “Sasha, it doesn’t change anything. We’re good. I appreciate it so much you have no idea. I gotta get back to dinner, you’ll tell me what all this means soon?”

“Of course. Hey,” Sasha paused, using her agent voice, “congratulations.”

When you got back to the table Jason was also done with his call and looked at you with concern. You were sure you looked absolutely shell-shocked. 

“Well, I guess you got the phone call too,” you smiled as you sat down across from him, but Jason just looked ashamed. 

“I’m sorry. I was going to tell you, I just—”

“No this is amazing, why are you sorry?”

Jason ran a hand over his jaw in thought, his long fingers tapping against his bottom lip. “I just…I know it was white knighting to go behind your back and insert myself in your work. This is your work and I fully respect that. I can take it back, I can offer HBO some other names, or we can figure out—”

“Jason, I’m not mad,” you laughed, reaching across the table to hold his hand, “I’m so fucking grateful and emotional and overwhelmed I’m just not all there right now. I need to process, but I’m not mad. This…means the world to me.”

Jason grinned. “This is you, Y/N. I threw my name and my money at it but this was in the works before me. And you could do it without me. Actually, you remember the day we met, well, the morning after,” you chuckled and nodded, “That phone call that I got was about this. I had told my agent that if the project came up I wanted to be a part of it, this was after the book signing. I wanted to get in on what you had. So I guess I’m also sorry for riding your coattails.” Jason smiled at you and you grinned. You were surprised that he had been able to hold on to that for this long but you knew he probably hadn’t wanted to get your hopes up. He knew firsthand how fickle the industry could be. “Look, if I can make your life easier, ever, I’m going to do it…but I do promise I’ll talk to you about it first next time, even if you’re not mad at me this time.” 

The two of you smiled like idiots at each other across the table. The words I love you were on the tip of you tongue, but you decided not to say it tonight. By the way Jason looked at you, you were sure he already knew, and it wasn’t hard to imagine that he felt the same .

“Surprise, baby,” Jason leaned in and whispered dramatically, “you’ve got a show.” 

AN: This is a long one! I didn’t really want the kids to be characters here so there’s only passing mentions. There's only three parts left and an epilogue, but let me know if you want to be tagged anyway!

✨Taglist✨: @tedlassostan

[mclwcc]

new article written by lando for the telegraph dropped! this time about golfing (embarrassing. embarrassing that i’ve even read it but way more embarrassing for him). AND this time it’s actually paywalled, not like the other times. so please please don’t pay money to the telegraph - i will literally 100% always be posting these articles in full with a day or two delay at most. anyways, article under the cut as always, enjoy the read

I cannot wait to get back in the car this weekend. Spa is one of my favourite circuits and it’s always a thrill to race there. I’m also feeling particularly refreshed right now – both mentally and physically – after a brilliant holiday out in Spain and Portugal during F1’s summer break. I spent the first week in Ibiza and Formentera with friends and family, travelling between the islands and generally chilling out. Then in the second I went on a bit of a road trip with my buddies Max Fewtrell and Tom Bale, who are old karting team-mates from back in the day.

I say road trip but the truth is it was a golf trip. We played every morning and then travelled on to our next destination later in the day, going from Alicante to Marbella, Sotogrande to the Algarve, and ending up in Porto. It was utterly glorious. 

Yes, my name is Lando Norris. And yes, I am a golf addict.

I thought I would use my column this week to write a little bit about my relationship with golf, as it seems to have become a thing. I'm always getting asked about it in interviews.

Believe me, no one is more surprised than I am that a game I had never really played until three years ago has become such a big part of my life but somehow it has. I probably have Carlos Sainz to thank for that. 

[picture of lando’s car at spa last year, i assume during quali but it’s just him spraying rain everywhere. fun times last year eh]

It was Carlos who introduced me to golf when we were team-mates at McLaren in 2019. We started at Topgolf in Surrey, near the team’s headquarters in Woking. Then he suggested I have a go out on the course. I was hooked from the word go.

It helped that Max and Tom took it up at the same time. We’re all pretty competitive so that helped to get the juices flowing. And slowly, over time, it’s just become part of my routine. I now play almost every day that I’m able to.

Am I obsessed? Yes, a little. I use an App called TheGrint, which keeps track of every shot. But don’t think it’s an unhealthy obsession (of course, you can become a golf bore but I try very hard not to be one, although I am attempting to get my girlfriend into it, so far unsuccessfully!) It’s my relaxation away from the paddock. A place where I can go to clear my head and forget about apexes and braking points.

For me, that is my primary motivation for doing it: clearing my head. I know there’s always talk of ‘cross-pollination’ when sportspeople take up other sports. There’s a long list of sportsmen and women who have taken up golf, from Gareth Bale to Steph Curry to Michael Jordan. And I guess there are potential benefits in terms of concentration, focus, and ability to deal with adversity. I probably get more frustrated out on the course than I do in the car.

But essentially I do it because I enjoy it. Which is ironic considering the pain it causes me. Right now I’m pretty frustrated with my game. I’m probably not doing enough lessons and I’m not seeing the progress I want to see. The driver is a particular issue (ironically). I don’t think I took it out of the bag for the last three days of the road trip. I do that classic thing of trying to hit it 100 times harder than the rest of my clubs, with predictable results! But I also have a few gremlins going on in my short game.

I actually need to get it a bit under control as I’m playing in the Pro-Am at Wentworth in a couple of weeks – in between the Dutch and Italian races – which is pretty nerve racking. I’ll probably be more nervous doing that than driving in an F1 race. I’ve played in a Pro-Am before, at the Dubai Desert Classic, when I was paired with Bernd Wiesberger. But there will be so many more people at Wentworth, and obviously on home soil a lot of them will know me. I don’t want to embarrass myself, especially as everyone knows how much I love golf!

[lando in dubai on the golf course with like some guy named bernd but not the safety car guy. i’m guessing a golfer? i assume the ppl who r actually into golf r also subscribed to the telegraph and can go there to check, venn diagram just a circle and all that]

I’m not yet sure who I’ll be paired with but there’s plenty of potential for embarrassment. But I’m looking forward to it. It will be an experience, with the crowds lining the fairways and galleries around the greens. 

Maybe I’ll get a few tips off Carlos. I reckon he’s probably the best golfer among us F1 drivers. Him or Lance Stroll. I think they must be off six or seven whereas I’m currently off 14.5, having been down at 12 or 13. Alex Albon is another I’ve played with in Monaco. It’s definitely a growing thing in F1, although I haven’t been able to tempt George Russell yet. 

Going into this weekend I’m comfortable with my fitness, and with how hard I’ve been working this year. For me, it felt important to relax and clear my head over the summer break. Golf helps me to do that. I’ll arrive in Spa fit, ready and re-energised, if a little sunburnt after my golfing road trip in 39C heat.

[pikahlua]

Hi pika! Whenever you write metas on bnha theories I read them like morning news. I like your ideas on the recent one about katsuki. If things go similarly as what you predicted, what will happen to Izuku tho? Like the 2nd poll art where katsuki has a hunting knife, I did notice Izuku had another sword/knife on his belt too in this new art which got me thinking.

I always wondered if Izuku actually were born with a quirk but was deemed useful by the doctor so he took it (idk by what means but apparently he was already working with afo at the time anyway so he must have his ways), then lied to poor Izuku and his mom that he was quirkless. I honestly have no idea what Izuku's quirk might be if he originally had one. It might be something, a missing piece, that afo had always wanted to regenerate himself or to utilize his quirks better. Something modest but really useful, Idk. Still, after finding out the doctor Izuku consulted about his quirk manifestation turned out to be the doctor screams suspicious to me.

Anyway, by linking the additional sword/knife on Katsuki and Izuku with your theory, if either TomurAFO or AFO did successfully stole OFA from Izuku, then what does the additional weapon on Izuku means? Could it be hinting that the remaining power of OFA still lingers in him(like the case with AM) and he could actually own it and make it into his own quirk (with/without time limit), or he literally became quirkless that he had to work again to figure out what he could do as a hero?

What are your thoughts on Izuku's endgame and how it would affect and bring the whole theme of this series into a final closure?

I won't deny that there are enough little hints that Izuku could actually have been born with a quirk and lost it--should Horikoshi decide to take the story in that direction. I just don't get the feeling he will. I feel like the story has been coming back to the "it's the will behind the quirk that matters, not the quirk itself" moral a little too hard to need to make Izuku have a quirk for any reason. That doesn't mean there isn't something else to the weird coincidence where Dr. Garaki was Izuku's pediatrician though, but I can only speculate about that.

As far as the additional sword on Izuku's person, I don't know if I'm SUPPOSED to read into that, but it's kind of fun to. And if I do read into it, I have no idea which direction to take it. The one I'm (probably unsurprisingly) fond of considering is--if Katsuki ends up with OFA, what if Izuku ends up with Explosion? (What? What's that? "Switch Theory"? Never heard of it.)

Izuku's endgame is somehow the most difficult for me to discern, because I think it's entirely dependent on some big story questions Horikoshi has to answer. It's not that I have no idea what will happen--it's that there are a lot of options and Horikoshi has yet to broadcast which one he's going with. Katsuki is, of course, the wild card here, because you can't tell me their endings aren't inextricably tied together. Whatever big thing happens to either character will have a huge impact on what happens to the other. One will likely save the other--or they'll both save each other? And Tenko's gonna be somewhere in that mix as well. I also get the feeling that little flashback of AFO vs Second has a thematic piece of the puzzle in what ultimately happens. Off the top of my head I can just take all these pieces like 5 different ways already though. Ain't nobody got time to write all of that lol.

[nikibogwater]

I've been invited to participate in a small ToA fandom revival. So, without further ado:

*gleefully continues to give my babies their happy ending while aggressively maintaining eye-contact with the RotT executives*

If you haven't read The Final Becoming, my personal canon ending for the series involves Douxie, Archie, and Nari choosing to remain together as found family even after the world is safe (because what am I if not a very predictable and obsessive bog witch?). I thought it might be fun to give you guys a snapshot of what their lives are generally like now.

They're living in a proper house on the outskirts of town. It's secluded and surrounded by nature, but close enough to Arcadia Oaks that Douxie can be on scene quickly if anything weird starts happening (which, let's be honest, in Arcadia, that's like twice a week at minimum).

None of them know the first thing about interior decoration. The living room is a jumbled mess of strange musical instruments that Douxie collects and exotic plants. The walls are covered in posters and growing ivy. Archie has three completely different cat trees across the house. None of them understand why Zoe looks like she's in pain every time she sees their décor.

Since magic has started to be re-integrated into larger society, Douxie's been able to earn a somewhat stable living off of wizarding work. It does mean a lot of traveling and late nights and scuffles with monsters, but it beats customer service any day. And with an ancient sorceress to lend him and Arch a hand with more tricky missions, the work isn't really all that stressful.

Despite paying the bills, Douxie owns nothing in this house. His possessions are their possessions. Archie likes to steal and hoard his socks. Nari has absconded with at least six of his concert t-shirts, and he's lost countless hoodies/jackets to her as well. She would give them back if he asked. But he won't. So she doesn't. In his defense, she looks so precious coming out first thing in the morning, wrapped up all warm and sleepy in a big black hoodie.

Nari takes care of the lawn, obviously. And by "take care of," I mean she fills it with exotic flowers and never cuts the grass. Good thing they don't have to deal with a suburban neighborhood association.

She also frequently employs woodland creatures to aid with housework, ala Disney's Snow White. Most of Douxie's laundry is done by raccoons now. Sometimes he wakes up to a couple of rats serving breakfast in the kitchen. The rabbits dust the furniture. An owl is bringing in the mail every day. Douxie and Archie don't think anything of it anymore. It seemed perfectly normal to them after the first few weeks.

Nari is out like a light every night at precisely 9 pm. Sometimes Douxie has to carry her to her room because she conked out on the sofa or under the dining room table. He secretly likes tucking her in--it makes him feel like a proper big brother (even though she is literally thousands of millennia older than him).

Nari and Archie still make Douxie's tea for him every morning. It was a habit they fell into back when they lived in New York, and it persists to this day. I'm honestly not sure if Douxie even knows where the tea is kept at this point.

All in all, the three co-exist together in a quiet, comfortable sort of companionship. Douxie was surprised by how much he enjoys this more peaceful, grounded lifestyle. He wouldn't have ever thought it, but now his favorite kind of days are the ones where he gets to just stay at home, writing music, experimenting with magic, and simply basking in the lovely sense of peace that comes from knowing you are right where you belong--and so are the people you love most.

[projectjasper]

ok big guy what r u predicting let’s hear it what’s the trajectory for the next episode I wanna know ur thoughts

you ask and i deliver!!

so, our next episode is starting with this scene:

pran is processing everything that's happened. pat likes him back, that's a thing now, but he also starts thinking about all the things their relationship can lead to. reminder that the last time they got close, pran was literally ripped away from pat, and that hurt like a bitch. pran is afraid that this will inevitably happen again.

then even though they kissed on the rooftop and pat knows that pran loves him back, pran is avoiding him now. obviously, pat doesn't like that, so he reaches out to him and tries to figure out what went wrong:

as for the dialogue, that's wai speaking - considering what happened this episode, he will obviously pester pran about his relationship with pat, which is going to be especially tricky to deal with now that their relationship isn't even "oh, we are neighbours and have always been close, but can't be anything to each other because our parents hate each other for fucking stupid reasons", it's now "we are in love and literally kissed yesterday, but we can't be together because our parents hate each other for fucking stupid reasons".

then they all go to the beach, and at first, pran tries his best to pretend like he doesn't care, but pat basically throws it in his face, like "i fucking know you love me back, stop this right now":

the night of that same first day at the beach, pat tries to reach out once again:

i assume that's when pran finally explains that he can't imagine their relationship ending in any way other than heartbreak. pat is of a different opinion, the entire situation sucks.

next morning, they end up at the same place (accidentally, i assume - like today on the rooftop):

except, this time they help a family whose car got stuck, and the family then drives them back to the place they are staying at, and on their way there they also talk with the son of the family, who seems curious about their relationship:

pat answers in a joking manner, but i guess the whole situation sets them back on track, at least in a sense that "hey, you will always be drawn to each other, and there is just no way this avoiding thing is going to work". so they have fun at the beach:

but there is a serious conversation incoming, where pran (once again?) expresses his fears about them never being able to be together for too long, and things always ending badly. pat obviously tries to convince them to give it a go, though:

and i assume that at that point it will become a question that's hung up in the air. in one of my favorite musicals, there are these two characters who are secret lovers, despite one of them being the queen, married to the king (who she is cheating on with this other man). and she wants them to end their relationship because she is afraid of what will happen if they are found out. but the chorus of the song, where the queen's lover is trying to convince her that they should stay together goes with her saying "i did not answer "yes", m'lord" and him responding "but i don't hear a "no"". this is what i think will happen. pran won't agree to date pat yet, but he will stop refusing to date him as well. it's very much an "ok, let's see what happens for now - i haven't made a decision yet", which is better than an outright "no" for sure.

so they spend the evening together:

and potentially the next day as well, because the bet scene also happens in the evening (though, they change clothes so much that i wouldn't be surprised, if it's the same day):

either way, i feel like episode 6 is a transitional period between them already having confessed and knowing they are in love to actually dating. i feel like the bet will be made somewhere around the end of the episode, and then they will finally start dating in episode 7. though with the pacing of this show, one can never know for sure - perhaps it will happen at the end of episode 6.

either way, episode 6 will definitely end with pran at least considering saying "fuck it" and just being with the person he loves, ready to fight for him, if such a need arises.