#big forehand

[lumibuns-blog]

Simon Riley x reader

Idk what to call this but I made a fic where Simon "Ghost" Riley falls for Johnny's female roomie cuz it's been clanking around in my head for days. Also now I can finally use the time I've spent in the UK having to listen to stupid slang and banter to use💪

Also reader is a girl that's like a main plot point👍Okay enjoy!

"Ya sure this is okay mate?" Kyle asked, slightly apprehensive as he entered the apartment

"'Course it's okay!" Johnny beamed, closing the door behind them "asked 'em 'forehand anyway"

Simon just grunted and started to remove his boots. The boys had a week off from being stationed at base and though most would use this time to go home and visit family, that option wasn't really in the cards for the three.

Kyle's family had gone on vacation, he had grumbled something about "lef' me 'ta holiday in the tropics". And Simon...well his family situation was...something, so Johnny had very graciously offered to host them at his apartment for the week. Just one problem, he had forgotten to let his friends know the roommate he lived with was a girl. Not only that, but he hadn't actually checked to see if you read his last minute message. Not that he had actually had the foresight to ask if you were okay with 2 men you had never met sleeping in your apartment for a week. He texted something along the lines of "omw back" quickly followed by "bringing the boys with"

You had been napping and hadn't seen his text, and you were too groggy as you woke up and shuffled to get dressed to even notice the sounds of footsteps in the front room.

"Just set ya shite by the couch 'fer now" Johnny commented as he walked into the open kitchen

Simon took a moment to scan over the apartment. There were the obvious signs of Johnny's presence scattered all around the room. A couple of empty chip bags, an X-box with the wires of the controller's tangled into one big mess, his army green sweatshirt draped over the back of the couch, his preferred brand of cereal stood haphazardly on the counter, even those stupid Crocs he bought a year ago were by the front door. But something felt off, he knew his friend lived with a roommate but there was something strange about the other items in the flat he couldn't put his finger on.

A hairbrush was set on the coffee table, the cups that he caught a glimpse of as Johnny opened the cupboard seemed a little too nice, a small tube of hand lotion was set on the counter, and a pair of shoes that seemed a little too small and a little too clean were (unlike Johnny's) placed on the Ikea shoe rack by the door.

Kyle's voice suddenly broke him from his thoughts, "thought ya 'ad a roommate soap? Where they at?"

"They're 'ere" Johnny chimed, closing the fridge door with his hip and pouring himself some juice "probably just in 'they room" he took one sip from the glass "hold on lads let me get 'em"

He rounded the corner into the small hallway and disappeared from Simon and Kyle's line of sight. Kyle looked over to the blonde, who had (for once) forgone his usual balaclava in favor of a simple black face mask, Simon just shrugged.

They heard the turning of a doorknob at the end of the hallway, the hinges squeaking as it began to open.

"Aye come out 'ere a sec-"

A high pitched, startled noise could be heard before..."JOHNNY WHAT THE FUCK MAN GET OUT!" your voice rang through the apartment clear as day.

Simon and Kyle's head's whipped around to face each other, suddenly all the pieces fell into place in Simon's head. Johnny's roommate was a chick.

"Sweet Jesus! Sorry lass didnae know ya were 'gon tae changin' in 'ere" Johnny blurted out apologetically.

"YEAH THATS WHY YOU KNOCK FIRST DUMBASS!" you continued to berate him as he stood in the door way with his hand covering eyes.

"Well how the 'ell was I 'sposed know what'chu was doin' in 'ere?" he fought back

"MAYBE BY NOT BARGING IN HERE OUT OF NOWHERE?!" Your voice strained with frustration and embarrassment

There was a brief moment of silence before-

"WHY THE HELL ARE YOU STILL STANDING HERE? GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY ROOM!" A small thud could be heard as one of your shirts collided with the side of his head.

"Okay, okay I'm goin'!" he closed the door "creepin' Jesus..." he sighed

He slowly rounded the corner back into the kitchen, holding your oversized T-shirt in one of his hands. He looked up to see the gobsmacked faces of his two friends

"Wot?"

"Could've at least told us 'yer rooming with a girl" Kyle muttered, looking sheepishly towards the tile floor

"Thought I mentioned that?" Johnny said plainly

"Well, ya didn't" Simon grumbled, pausing a moment before continuing "she certainly seems...spirited"

"Nah 'hat's nothin', you should see 'er when I eat 'er scraps" he smirked "just 'bout killed me last time"

Simon couldn't help but notice the glass Johnny had poured earlier, it seemed to be some sort of fruit juice cocktail, something his friend probably wouldn't have bought for himself...

"Well-" Johnny swung his arm out dramatically as he attempted to fill the silence. Yet in that moment, the bra that, unbeknownst to you, had been tucked within the shirt he was now holding, flew to the floor.

"Shit-" Johnny went to quickly pick it up as his two friends respectfully averted their gaze from your undergarments.

"Wait..." Johnny paused to look up at the both of them "is it weird fer me to go grabbin' at it?" He asked in full honesty

Disappointed looks are what greeted him,

"Mate-"

"Bruv..."

They heard your door open suddenly and all embarrassment was forgotten as your roommate quickly picked up the bra and folded it back into the shirt before setting it on the counter

"Seriously man what were you thinking? Going to have to get a lock if you keep this up. Anyway what were you-" you stopped as you rounded the corner to find not only your roommate, but two other large men in your living area.

"Oh!" You started "Hey..." you trailed off apprehensively

Simon and Kyle both got their first proper look at you. A tight tank top clung to your figure and loose sweatpants hung from your hips, your hair haphazardly tied up with strands poking out in every direction. It then became clear to them at that moment you had not been expecting any company.

Kyle cleared his throat, ready to introduce himself, but his friend beat him to it

"These are the lads 've told ya about" Johnny began with a boyish grin, gesturing widely to his two friends, as if he was showing them off.

"From work?" you questioned

"Yup"

You then looked back to the two men in question and they both instinctively stood up a bit straighter "Ghost and...Gaz? Right?" you asked, pointing from one to the other, tilting you head in a way that was undeniably adorable to all three of them.

"'hat's us" Kyle responded brightly "Soap 'as talked 'bout you but I never caught ya name"

You gave it to them with no hesitation, before turning to Johnny "soap?" You teased, cocking one eyebrow

"It's ma' call sign lass, didnae be makin' fun of it now" he shook his finger in your face

"Yeah sure it is" you brushed him off before your eyes met the cup on the counter, you slowly turned back to him,

"What did I say about drinking my shit?!" You questioned with an accusatory tone.

"Is' just a glass" Johnny whined

You delivered a a harsh slap to his bicep "if you're going to be drinking it tell me so I can buy more, I'm tired of runnin' to the store every other day" you sighed

You moved through the kitchen closer to Simon and Kyle, opening the fridge and scanning its contents before turning to the both of them "I'll be going out, you two want anything?" You asked

They both just looked at you completely speechless and slightly confused.

"What? I assume you are probably going to be staying this week while that idiot" you gestured with your thumb to Johnny "has time off, so ya want anything from the store?" Your intuition had to be applauded.

"No we're jus' fine" Simon finally spoke. His deep voice, though not shocking, still made your hair stand on end.

"Alright then" you clapped your hands and maneuvered yourself through the small space in between the two men, a shiver ran down their spine as your front and back brushed against each of their sides, respectively

"I'm going to the gym then I'll hit the store on the way back" you say over your shoulder, grabbing your shoes "you need anything Mactavish?"

"Get some-"

"-More of the juice and the butterscotch crisps?" You finished his sentence for him and he waved his hand dismissively "you're so predictable" you murmur, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips

Simon watched as the Johnny's mouth began to form a smile of his own "I 'ave to do the washing, you got any thing ya need cleaned?" He threw back

"Lights or colors?"

"Lights"

"Then wash that shirt I threw at you"

The wicked smile now fully formed on Johnny's face as his friends watched on in surprise and burning embarrassment.

"What 'bout this 'ere?" Johnny teased, now holding your light blue bra up for everyone to see, pinching one of the straps as if it were contaminated

"What are you-" Simon and Kyle watched the confused expression on your face turn into horror then very quickly into undeniable anger

You stormed back across the flat and snatched you bra from his hand "John Mactavish you disgusting little prick" you growled "I am going to kill you one of these days and let me promise you, it will be slow" you leaned over him and pointed a finger in this face, your hight difference forcing him to bend over backwards slightly.

You threw your bra back in your room and quickly stomped back to the door "I'll be back in a couple hours" you called over your shoulder "do me a favor and kick his shit in while I'm gone eh?" You smiled towards Simon and Kyle before shutting the door behind you.

A moment of silence fell over the three,

"So how long has she been 'aving to put up wit' yer ass?" Simon asked plainly

"Little over a year now...-- oye? Whatchu mean 'put up wit' me' I'm a delight to live with"

"Clearly" Kyle rolled his eyes

"Too bad she's got such an attitude" Johnny sighed "she'd be a bonnie lass if she quit yellin' all the damn time"

"I'm sure you give her plenty of reasons to" Kyle groaned and Simon just nodded in agreement

"Ay haud yer wheesht" Johnny bit back "'member who's puttin' you lads up for a week"

The banter continued but Simon could agree with his friend on at least one point, you were bloody stunning. He just couldn't get the quizzical look you had given him out of his head, nor the way you had said his call sign so plainly. 'What had soap told you 'bout him?' He really couldn't help but wonder, wonder and pray it was the good stuff. Though knowing soap, it probably wasn't. His call sign had sounded so sweet when it came from your lips, he needed to know how it would sound when you called him by his given name. What sort of faces would you make if he poked fun at you like soap did? what if he were to be sweet to you? Did you cook? If so he needed to taste it immediately. What kind of expression would you make when you're all relaxed? How would it feel to take those pouty, pursed lips against his own and-

'Nope nope nope', Simon physically shook the thought from his head, taking a deep breath to clear his mind. You were his friends roommate and who he would be living with for a week, he had to be respectful.

"You good mate?" Gaz asked

"Fine" he replied flatly

He couldn't really understand why but he wanted you to get home from whatever you were doing immediately, it was like a burning fire had suddenly started inside him and it could only be dowsed by seeing you and having you close to him.

Johnny knew that look in his Lieutenant's eyes, recognizing the faint emotion they betrayed

'Damn smitten bastard' Johnny huffed before showing them where they would be sleeping.

Uhhh I probably will make more for this soon so stick around<3

@yumethefrostypanda for the visual I used🫶

[cherriesformatt]

first fathers day || matt sturniolo

mattxfem!reader

summary: Matt’s first Father’s Day!

warnings: fluff

word count: 1.2k

a/n: had to do one for Father’s Day since I did Mother’s Day 🤭

I tired to sneak out of bed so Matt won't wake up. I muted his app on his phone to monitor Noa so she won't wake him up when she will be up. We were back home in LA and it was my turn to make this day special for Matt as he did my mother's day. I made Chris drop off flowers for me this morning and I ordered stuff to make his favorite breakfast. It was all at our doors now. I had like an hour before our daughter will be up so I needed to star cooking. I took groceries and flowers in. I started making fresh french toasts. I cut up fruits and put maple syrup in cute little jar to put it on a tray. I did the bread and put it on the plate and decorated it with some powdered sugar. I got glass of orange juice and put a gift for him next to the plate of food and flowers. I got him new vivienne westwood chain and a ring with Noa’s name on the inside.

I looked at my app to check on Noa and she started to be wiggly in her crib so I knew she was going to be up.

I took the tray up and put it on the bookshelf next to our doors and went in to get Noa.

„Good morning sunshine” I smiled big at her and she smiled too and let go of her pacifier and strated babbling happily.

„Are you going to wake up daddy with kisses? Should we go wake him up? we need to put your cheesy outfit on first” I said and opened her curtains and turned off noise machine.

I took her out and give her kisses on the cheek.

„Oh I know you’re hungry too” I said when she tied to get under my shirt.

„First we need to get ready baby” I said and put her down on the changing table on top of her dresser.

I change her diaper and put on a cute pink „daddy’s princess” outfit on her.

„Oh he’s going to love it” I laughed looking at her and put a little bow on her hair.

„I can’t believe you’re almost one Noa…” I said picking her up again.

„Let’s go to wake up dad with breakfast and than you will get your breakfast”

I walked out to our doors and looked at Matt in bed. He was still sleeping in the same position I left him.

Noa squealed when she saw her dad and wiggled in my arms.

I put her on Matt and laughed when he automatically put arms around her. She sat on his chest and out both of her hands on his face.

I walked back to get the tray and put it on Matt’s nightstand.

„Good morning…” I said sitting next to him.

„Morning….”He smiled finally opening his eyes.

„What a wake up….” He said and sat leaning his back on the bed frame. He kissed Noa’s head.

„Aw honey look at your outfit you’re so cute….” He said and I swear he has tears in his eyes. He is such a softie for her.

„Happy Fathers Day!” I said looking at him and kissed his cheek.

„We made breakfast for you…” I smiled and he looked on the tray.

„Oh… that’s so cute thank you baby” he said.

I took Noa from him so he could eat and said on my side of the bed cross-legged and started feeding her.

„It’s so good… I love when you make homemade French Toast” he said.

I smiled and fixed his hair from his forehand.

„Anything for you… especially today” I said and he smiled and held a fork for me to have some of the toast.

„Have some why didn’t you make a plate for yourself?” He said.

„I don’t know I actually forgot I figured I’ll be feeling Noa anyway”I said.

„and what’s that? You didn’t have to get me anything” he said and opened the gift.

„Oh those are beautiful y/n… thank you” he looked at me and put the ring on and put the gray away and leaned in to give me a kiss.

I kissed him back and Noa slapped his cheek and I laughed.

“Dada you forgot that we have a jealous one in this house” I laughed and Matt did too.

“I love you baby just as much as I do your mama” he kissed her little feet.

We ate together what I made for Matt and talked in bed. Then he went to get ready for the day and we switched so I could get ready.

“Okay… so me and Noa are taking you on a little road trip” I said I already had our bags packed in the car for two days trip.

“What? Where?” He asked.

“I’m not telling you… you will now when we drive anyway” I said.

“ and I invited Nick and Chris to come… they wanted to spend that day with you too” I smiled.

“Okay sounds great I’ll have all my babies” he laughed.

When we were all ready and in the car we picked up Nick and Chris.

“So we have a gift for you….” Chris said looking at Matt.

I looked at him curious because I didn’t know what was it.

“So we know… you have your cool dad car but we thought we update your cool even more” Chris laughed and press a button to the garage doors to open.

“No fucking way….” Matt said looking.

“Did you just got Matt an fing corvette?” I said shocked.

Matt looked at the car and his brothers and smiled.

“Wow… that’s I wouldn’t even think to get that myself but I did mention this car once I can’t believe you guys” he said and hugged them both.

We talked about a little and looked at the cat but than went back in to our car to drive.

Me, Chris and Nick though it’s going to be fun to take Matt and Noa to San Diego Safari Park. Matt loved this place so much and he always wanted to take Noa there so I thought it’s a perfect trip for Father’s Day.

I was so right because seeing Matt showing Noa everything and he was so happy. Nick took so many pictures of us all and me and Chris just ate all the snacks everywhere.

“Look it’s us baby!” Matt said excitedly to Noa showing her a pair of giraffes with a baby giraffe.

“And you’re stupid uncles too” he laughed at two other giraffes fighting.

I think I have a baby fever again because seeing him like that makes me feel things.

We stayed in the glamping area of the park and when we were sitting by the fire when Noa was already sleeping matt took me to seat in his legs.

“ I love you so much this day was perfect… I can’t imagine it better” he kissed my cheek.

“Matt… you deserve everything you’re the best daddy for Noa.. and just the best person in the whole world” I said and hugged him.

“And I can’t fucking believe you got me a whole ass sport car…. Is a car seat gonna fit there?”Matt looked at his brothers and we all laughed.

“What?”he asked looking at as.

“Dude… you’re such a dad” Chris laughed and I just rested my head on his shoulder and smiled.

My everything.

[voyter]

MATCHPOINT — part one.

pairing. jeon jungkook x fem!reader x kim mingyu genre. tennis au. college au. smut. love triangle.

while tennis was your priority, the two boys who couldn't stop competing both on and off the court somehow were too.

word count. 8k words warnings for this chapter. threesomes and tennis LMFAO. they are SIMPS. a bit of crack, i love writing funny moments. my attempt at describing a tennis match even though i know jackshit. SO MUCH FLIRTING. smut. three way makeout sesh yummy. fingering. male masturbation. BIG DICK KOOGYU. oc got that wap.

seven's notes. publishing this an entire day early bc i am impatient :p anyways, i know the smut wasnt much in this chapter but it gets more and more explicit within each part hehe. let me know what you think so far, your feedback is very important and keep your comments positive or say nothing at all xx

masterlist.

Mingyu and Jungkook shared everything.

They shared a childhood, swapping toys and creating endless adventures out of thin air. During sleepovers, they were mature enough to share a bed without fuss, laughing at the idea of one taking the floor. On school days when one left their lunch sitting on the kitchen counter, the other would split theirs without hesitation. They borrowed each other’s clothes so often that no one could remember whose was whose. When it came time for college, they applied to the same universities, and when both were accepted to the same one, they became roommates, sharing a dorm like they had shared everything else in life.

They were inseparable, always found together — so much so that when one was absent, people immediately asked, "Where’s the other?" They were two birds of a feather, yin and yang, brothers in every sense but blood.

One of the many things they shared was a deep love for tennis. It became their outlet, a way to escape the pressures of life and channel their competitive spirits. The rush of adrenaline they felt during a match was unmatched, and while they had fun playing, they took the game seriously, analyzing every serve, every backhand, every forehand with laser focus. They’d sit side by side, watching matches with an almost religious reverence, eyes glued to the ball as it zipped across the court, mouths slightly open, bodies leaning forward as if they could will the players to win.

If there was anything they loved more than each other (and their families, of course), it was tennis.

And that intense, unwavering focus they had when watching a tennis match? It was the exact way they were both watching you.

A scarlet dress clung to your body, black stilettos elevating your stature. But of course, they were red bottoms. And to top it all off, you weren’t complete without the striking shade of red on your lips.

Mingyu had found out about your upcoming tournament from fellow students at the college, along with word that there was going to be a little party on the tennis courts in honor of it. That’s how the two boys ended up there tonight. Mingyu had his eye on you ever since he caught you practicing on the courts one day. There was something about the way you moved in red, a fiery aura that stuck in his mind like a persistent dream. He couldn’t stop thinking about you.

The upbeat rhythm of a Nelly Furtado track thumped through the air — an early 2000s throwback that had everyone nodding along. Jungkook knew the song too, but if you asked him, he wouldn’t be able to tell you what it was. The music had faded into the background, drowned out by the sight of you. Everyone else was a blur, just shifting figures in his peripheral vision. His eyes, however, were locked on you, following your every movement like the moon that seems to chase you no matter how far you drive, or like the gaze of a painting that never lets go, no matter where you stand. 

His focus was relentless. He just stood there, mesmerized, as if time had slowed just for him to take you in, every detail etched into his mind. He didn’t even blink — he wasn’t about to miss a second of you. His body was rooted to the spot, eyes tracing every flicker of movement you made. Even when Mingyu nudged him in the arm, he didn’t react, completely frozen in place. He’s got it bad.

“Dude!”

Jungkook blinked, snapping out of his trance. He looked at Mingyu beside him, startled, before immediately returning his gaze to you, as if afraid you’d disappear the moment he looked away.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, distracted. “You say something?”

Your hair bounces with every move, catching the low lights of the party as your hips sway in perfect rhythm with the beat. There are plenty of people dancing, but to Jungkook, you're the only one who matters. Every gesture you make, from running your fingers through your hair to the way your body moves effortlessly with the music, leaves him entranced. Your hair falls right back into place, teasing him with how flawless it looks despite your movements. He gulps hard, his throat dry even though his mouth waters at the sight of you.

“I was going to tell you she’s over there, but looks like you found her already,” Mingyu scoffs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Told you she was hot.”

Jungkook shakes his head in disbelief, “No kidding.”

Mingyu leans in, his lips hovering close to Jungkook’s ear. “I’d let her fuck me with a racket.”

Jungkook lets out a low snicker, rolling his eyes. Crude words like that were normal from Mingyu, but even so, it never failed to make him laugh. He’d heard worse over the years.

From across the court, you’re blissfully unaware of the way the two boys are watching you — like lost puppies, completely captivated. To anyone else, they probably look ridiculous, just standing there with wide eyes. In fact, a group of girls lounging on the cushion chairs by the side of the court had already noticed their ridiculous fixation, shooting you dirty looks, their jealousy plain as day. They’d been hoping to catch the boys’ attention, maybe even snag their numbers, but their plan had backfired since you already caught their eye.

The song fades, and you're left breathless, cheeks flushed as you tell your friends you’re going to grab a drink. They nod, barely hearing you over the music.

Jungkook watches you cross the court, eyes following your every step as you approach the drink table. He feels the weight of the moment — this is his chance. He nudges Mingyu, almost nervously.

“Should we go talk to her?” he asks, his voice low as you pick up your drink, unaware of their plotting.

Mingyu doesn’t even respond to Jungkook’s question — he just heads straight toward you. Without thinking, Jungkook follows, legs moving before he can process it. Approaching girls has never been his strong suit, and a jittery feeling builds in his stomach as nerves rise. But there’s no way he’s going to let Mingyu have you all to himself.

“Hey,” Mingyu says confidently, and your eyes flicker to him. Jungkook steps up beside him almost instantly.

“Hi,” he blurts out awkwardly.

You pull your lips off the straw, leaving a red lipstick stain behind, and Jungkook cringes internally. He feels like an idiot, convinced you must think he and Mingyu are embarrassing themselves.

“Hello,” you greet, your tone light as you swirl the straw around in your drink.

“I’m Mingyu, and this is Jungkook. We just wanted to wish you good luck for tomorrow,” Mingyu says smoothly.

“Thanks,” you giggle, clearly amused. “You two gonna be there?”

Mingyu’s eyes glint mischievously. “If I say no, will you invite us yourself?”

You raise a brow, a smirk playing on your lips. “Depends. Are you coming to watch tennis or just to watch me?”

Before Mingyu can come up with something overly flirty and blow their chance, Jungkook jumps in, his voice steady despite his nerves. “Mingyu and I have been playing since we were kids. And from what I’ve heard, you’re pretty good. We’re coming to watch some good tennis.”

Your gaze shifts to Jungkook, studying him for a moment. Mingyu, feeling the shift in attention, begins to grow envious, trying to think of a way to steer it back toward himself.

“You being pretty is just a bonus,” Mingyu adds quickly, trying to regain control of the conversation. “That’s twice the enjoyment.”

You snicker, amused by the playful banter.

Before you can respond, a friend calls out your name from across the court. “Join us when you’re done. We’re going to take Polaroids!”

You give a quick nod. “Okay, I’ll be there in a second.”

As she walks off, you turn your attention back to the two boys. “Make sure you’re there before the game starts. I’ll see you both then.”

Mingyu’s lips curl into a grin. “You don’t wanna ditch your friends and have a drink with us by the beach instead?”

You let out a playful laugh, already walking away. “Come to my match first, then maybe ask me out on a date, Mingyu.” You glance over your shoulder, throwing a teasing wave. “Bye, Jungkook.” You punctuate it with a wink before turning away fully.

Jungkook raises his hand in a dazed wave, completely spellbound, still processing the fact that you winked at him. His eyes stay glued to you as you walk toward your friends, even when you’ve blended into the group, laughing and chatting.

“Fucking hell,” Mingyu mutters under his breath, still staring at you.

Jungkook finally snaps out of his trance and turns to Mingyu. “Let me have this one?”

Mingyu shoots him a look, his voice dripping with competitiveness. “In your fucking dreams.”

“If it isn’t Thing 1 and Thing 2,” you tease as you walk up to them, a playful smirk on your lips.

It was almost amusing how obedient they were, like two loyal dogs waiting eagerly for your next command. They’d arrived before your game, just as you’d requested — 15 minutes earlier than necessary, clearly hoping to steal some extra time with you before the match.

“Little red,” Mingyu greets with a playful smirk.

You smile, warmth flickering in your chest at the nickname. “Cute,” you respond, letting the moment settle in.

Before you can say more, Jungkook cuts in, his voice hurried and a little flustered. “Just came to wish you good luck before your game,” he says, his tone soft yet sincere, eyes full of warmth.

“No, no — he came to wish you good luck,” Mingyu teases, flashing you his trademark confident grin. “I came to see what you’re doing after this,” he adds, his words dripping with flirtation.

Turning to Jungkook, you raise a brow, amused. “Does he flirt with every girl like this?”

Jungkook chuckles, shaking his head. “Pretty much.”

Mingyu places a hand on his chest in mock offense, letting out an exaggerated scoff. “I’m offended.”

You laugh softly, eyes still sparkling with mischief. “I’m just messing with you. I wasn’t actually planning on doing anything after.”

Mingyu’s eyes light up, clapping his hands together. “Perfect! How about you come to our dorm later tonight? We’ve got beer.”

The offer still lingers as you mull it over, your expression thoughtful.

Jungkook glances at Mingyu, brows furrowed. It’s not that he didn’t want you there — he did, desperately — but he worried Mingyu might push too hard and ruin it for both of them.

“Hate to break it to you, Mingyu, but whether I come or not depends on my mood — and if I win or not.”

“Oh, so you’re coming tonight,” Mingyu grins.

“Confident in me, huh?” you ask, eyebrows raised.

“Been watching you play for a while now,” Mingyu replies smoothly. “Whoever you’re up against today is going home with tears and a broken racket.”

You smile, clearly flattered. “You sure you’re inviting me over just to drink beer, stalker?”

“Guess it’ll depend on your mood after the game,” Mingyu says, mirroring your playful tone.

You pause for a second, then ask, “What’s the room number?”

“97,” Mingyu says quickly, excitement flashing in his eyes. “Be there by 8?”

"I'll think about it," you reply with a smirk, locking eyes with Mingyu in a silent exchange of flirtation. The tension between you two is thick, like neither of you is holding back, completely ignoring the fact that Jungkook is still standing there, feeling more and more like a third wheel.

Jungkook shifts awkwardly, unsure what to say, as he watches you and Mingyu practically undress each other with your eyes.

Then, someone across the court calls your name, reminding you it’s time for warm-ups.

“Duty calls,” you say, giving them both a final look. “Lucky you two — front row seats. Be my little cheerleaders.”

As you walk off, Mingyu can't help but call after you, "Be there by 8!"

Jungkook, desperate to contribute something, shouts, "Break a leg!"

You blow a playful kiss toward Jungkook, and he swears his heart drops straight to his stomach, nearly falling out of his body altogether. Both boys watch as you walk away, eyes glued to your every step until you’re completely out of sight. Then, as if waking from a daze, Jungkook snaps out of it and smacks Mingyu on the arm.

“Ow!” Mingyu yelps, rubbing the spot where he was hit.

“Why would you do that?” Jungkook hisses, his face a mix of frustration and panic.

“Do what?” Mingyu asks, genuinely confused.

“You made it sound like we wanna fuck her in the dorm!” Jungkook blurts out, voice low but sharp.

Mingyu raises an eyebrow, his tone casual. “We do wanna fuck her in the dorm.”

Jungkook stammers, “Well yeah, but… I don’t want her to think we only want her for sex.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes, clearly unfazed by Jungkook's concern. “Dude, you’re overthinking. If she didn’t want it, she wouldn’t have entertained the idea.”

“She didn’t say yes,” Jungkook mutters, more to himself than to Mingyu.

“‘I’ll think about it’ is basically a yes,” Mingyu grins, clapping Jungkook on the back. “In my book, at least.”

Jungkook bites the inside of his cheek, unsure. Mingyu’s confidence might be contagious, but Jungkook wasn’t sure he liked the way things were being assumed. He wanted more with you — he just didn’t know if Mingyu understood that.

Just then, the bleachers start to fill, and the boys claim their front-row seats, buzzing with excitement. The crowd is a colorful mix — older spectators, middle-aged parents bringing along their younger children, and students around Mingyu and Jungkook’s age, all eager to catch the match.

Mingyu has watched you play many times, making frequent trips to the courts at the university ever since that first day he saw you. But for Jungkook, this is his first real glimpse of your talent.

“Is she actually good, or were you just saying that to get in her pants?” Jungkook asks, a teasing grin on his face.

Mingyu leans back, a smirk creeping onto his lips. “When I saw that backhand, I couldn’t leave the bleachers until my dick got soft again.”

Jungkook chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. Just as he’s about to respond, the referee’s voice booms through the speakers, introducing you to the crowd.

That’s when you walk out onto the court. 

Everyone erupts into a fit of cheers, but not all of them are supportive. A group of boys a few seats away is particularly aggravating, barking and whistling in a blatant display of disrespect. Mingyu feels the urge to tell them to shut the hell up — not just for your sake but for the rest of the crowd, too — but he holds back, wanting to keep the focus on you.

Red skirt, red shoes — your signature look. Just like Jungkook loves to wear everything black, you embody confidence in your vibrant red ensemble.

As you step onto the court, you give the crowd a wave, and your eyes meet Jungkook’s. You shoot him a sly wink, and his stomach flutters with that familiar tingle, the same one from last night. He straightens his back, suddenly aware that he’s sitting there with his mouth agape like a total idiot. He quickly clears his throat, trying to regain some composure.

You head toward the chairs to set your duffle bag down, the wind catching your skirt and making it flutter. The crowd cheers again, particularly loud from that group of boys. Mingyu shoots them a dirty glare, wishing they’d show some respect.

Once you and your opponent, Camila Cane, take your positions, the energy shifts. Everyone knows Camila — she’s notorious for her brash attitude and over the top confidence, thanks to her wealth. And then there’s her infamous botched lip filler, which has become a running joke among the students.

If Jungkook wasn’t excited before, he certainly is now. Not only does he want to see if you’re as good as Mingyu claimed, but he’s also eager to witness Camila get humbled. He remembers the time he accidentally bumped into her, politely apologizing, only to be met with her disdainful scoff. To which she just scoffed in disgust and told him, ‘Watch where the fuck you’re going.’

Mingyu sits beside Jungkook, his eyes glinting with mischief as he watches his best friend shift anxiously, perched at the edge of his seat. He can’t help but snicker quietly to himself, eagerly anticipating Jungkook’s reaction as the match unfolds.

“First set, Cane to serve. Ready? Play.”

The ball moves fluidly from one end of the court to the other, back and forth in an exhilarating dance. You swing your racket with precision and grace, darting around the court, keeping track of the ball’s every movement. The crowd’s heads pan side to side, captivated by the game, but Jungkook’s gaze remains fixed solely on you.

It’s as if time has frozen, echoing the enchanting moment from last night when you danced, effortlessly catching his attention. He can’t look away. In a sea of spectators, it feels like it’s just you and him, and he’s watching you in your element. It’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

You play with everything — mind, body, soul. The intensity is palpable, almost intimate, and Jungkook can’t shake the feeling that he’s witnessing something deeply personal. It’s an erotic kind of magic that makes his heart race. He knows he should look away, that he shouldn’t be so mesmerized, but he’s too captivated by the way you move, the way you feel the game. There’s a strange pleasure in watching you find pleasure in your sport.

Just as Camila lunges to hit the ball, it bounces out of her reach and rolls lazily to the wall.

“Fifteen, love!” the referee calls out.

The crowd cheers.

As you quickly redeem yourself after losing the toss, Camila’s irritation grows palpable. Jungkook can’t stand sore losers; he appreciates a player who knows how to keep fighting instead of sulking about a loss. It adds to the thrill of the game, the excitement of watching someone pour their heart and soul into every point.

You’re fully concentrated now — eyebrows knitted in determination, your form impeccable as you prepare for the next serve. Jungkook can’t help but think how attractive you look at this moment. You’ve always been beautiful — your pretty face, that captivating smile, the way your laughter dances in the air. But watching you play tennis? That’s something else entirely.

The competitiveness radiates off you. It’s not just about the game; it’s about your fierce determination to win, that fiery desire to conquer whatever challenge lies ahead. The way you move, how you chase after each shot, it all sends his heart racing. There’s something undeniably magnetic about you in this element, a raw intensity that makes him feel alive.

As he watches you — focused, relentless, and unyielding — Jungkook realizes that he might just be falling in love.

You won.

Obviously.

Just as Mingyu predicted, Camila Cane left the court with a broken racket and a trail of code violations for her verbal tirades. The victory cheers echoed in your ears as you basked in the glow of your triumph, adrenaline still coursing through your veins. 

After the tournament, you were swarmed with congratulations and eager fans, so you didn’t get a chance to seek out Mingyu or Jungkook immediately. But Mingyu had every intention of congratulating you later that night. Jungkook, however, was skeptical, his mind racing with doubt over whether you’d actually show up at their door.

“Dude, she’s not coming,” Jungkook said, rubbing in his facial oil. He had already changed into his comfortable white t-shirt and blue plaid pajama bottoms, his hair pushed back with a headband, ready to call it a night.

While Jungkook settled into the routine of getting ready for bed, Mingyu remained fixed in front of the door, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. He was the picture of unwavering confidence, convinced you’d come to celebrate your victory with them.

“She won her fucking match,” Mingyu mumbled against the cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he stared at the door, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “What better way to celebrate that than getting laid later in the night? Times two!”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, glancing over at Mingyu. “You’re really set on this, huh?”

“Hell yeah, I am. You saw the way she looked at us earlier. She’s interested.” Mingyu’s voice was full of conviction. “And besides, who wouldn’t want to celebrate with two guys like us?”

“And if she’s not that type of girl, what do you think is gonna happen if she chooses one?” Jungkook asked, leaning against the bathroom door frame, arms crossed. “She’s in here getting piped by one of us while the other sits on the other side of the door listening and waiting?”

“If it came down to that, then yeah,” Mingyu replied, his confidence unshaken. He took another drag from his cigarette, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Jungkook threw his head back, shutting his eyes in frustration. “She’s not fucking coming, Mingyu!”

Just then, a sound echoed through the apartment — knock, knock, knock.

The two boys exchanged wide-eyed glances, their earlier banter abruptly silenced.

A few seconds passed, the tension hanging thick in the air. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

“Shit!”

“Fuck!”

Mingyu scrambled to extinguish his cigarette, the last puff of smoke escaping his lips as he hurriedly tossed it into the nearby trash can. His eyes darted around the room, landing on the clothes he had carelessly thrown on the floor. In a flurry, he began scooping them up, trying to make the place look somewhat presentable.

Meanwhile, Jungkook ripped the headband from his hair, running his fingers through the mess to tame it. He hastily tidies up the bathroom counter, determined to avoid looking like a slob. Out of the two, Jungkook is the cleaner one; that’s why his side of the dorm is in decent shape.

On the other side of the door, you pressed your ear against the wood, curious about why they were taking so long. You could hear muffled voices and shuffling, the anticipation building within you. 

Abruptly, the door swung open, and there you were, face to face with the two boys. They wore wide, welcoming smiles, the kind that made your heart skip a beat.

“You came!” Jungkook exclaims, surprised because he honestly didn’t think you would.

“I did,” you reply, crossing your arms playfully. “Are we gonna chat out here or are you gonna let me in?”

“Right, sorry.” Mingyu mutters, stepping aside to open the door wider.

As soon as you step inside, the lingering scent of Mingyu’s cigarette greets you. Surprisingly, it doesn’t smell as bad as many other male dorms you’ve visited; seriously, are most guys in their early twenties this messy?

You take a moment to observe the room. On the left, everything is neat and organized — posters hung up in an orderly fashion, a bed perfectly made, and even the floor is spotless. The right side, however, is a different story. The bedspread is a mess, half the blanket hanging off, with clothes and random items clearly shoved under the bed in a poor attempt to hide the clutter. The wall is barren, almost as if its occupant couldn’t be bothered to put in any effort.

Once you finish your silent judgment of the chaotic side of the room, you turn your attention to the boys. They stand there, watching you with expressions that blend hope and anticipation, like patient little puppies waiting for their owner to issue commands. Jungkook leans casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, though there’s a flicker of nervousness in his eyes. Mingyu, on the other hand, bounces slightly on his heels, clearly eager for your approval — or maybe just hoping for a laugh at the mess he calls his side.

“Well,” you exhale, letting the tension dissipate with a playful grin, “this is definitely… a room.”

Jungkook snorts, while Mingyu lets out a relieved chuckle. “We honestly weren’t expecting you to show up,” Jungkook admits, his eyes scanning your face for a reaction.

You shrug nonchalantly, “I did say I’d come if I won. And I did whoop Camila Cane’s ass, didn’t I?”

They both chuckle, the tension breaking further as the playful banter kicks in.

“So…” you draw out, raising an eyebrow. “I was promised beer.”

After a brief back-and-forth over seating arrangements, you three finally settled on the floor. You’d quickly discovered that Mingyu’s bed was the one on the right side of the room — the less organized side, which explained the state of it. No way you were sitting there; you had no idea when those sheets had last seen a wash. Meanwhile, Jungkook’s bed on the left, neat and perfectly made, was off-limits because of his germaphobia to ‘outside clothes.’

To your mild surprise, the promise of beer wasn’t just an excuse. Mingyu reached into the mini-fridge and pulled out the last two bottles, cracking them open with ease.

Settling in with them was surprisingly easy. They couldn’t seem to stop talking — about everything and nothing at the same time — and for that, you were grateful. It was fascinating getting to know them better, simply by how they interacted.

“So,” you ask, accepting the cold bottle from Mingyu, “how did you guys meet?”

“Well, we were neighbors at first,” Mingyu replies, settling comfortably as he recalls their past. “We played outside almost every day, and we’ve been attached at the hip ever since.”

His casual tone holds a hint of nostalgia, but you're curious now, intrigued by their dynamic. “So, you two share everything?” you ask, raising an eyebrow and leaning in slightly. Your voice is teasing, but there's a playful challenge behind it.

Mingyu’s grin widens, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Basically, yeah,” he answers without missing a beat.

You pause, letting your gaze flick between the two of them before the next question leaves your lips, a bit more daring this time. “Even the same girls?”

The atmosphere shifts instantly. The room, once filled with light banter, falls into a brief silence. Both boys glance at each other, then down at the floor. You notice the slight twitch in Jungkook’s jaw, the way Mingyu runs a hand through his hair, as if buying time to formulate an answer.

Jungkook clears his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable. “It… it actually doesn’t happen as often as you think,” he stammers, his voice quieter, almost hesitant.

You smirk, sensing the awkward tension. “Really?” you press, wanting to know more.

Mingyu steps in, his voice confident as ever, trying to regain the playful mood. “Jungkook and I don’t usually have the same type,” he says, his tone light but firm.

You can’t resist pushing further, the teasing smile still playing on your lips. “And me?”

Mingyu falls silent, his confident demeanor faltering for a moment. He looks at Jungkook, almost like he's seeking backup, his uncertainty clear in the shift of his posture.

“Well… aren’t you everyone’s type?” Jungkook finally blurts out, his voice soft but laced with hesitation, clearly hoping to diffuse the moment.

Mingyu smirks, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face. Jungkook, on the other hand, offers something entirely different — his sultry smile, the kind that’s both charming and unsettling in its intensity. His gaze lingers on you, the way his doe eyes shimmer under the dim light making the room feel suddenly smaller and charged with tension.

You feel your cheeks flush, a smile blooming on your lips as you return his gaze, caught up in the moment.

“So, I assume you guys have never had a threesome,” you say, shifting your longing gaze to Mingyu, relishing the way their expressions shift.

The sight in front of you is downright amusing. They both look like deers caught in headlights, eyes wide and mouths slightly agape. You tilt your head, savoring the anticipation as you wait for a response.

“I- uh-” Mingyu stammers, clearly flustered. “It- it was never really something we thought about…”

You let the silence hang in the air for a moment, then ask, “So should I just go then?” You can’t help but tease them, enjoying the power you have in this playful game.

“No!” they shout in unison, their voices rising in a mix of panic and urgency.

You giggle softly, thoroughly entertained by how flustered they seem. Their awkward chuckles only add to your amusement as the energy in the room shifts. The quietness that the room falls into isn’t just a pause — it’s a promise of something about to unfold, and you can feel their nervous energy as they settle into the moment.

Without breaking eye contact, you tap the two spots next to you, silently beckoning them. The gesture is casual, but the meaning behind it carries weight. Your voice softens, yet commands attention as you murmur,

“Come.”

They exchange a quick glance, a silent message passing between them. Then, almost in unison, they move quickly, Jungkook taking the spot on your right, and Mingyu settling on your left.

Though their movements were swift, the atmosphere between you all slows as soon as they sit. Jungkook's leg gently grazes yours, a subtle touch that sends a ripple of awareness through you. Mingyu shifts closer, his presence more assertive, his body angled toward you. The warmth from both of them is impossible to ignore, their proximity pressing in, heavy and undeniable.

There was no denying that the two of them were incredibly attractive — after all, you wouldn’t be here hinting at a potential threesome if they weren’t. Jungkook, with his quiet, almost bashful demeanor, had a certain charm that pulled you in. His shyness only added to his appeal, making you want to peel back his layers and see the side he rarely showed to others. And, of course, there was the added bonus of his tattooed arm, ink swirling across his skin in intricate designs, and the lip piercings that gave him an edgy twist (though he always took them out before tennis matches). That mix of boyish charm and rebellious edge was impossible to resist.

Then there was Mingyu — tall, confident, and utterly captivating. He had the kind of self-assured presence that drew your attention immediately. His confidence wasn’t just attractive — it was the kind that made every girl weak in the knees, leaving them hanging on his every word. While Jungkook’s quiet intensity worked its way under your skin slowly, Mingyu’s bold, magnetic charm hit you all at once.

You glance over at Jungkook, noticing how his eyes are fixed on his lap, his fingers nervously fidgeting in his hands. His uncertainty is almost endearing. Then you shift your attention to Mingyu, who is the complete opposite — bold and unapologetic, staring directly at you, his face just inches away, body almost pressed into yours. He’s clearly used to getting what he wants, but you’ve never been drawn to arrogance. Mingyu would have to wait his turn.

You turn your focus back to Jungkook, your hand moving slowly under his chin, gently lifting his face until his eyes meet yours. His surprise is obvious, but he doesn’t pull away. His gaze drops to your lips for a brief moment before flicking back to your eyes, and just as he’s about to react, his eyes close instinctively at the feel of your lips softly pressing against his.

As Jungkook leans into the kiss, you feel him slowly relax, his body softening against yours. Your fingers tangle in his hair, gentle but firm, deepening the connection between you. His hand hesitates for only a moment before settling on your waist, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver down your spine.

On your left, Mingyu remains silent, his usual bravado replaced with something quieter, though not passive. His eyes flicker with jealousy, but there’s admiration there too, a sort of begrudging respect for the moment unfolding in front of him. It’s strange seeing him so quiet, especially after all the confidence he’d shown.

As you pull away from Jungkook, a soft, almost disappointed sound escapes his lips, and his pout deepens, the swell of his pink lips and furrowed brows betraying his desire for more. You can’t help but smile at his expression, brushing your thumb tenderly across his bottom lip as if to comfort him. His hand slides reluctantly off your waist, making way for Mingyu, who wastes no time in taking over.

Mingyu’s large hand rests confidently on your thigh, his touch firm and sure, a stark contrast to Jungkook's more tentative approach. The difference between them is palpable — Jungkook’s gentle uncertainty versus Mingyu’s bold, unspoken demand. It was a clear reflection of their personalities. You feel the heat from Mingyu’s palm spread across your skin, his presence suddenly more imposing.

Mingyu’s lips crash against yours with a fierce urgency, leaving no room for hesitation. His grip on your neck is firm, pulling you into him as if he can’t get close enough. His kiss is demanding, rougher than Jungkook’s soft, tentative approach, and it has a wetness starting to pool in your panties. You feel the intensity of his desire in every movement — the way his lips devour yours, his hand clutching at your neck like he’s afraid to let go.

There’s a stark difference in how Mingyu claims you, his kiss full of hunger, no patience, no softness. It’s intoxicating, a whirlwind compared to the gentle warmth of Jungkook's touch. Mingyu's presence dominates the space around you, making everything else fade as he pulls you deeper into his embrace.

You press your hand firmly against Mingyu's chest, pushing him back with just enough force to break the kiss. His grip loosens reluctantly, and though his dark eyes are still heavy with want, he lets go. You sit back, catching your breath, the room now filled with nothing but the sound of you and Mingyu trying to steady yourselves.

Jungkook shifts across from you, and you don’t miss the way his breath has quickened, his pants tightening as he grows more eager for another chance. His eyes flick between you and Mingyu, a mix of anticipation and impatience building up inside him.

“Take your pants off,” you command, unzipping your sweater. “Both of you.”

Mingyu falters, his usual confidence wavering as uncertainty crosses his face. For the first time, he's hesitant, not wanting to cross any lines with Jungkook, who’s been like a brother to him. But the moment Jungkook starts sliding his pajama pants off without a second thought, letting out a soft moan of relief, Mingyu relaxes a little. He watches Jungkook, and with that unspoken permission, he begins to unbutton his own jeans.

Jungkook's chest rises and falls rapidly as he palms himself through his boxers, his eyes fluttering shut as he lets out silent gasps. His brows furrow, and his parted lips move with barely audible moans. You notice, and with a playful smirk, you tilt your head toward him.

“Take those off, Koo,” you say, your voice teasing as you pull off your shorts. “Show me how you touch yourself.”

It’s surprising, especially from someone like Jungkook, but with little hesitation, he slips off his boxers and wraps his hand around himself, starting with slow, deliberate strokes. His tip, flushed a deep shade of pink, matches the color of his soft, pouty lips, and the sight of his length is impressive. There’s truth to the saying that the quiet ones pack the most. The way his hand moves, his chest rising and falling in sync, makes it impossible to look away.

Mingyu watches, a mix of shock and intrigue flickering across his face as Jungkook unfolds before him, completely at ease in this intimate moment. Sure, he’s seen Jungkook’s dick before — they’ve been best friends for years, comfortable enough to brush off the awkwardness of locker rooms or casual nudity. But this… this is different.

Mingyu has always been the one to take the lead in their more adventurous escapades, steering the dynamic with his bold confidence. But now, as he sees Jungkook so focused and vulnerable, he realizes… his best friend’s got it bad for you. 

Feeling a surge of confidence, Mingyu follows suit, sliding his jeans and boxers off in one smooth motion. He mirrors Jungkook’s actions, his own hand wrapping around his length, joining in the intimate display.

While Jungkook's cock stood impressive in length, Mingyu's wasn’t too far off, though thicker, more girth to it. His cock was a deeper brownish-pink compared to Jungkook's softer, lighter shade. The contrast between them was striking, each appealing in their own way, both undeniably captivating. Their eyes flickered between each other and back to you, tension building as they stroked themselves, the sight enough to make your pulse quicken.

Clad in nothing but a matching white lacy set, your bottom lip gets caught between your teeth as you take in the sight before you. Jungkook and Mingyu, completely entranced, their hands stroking their lengths as their gazes hungrily trace every curve of your body. The heat in their eyes ignites a rush of confidence through you, sending a wave of satisfaction at the way they're both coming undone with just the sight of you. You relish in the power you hold over them, knowing that your mere presence is enough to leave them breathless and wanting.

Moving closer on your knees, you snake each arm around the back of their necks, pulling them in. Their hands continue stroking themselves, but their eyes flicker with confusion, unsure of your next move. Then, without warning, you lean in and pull them both toward you, initiating a heated three-way kiss. Their lips crash into yours and each other's, hesitant at first, but soon they melt into the moment, the taste of you and the shared heat between the three of you intensifying everything.

The intensity between you all builds, the space around you shrinking as things get more heated. Jungkook seizes your lips, deepening the kiss, your tongues moving together in a heated rhythm. Mingyu, on the other hand, doesn't seem to mind. His focus shifts, and you feel his fingers fumbling with the latch of your bra, finally managing to unhook it. The fabric slides away, and in no time, his large hand cups your breast, squeezing the soft flesh as he picks up the pace, stroking himself faster, more eagerly now.

As your lips are locked in a heated kiss with Jungkook, you reach for Mingyu's hand on your chest, guiding him downward with a firm grip. He follows your lead, sliding his hand into your panties without hesitation. The moment his fingers brush against your sopping pussy, you can feel the shudder that runs through him. His breath hitches, and the words spill from him in a low, husky tone.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he groans, the arousal thick in his voice. “Feel her, Kook.”

Jungkook, eager to take control, pulls his lips away from you, his breath ragged as he swiftly replaces Mingyu's hand with his own. The instant he makes contact, he lets out an audible moan, the sound vibrating between you. His middle finger moves up and down your slit, exploring you with slow, deliberate strokes, as if savoring every moment.

But the teasing touch drives you wild — their fingers are too light, too gentle. A whimper escapes your lips, your body trembling with need. You're much too sensitive for this kind of play, desperate to be touched properly. Every slow pass of Jungkook's finger sends ripples of frustration through you, heightening your arousal yet leaving you wanting more.

"Do you usually get this wet?" he asks, his finger lazily teasing your entrance, the pressure maddeningly light.

"J- just touch me more, please," you whine, your body arching toward his hand, desperate for more.

"Answer me first," he demands, his voice low and commanding, leaving no room for negotiation.

Jungkook was much different in moments like these, a sharp contrast to his usual self. Outside the bedroom, he was shy, even gentle, but when it came to intimacy, he transformed — his assertiveness both thrilling and intimidating, making your pulse quicken under the weight of his dominance.

"Yes!" you exclaim, practically begging. "Yes, I do!"

Both guys chuckle at your outburst, their amusement adding a teasing edge to the already charged atmosphere. Jungkook finally relents, slipping two wet fingers inside your dripping pussy with a slow, deliberate thrust, making you gasp sharply. Your back arches, head thrown back in a mix of pleasure and relief, while your fist tightens around Mingyu's shirt — the one that frustratingly still clung to his body. Mingyu smirks as he pulls away the last barrier between you and them, tossing your soaked panties to the side, now completely ruined with your slick. 

Wanting to give you just as much pleasure as Jungkook was, Mingyu’s hand finds its way to your clit, his fingers rubbing slow, deliberate circles that send sparks of heat through your core. The dual sensations make your body tremble, your mind barely able to keep up with the overwhelming pleasure as both men touch you, their combined attention making you feel utterly claimed.

In perfect sync, not even a millisecond behind or ahead, both of them reach for your neck, their lips pressing gentle kisses against your skin. Jungkook's kisses quickly turn into soft, teasing bites, his teeth grazing your sensitive flesh as he leaves a trail of red marks that bloom beneath his touch. The slight sting only adds to the heat swirling inside you, each bite more possessive than the last. Meanwhile, Mingyu's kisses travel upward, brushing against your jaw before he finds your cheek, his lips warm and soft. He bites down lightly on your bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth with a playful edge, his breath mingling with yours as he watches your reaction, the two of them in perfect harmony, each claiming you in their own way.

You moan into Mingyu's mouth, your voice shaky as you whisper, "'M so close."

Mingyu only hums in response, his lips still pressed against yours, the vibration of his deep voice sending a shiver through you. His hand is busy, stroking his cock with a steady rhythm, each movement becoming more desperate as his own release builds. He's close too, his breath growing heavier, but his focus never strays from you. Jungkook, though just as turned on, remains focused on your pleasure. His fingers plunge in and out of you at a quicker pace now, curling inside you with precision, hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. Your moans grow louder, the room thick with the sounds of pleasure as both men work in sync, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

A few more seconds, a few more kisses, and a few more strokes — then it happens. It’s like fireworks exploding all at once as the three of you reach your peaks in perfect unison. Your body seizes up, pleasure crashing through you like a tidal wave. Your moans, raw and uninhibited, sound almost pornographic, echoing through the room as you ride the high of your orgasm. Jungkook groans deeply, his voice rough and strained, the sound of his release vibrating in the air as he watches you fall apart beneath his touch. Mingyu, however, is quite literally growling as he cums, his body tensing beside you, chest heaving. The three of you, tangled together, create a symphony of raw pleasure, each sound feeding into the intensity of the moment as your bodies give in to the overwhelming ecstasy.

Completely spent, your body falls limp as you lean onto Mingyu, who instinctively wraps a strong arm around you, holding you close to his chest. The warmth of his skin against yours is comforting, grounding you in the aftermath of the intensity. Jungkook, equally exhausted, leans his head against your shoulder, his damp hair sticking slightly to your skin as beads of sweat drop from his brow. You don’t mind at all. Instead, you reach up and run your fingers through his raven hair, gently combing through the soft strands as the three of you bask in the quiet, intimate aftermath, your breathing slowly syncing as the room fades into a peaceful lull.

"Think you'll share the same girl again?" you tease, a playful smirk tugging at your lips.

For a moment, there's silence before all three of you erupt into a fit of snickers and chuckles, the tension melting away. Mingyu shakes his head, still catching his breath, while Jungkook leans in closer, a lazy grin spreading across his face. The laughter fills the room, light and carefree, as the intensity from moments before dissolves into something more familiar, more comfortable. The air is filled with an easy camaraderie, the teasing making it clear that despite the heat, there's still room for laughter.

Suddenly feeling as if the room has grown too intimate, you gently push Jungkook off you and rise from Mingyu’s side, creating a little distance. 

“Well, you two have a match tomorrow. Get some rest,” you say, glancing around until your eyes land on your soaked underwear. You pick them up and put them back on, the wet fabric uncomfortably clinging to your skin as you do.

“Where’re you going?” Mingyu asks, his eyes roaming your naked figure, a mix of admiration and longing on his face.

“To my dorm?” you laugh, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, trying to keep the mood light despite the heaviness of the moment.

“W- will we do this again?” Jungkook stutters, his voice a mix of hope and uncertainty.

You hook your bra behind your back, chuckling softly at his eagerness. “I don’t think I’ll be coming back here again.”

“Didn’t you have fun?” he asks again, his tone turning whiney, as if he’s desperately trying to hold onto the moment.

You exhale slowly, a hint of regret in your voice. “Yes, but I don’t do throuples.”

Jungkook sighs, his gaze dropping to the floor, disappointment washing over him. Meanwhile, Mingyu looks up at you with a spark of hope in his eyes, clearly not ready to give up just yet.

“Alright,” you finally concede, a playful grin creeping onto your face. “I will be watching your match tomorrow. Whoever wins… we can do it again. Alone.”

Mingyu’s face brightens instantly, a wide smile breaking through, but Jungkook just looks even more defeated, the weight of competition resting heavily on his shoulders.

“You can beat him, Jungkook. I know you’ve got it in you,” you encourage, trying to lift his spirits.

“Are you saying you want me to?” he asks, his voice laced with both challenge and eagerness.

“I’m saying you can beat him,” you reply, a teasing smile on your lips.

“But what do you want?” he presses, his gaze searching yours for the answer.

“I want to watch. Some good. Fucking. Tennis,” you say, emphasizing each word with a playful wink.

Gathering the last of your things, you leave the room with a smile, the laughter and teasing lingering in the air as you step back into the hallway, leaving behind a charged atmosphere filled with possibilities.

“Let me win?” Jungkook asks, turning to his friend with wide, pleading eyes that could melt anyone’s resolve.

“Don’t look at me like that when your dick is out, bro,” he replies, a look of disgust written all over his features, unable to suppress a smirk.

Jungkook rolls his eyes, kissing his teeth in annoyance. “Come on, you always win!”

Mingyu raises an eyebrow, considering it for a moment. “Fine, I’ll let you win if you let me shower first.”

“For real?” Jungkook’s face lights up, a grin stretching ear to ear as he processes Mingyu's words, excitement bubbling in his chest.

Mingyu nods, getting up and grabbing a towel, making his way toward the bathroom. Once the door is locked behind him, a playful grin spreads across his face as he calls out,

“I was fucking with you, stupid ass!”

© voyter 2024, all rights reserved.

[batsplat]

agassi/sampras please tell us more! the only thing I know about that rivalry is that sampras was very boring and they they disliked each other. but the way you talk about it sure makes it sound fascinating!

in a nutshell, the appeal is this

"pete. as always, pete"

imagine your whole career ends up being defined by one guy who you consider the "quintessential opposite" to you, who feels incomprehensible to you, who comes seemingly out of nowhere to beat you again and again and again and again. who is everything you could never force yourself to be. who seems entirely comfortable in a life that torments you. he denies you in what should have been your crowning moment. and then he ends his career by denying you again. inescapable and inevitable

agassi hated tennis with a passion. he hated tennis throughout his career - the sport he was never given a choice but to play, the sport he was forced to excel at. it's not an uncommon story in many respects, an ambitious father who sought greater things for his son... a cocktail of lofty expectations and the pressure applied to achieve them... the predetermined path in life agassi had been moulded to follow. and all of this forms the foundation for his fraught relationship with the sport (x)

as a seven year old, he already dreamt of quitting the sport, of just walking away and playing with his siblings, sitting with his mum - anything but tennis. except even then, it wasn't that simple. as much as he wanted to flee the sport, something about it also forced him to keep coming back for more. as he details in his autobiography:

Doesn't that sound nice? Wouldn't that feel like heaven, Andre? To just quit? To never play tennis again? But I can't. Not only would my father chase me around the house with my racket, but something in my gut, some deep unseen muscle, won't let me. I hate tennis, hate it with all my heart, and still I keep playing, keep hitting all morning, and all afternoon, because I have no choice. No matter how much I want to stop, I don't. I keep begging myself to stop, and I keep playing, and this gap, this contradiction between what I want to do and what I actually do, feels like the core of my life.

his father's favourite training method was to use a ball machine that andre nicknamed 'the dragon' - quite deliberately designed to look frightening, making andre flinch every time it shot balls at him. it spat out balls in unpredictable ways, all to make it impossible to hit it the same every time and forcing agassi to adjust anew for each ball. he was constantly instructed by his father - an iranian erstwhile boxer - to take the ball earlier and earlier, training his reflexes and adaptability through sheer brute force of repetition. what was being forged in the process was a game that was built to react to what the guy on the other side of the net was doing. in tennis, you can win both by attacking and by defending, by acting and reacting. agassi was moulded to do the latter

My father says that when he boxed, he always wanted to take a guy's best punch. He tells me one day on the tennis court: When you know that you just took the other guy's best punch, and you're still standing, and the other guy knows it, you will rip the heart right out of him. In tennis, he says, same rule. Attack the other man's strength. If the man is a server, take away the serve. If he's a power player, overpower him. If he has a big forehand, takes pride in his forehand, go after his forehand until he hates his forehand. My father has a special name for this contrarian strategy. He calls it putting a blister on the other guy's brain. With this strategy, this brutal philosophy, he stamps me for life. He turns me into a boxer with a tennis racket. More, since most tennis players pride themselves on their serve, my father turns me into a counterpuncher - a returner.

the biggest and most important weapon in tennis is the serve, and sampras had one of the best serves this sport has ever seen. like agassi a child of immigrants, his personal history is largely free of the angst of agassi's tale - though it should hardly be surprising that he had a strict father of his own to push him along his path. the type who was perfectly willing to make his disappointment felt whenever pete didn't live up to his exacting standards, even if pete was generally a pretty obedient kid, attentive of what his father demanded of him. take this anecdote about young pete speaking to a reporter after a big win at juniors level (from sampras' autobiography):

The next day, on the very same court, I lost something like 6-1, 6-0 to Mal Washington. I mean, he really schooled me. So after that match, the same reporter went over to Mal and got an interview from him. My dad pulled me aside and said, "You see that guy who talked to you yesterday? Now he's talking to Mal, because it's all about how good you are every day, not one day."

tennis parents. gotta love them

anyhow, sampras says he learned his lesson - and he also learnt to live by his father's straight-talking, honest ways. blunt and to the point. sampras was generally a considerably more straightforward character than agassi, "boring" as some might put it. he didn't hate the sport - he was good at it and he wanted to be better, always working tirelessly towards that goal like the perfect professional he was. to that end, he had to make some major adjustments to his game as a teenager, making the radical switch from a two handed to a one handed backhand and uprooting his whole style of play to make him the ultimate attacking player

But there were uphills and downhills, and my toughest challenge was changing my mindset from grinder to attacker. I had to learn to start thinking differently, and more. A grinder can lay back, waiting for a mistake, or tempt you to end points too quickly. An attacker has to think a little more: Flat serve or kicker? Charge the net, or set up a groundstroke winner? Is my opponent reading my serving pattern or shot selection? As a serve-and-volleyer, you attack; as a grinder you counterattack. The basic difference between attacking and defending is that the former requires a plan of attack and the latter calls for reaction and good defence. In both cases, execution is paramount.

'serve and volleying' as a playstyle has basically died out in the modern game (it still exists as an occasional tactic), but back then it was extremely common. the principle is straightforward enough: you hit a big serve and then you follow the ball, so that when your opponent returns it, you can hit the next ball out of the air (the volley). it's the purest attacking playstyle imaginable. it simplifies every service point, focuses everything in on the execution of just a few strokes. ideally, most rallies won't last longer than three shots - serve, return, first volley, rinse and repeat. short, fast, and sweet. when it is executed well, it is as lethal as it is efficient

agassi and sampras were part of a high profile quartet of american players to turn pro in the late eighties. the first of these to win a slam was sampras' childhood archrival michael chang, still the youngest man ever to win a slam at only seventeen years of age. the fourth member of this quartet was jim courier - who had trained in the same academy as agassi as a teenager and had generally felt neglected when compared to the star pupil. young agassi was a prodigious talent with unique style and flamboyance that served to grab the public's attention; he was the one who hogged the most headlines and carried the loftiest expectations on his shoulders, anointed the new flag=bearer of american tennis... and he was soon coming under increased pressure to finally crack on and win one of these slams. an immensely promising junior, the next big thing in american tennis, the guy who was supposed to rewrite the history books... by 1990, at just twenty years of age, the public was already threatening to lose patience with him

I go to the 1989 French Open and in the third round I face Courier, my schoolmate from the Bollettieri Academy. I'm the chalk, the heavy favorite, but Courier scores the upset, then rubs my nose in it. He pumps his fist, glares at me and Nick. Moreover, in the locker room, he makes sure everyone sees him facing up his running shoes and going for a jog. Message: Beating Andre just didn't provide enough cardio. Later, when Chang wins the tournament, and thanks Jesus Christ for making the ball go over the net, I feel sickened. How could Chang, of all people, have won a slam before me? Again, I skip Wimbledon. I hear another chorus of jeers from the media. Agassi doesn't win the slams he enters, and then he skips the slams that matter most. But it feels like a drop in the ocean. I'm becoming desensitized.

in 1990, agassi competed in two slam finals. the first was on the clay of roland garros, the fetching pink of his kit (see below) drawing plenty of headlines as he (very satisfyingly) beat both courier and chang on the way to the championship match. then, in the final, he lost in straight sets - in large part because he was terrified his precious hairpiece was going to fall off. which is definitely a story that deserves more space than it is being provided here... look, go read his autobiography, it's worth it

the next slam final was on home soil, conducted in the frenetic cauldron of the arthur ashe stadium. this was agassi's coming of age tournament at the slam he most wanted to win. he had scorned wimbledon, dismissive of the stuffy atmosphere and the grass courts and the strict dress code. he simply could not be bothered to travel to australia in order to compete at the australian open. roland garros was perfectly fine - but really, it was the us open in all its boisterous exuberance he wanted to conquer more than anything. and the us open crowd was ready to watch their new great hope win. agassi beat boris becker in four to advance to the final, eagerly awaiting his opponent - either the decorated john mcenroe, or a nineteen year old kid who had previously never gotten past the fourth round of a slam. sampras and agassi had already played when they were kids, with agassi in his autobiography remembering a match back when sampras was nine years old and agassi was ten. they had faced each other for the first time as professionals in 1989 on the italian clay... agassi had previously dismissed sampras while watching him practise, critical with his team of sampras' ruined backhand in particular. in rome, agassi beat sampras easily despite the improvements sampras had made

I beat him, 6-2, 6-1, and as I walk off the court I think to myself that he's got a long and painful slog ahead. I feel bad for the guy. He seems like a good soul. But I don't expect to see him again on the tour, ever.

the following year, in 1990, they play again and sampras wins in three - fittingly on the way to his maiden title. later that season, they meet for the first time in a slam final. now, look, the problem with narrating this rivalry is that the perfect narration already exists. it is agassi's autobiography 'open' and is available at all good bookstores etc etc. here is the most relevant excerpt:

It doesn’t seem possible, but the kid I thought I’d never see again has reconstituted his game. And he’s giving McEnroe the fight of his life. Then I realize he’s not giving McEnroe a fight—McEnroe is giving him a fight, and losing. My opponent tomorrow, incredibly, will be Pete. The camera moves close on Pete’s face, and I see that he has nothing left. Also, the commentators say his heavily taped feet are covered with blisters. Gil makes me drink Gil Water until I’m ready to throw up, and then I go to bed with a smile, thinking about all the fun I’m going to have, running Pete’s ass off. I’ll have him sprinting from side to side, left to right, from San Francisco to Bradenton, until those blisters bleed. I think of my father’s old maxim: Put a blister on his brain. Calm, fit, cocksure, I sleep like a pile of Gil’s dumbbells. In the morning I feel ready to play a ten-setter. I have no hairpiece issues—because I’m not wearing my hairpiece. I’m using a new, low-maintenance camouflaging system that involves a thicker headband and brightly colored highlights. There’s simply no way I can lose to Pete, that hapless kid I watched with sympathy last year, that poor klutz who couldn’t keep the ball in the court. Then a different Pete shows up. A Pete who doesn’t ever miss. We’re playing long points, demanding points, and he’s flawless. He’s reaching everything, hitting everything, bounding back and forth like a gazelle. He’s serving bombs, flying to the net, bringing his game right to me. He’s laying wood to my serve. I’m helpless. I’m angry. I’m telling myself: This is not happening. Yes, this is happening. No, this cannot be happening. Then, instead of thinking how I can win, I begin to think of how I can avoid losing. It’s the same mistake I made against Gómez, with the same result. When it’s all over I tell reporters that Pete gave me a good old-fashioned New York street mugging. An imperfect metaphor. Yes, I was robbed. Yes, something that belonged to me was taken away. But I can’t fill out a police report, and there is no hope of justice, and everyone will blame the victim.

what I can contribute are some high quality screenshots of agassi's mid-match beleaguered frustration at perfect pete who was currently in the process of mugging him

and here's agassi pulling sampras in at the net after losing in straight sets, 4-6 3-6 2-6

Hours later my eyes fly open. I'm in bed at the hotel. It was all a dream. For a splendid half second I believe I must have fallen asleep on that breezy hill where Philly and Nick were laughing about Pete's ruined dream. I dreamed that Pete, of all people, was beating me in the final of a slam. But no. It's real. It happened. I watch the room slowly grow lighter, and my mind and spirit grow palpably darker.

it is a brutal loss for agassi. not only has he once again been denied a slam - but it's happened at the hands of a direct peer, a compatriot, a nineteen year old american who has flown relatively under the radar until now but has snatched away from agassi the title that he felt should have rightfully been his. agassi had already become a frequent target for media storms, most memorably with the infamous 'image is everything' canon marketing campaign that had been widely used to mock him - but now, here was the proof anyone needed that this overhyped, cocky showman wasn't anywhere near as good as he'd been cracked up to be. it didn't help that sampras provided such an obvious contrast to agassi... quiet, more reserved, outwardly humble, less showy and less prone to drama and with a far more clean cut image... really had way more of a sweater boy aesthetic going for him y'know

tennis is a fundamentally conservative sport that is ill at ease with its own conservatism. the soul of the tennis fan secretly longs for a little glamour, a little excitement, something with a little more flair and thrill than the purist should strictly allow. when confronted with excessive emotion, when exposed to the true messiness of competitive fervour, the response of the fan is conflicted. on the one hand, the spectacle is exhilarating, to be celebrated, stimulating in the controversy it causes. but on the other, transgression is something to be repudiated and to be punished. the tennis fan averts their eyes but cannot look away, eager to capture every detail of how the gentleman's sport is being defiled by the newest freak show. the tennis fan begs for players to feel every emotion deeply - then jeers at them for losing their heads. the tennis fan hates sampras for being dull and lacklustre, for winning points as quickly as he can and refusing to provide much in the way of a show. the tennis fan hates agassi for being a loose cannon, for feeling so much and never quite living up to his potential as a result, for being so loud and vocal and obvious in his imperfections. sampras is a robot. agassi is a clown. sampras lacks personality. agassi lacks conviction. it is distasteful how hard agassi finds the life of a tennis player, but sampras finds it far too easy entirely. the fan loves to hate agassi, but sometimes they forget to think about sampras at all

the rivalry and their two respective careers develop from there. agassi has to go through a third slam final defeat, a horrendously painful five set affair against his old enemy jim courier at roland garros that leaves many doubting he will ever get over the line. but at last he secures his first major in 1992 at wimbledon of all places - the slam he had once upon a time had so little respect for he did not even bother to attend. sampras in all his precocity struggled for a while to adjust to a slam champion's life and took until 1993 to add to his own collection... beating agassi once again on the way to snatching agassi's wimbledon crown off him. there's a lot of stuff in those few years I'm going to skim over for the sake of brevity... like the final the two of them played where sampras was really ill right before the start and agassi agreed to a delay, only to be beaten by a revitalised sampras... that 1993 wimbledon match and sampras' nasty habit of catching agassi by surprise... or all their davis cup exploits (the main nation-based event in men's tennis, basically think like the world cup) where they both faltered and won as a team

let's pick up the narrative again in 1995. agassi had won his second slam at the back end of 1994, finally taking the us open title he so craved. and so, at the start of 1995, he made the enlightened choice of going - hey, you know how there's four slams on the tennis calendar? how about showing up to all four of them! yeah, not kidding, 1995 was the very first time agassi made the trip down to australia for the first slam of the year. which is a teensy bit unfortunate, because it turned out he was actually brilliant at that tournament. in 1995, he was the second seed at the tournament (sampras, of course, being the first) and scythed his way through the draw, making the final without dropping a set. sampras, by contrast, was progressing nowhere near as smoothly. his long time coach, tim gullikson, had been suffering from seizures for a few months and was flown home for tests after going through another seizure while practising with sampras. in his next match, sampras faced courier, fighting back from two sets to love down to level the match. then, in the fifth set, he broke down in tears during the changeover and struggled to contain his sobs while playing the next few games. courier asked whether sampras wanted to come back to finish the match the next day... something sampras interpreted as a sarcastic comment, which pissed him off enough to get him to regroup and focus once again. he went on to win the match. this is another part of the story that will not get the attention it deserves in this post, and there's a lot more to be said about how sampras describes the incident in his autobiography - his frustration with the narrative that he had finally shown how he was 'human' after all. it is this incident that is still what the tournament is perhaps remembered the most for. gullikson passed away the following year

and so sampras faced agassi in their second meeting in a slam final, fourth meeting in slams overall. agassi had gone through a major style rebrand since the last time they'd played, at last forgoing the hair he was so closely associated with (aka ditching the finicky hairpiece that had been distracting him in slam finals) and embracing the bald pirate aesthetic

perhaps a little more importantly, agassi won the match in four sets, claiming his first australian open title at the very first time of asking. I was going to check if I had any particularly insightful notes about the match - but mostly it's stuff like pointing out that the first set ends on an agassi double fault and the second one opens on a sampras double fault (#mygoats), plus enlightened commentary like this

we'll leave the sophisticated match analysis for another day

and here they are in their respective autobiographies about the conclusion of that tournament

"a tournament that I seemed destined to win" // "tennis has nothing to do with destiny"

and from there, it was game on. 1995 was basically the year of their rivalry. after the australian open final, they immediately faced off in both indian wells and miami. as sampras describes it, the increased exposure meant the general sports fans had more and more opinions about the pair of them and their rivalry: "we presented enough of a contrast to make people feel passionate about why they preferred one of us to the other". that season also featured an increased marketing push from nike to make this rivalry A Thing while the pair of them spent the year hashing out the number one ranking. we're talking joint marketing campaigns, interviews, all that shebang... once again, I won't be able to do this time period justice here - but at least in passing you do have to mention nike's famous "guerrilla tennis" ad campaign (see here), where they would play on makeshift courts set up in city streets. as sampras put it:

The campaign was brilliant, and it was an enormous success. And it worked because, instead of "Pete or Andre?" or "Pete vs. Andre" driving Nike's promotions, it became Pete and Andre. There was a welcome, counterintuitive feel-good message conveyed in them. The commercials helped further interest in the game and our rivalry. It also caught the true nature of our relationship. We had plenty of differences, but we were friends.

an important thing to remember, right - sampras was generally keen for the agassi rivalry to flourish because it helped him too. it helped combat the perception that he was boring, that he had a dull game too reliant on his serve (especially on the speedy grass of wimbledon, where he increasingly excelled at), that he had too little of a personality to capture the imagination of the masses. it also helped his relationship with nike, who he often didn't see eye-to-eye with - the agassi rivalry brought those guys on side because of how marketable they were as a unit. in his autobiography, sampras points out that players are only ever seen as good as the quality of their opposition, and agassi always had the potential to be sampras' ideal career rivalry. agassi becoming a more consistent, prominent rival was good news for the both of them... but, well, often it was sampras who got the most out of the whole thing

given we're in 1995, at this point I do need to throw in a top three anecdote from agassi's autobiography that just like... nails who both of them are As Guys and what the dynamic between them looked like

if my archrival said in his autobiography that I sounded more robotic than his parrot, I would do something that would get me on national news (more on that later)

so then... it looks like they'll meet in another slam final that year, at wimbledon. as agassi so nicely puts it,

In the semis I face Becker. I've beaten him the last eight times we've played. Pete has already moved on to the final and he's awaiting the winner of Agassi-Becker, which is to say he's awaiting me, because every slam final is beginning to feel like a standing date between me and Pete.

cute

of course agassi goes on to lose that match, after which becker makes some disparaging comments about agassi - prompting some fun drama that does also deserve more space than it will be provided here. the long and the short of it is that agassi vows vengeance and sets of on his "summer of revenge", going on a massive tear on the american hard courts. he defeats sampras in the final of canada, is unbeaten all summer going into the us open... at the us open, his hot streak continues - and he gets the great satisfaction of beating becker in the semis. revenge completed. 26 wins in a row

but of course, there's one more match to go. and it's the one that matters most of them all. it's also the one that agassi loses. "no matter how much you win, if you're not the last one to win, you're a loser. and in the end I always lose, because there is always pete. as always, pete." it's the brutality of tennis, the relentless inescapable cycle that so tormented agassi... there's always another tournament immediately on the horizon - and most weeks, defeat is waiting for you at the end of it. a lot of weeks, it was sampras who was waiting for agassi. after the glorious high of that entire summer, agassi had been brought back down to earth. he would struggle for years to recover

I've always had trouble shaking off hard losses, but this loss to Pete is different. This is the ultimate loss, the ueber-loss, the alpha-omega loss that eclipses all others. Previous losses to Pete, the loss to Courier, the loss to Gómez - they were flesh wounds compared to this, which feels like a spear through the heart. Every day this loss feels new. Every day I tell myself to stop thinking about it, and every day I can't. The only respite is fantasizing about retirement.

this began agassi's unravelling, the downward spiral that would consume the next two years of his life. eventually, he dropped out of the top hundred entirely. it was in 1997 that he infamously failed a drug test and managed to escape punishment plus cover the whole thing up (he had indeed taken crystal meth). he barely played tennis at all during that year. it would take him until 1998 to regroup and recommit to tennis, to decide that he wanted this enough to fight for it anew

in the mean time, let's bring in two encounters between sampras and agassi in fittingly liminal locations - one in a plane and the other in an airport. these brief moments of letting their guards down - of talking to each other as people - that are described in their respective autobiographies... both reckoning with the vast differences between the pair of them. first, there's late 1995, where agassi was already evidently struggling with the mental impact of the us open loss - as well as with the injuries that ruled him out of playing the davis cup. in a gesture sampras appreciated, agassi turned up anyway to support his team. here is sampras's account of a flight on agassi's private jet to los angeles:

I sensed on that flight that Andre was struggling. He quizzed me very closely on how I lived my life, and seemed dumbfounded to learn that I had moved to Tampa solely for my tennis game. I told him that I missed my family, and Southern California, but considered it a necessary trade-off. He admitted that he wouldn’t give up living in Vegas, or his lifestyle, in order to be the best player in the world. The contrast was clear and striking, although Andre made that point at a time when he was feeling a little disillusioned by the game. Through all of that, though, I always believed something that others, particularly people who didn’t know Andre very well, doubted. I always thought that Andre was a sincere guy. When we spent time together out of the limelight, he was always honest and frank—and I respected him for that. Davis Cup was always a good time when Andre was around. He was, at times, downright exuberant. He frequently let his guard down in Cup practices, screaming and yelling about any little thing, just for the fun of it. He seemed to get a kick out of stirring things up, creating drama, taking little things and making a big deal out of them. He was emotional, and he liked to whip up others’ emotions. At other times, we sat around in the locker room and talked about this or that, mostly about sports, and it was very comfortable. Andre was inquisitive. He liked to compare notes on players and he was eager to see how others perceived the same things he was thinking about. Andre had a great grasp of strategy; it was a great asset, given the type of game he played.

and then, two whole years later in 1997 - here's agassi about a meeting they had in the airport:

Walking up to the gate, who should I see but Pete. As always, Pete. He looks as if he's done nothing for the last month but practise, and when he wasn't practising, he was lying on a cot in a bare cell, thinking about beating me. He's rested, focused, wholly undistracted. I've always thought the differences between Pete and me were overblown by sportswriters. It seemed too convenient, too important for fans, and Nike, and the game, that Pete and I be polar opposites, the Yankees and Red Sox of tennis. The game's best server versus its best returner. The diffident Californian versus the brash Las Vegan. It all seemed like horseshit. Or, to use Pete's favorite word, nonsense. But at this moment, making small talk at the gate, the gap between us appears genuinely, frighteningly wide, like the gap between good and bad. I've often told Brad that tennis plays too big a part in Pete's life, and not a big enough part in mine, but Pete seems to have the proportions about right. Tennis is his job, and he does it with brio and dedication, while all my talk of maintaining a life outside tennis seems like just that - talk. Just a pretty way of rationalizing all my distractions. For the first time since I've known him - including the times he's beaten my brains out - I envy Pete's dullness. I wish I could emulate his spectacular lack of inspiration, and his peculiar lack of need for inspiration.

even these short excerpts should hopefully give you a sense of how differently they approached the process of writing their autobiographies, as always in itself very revealing. agassi is honest to a fault, forthcoming in his confessions even when he's not necessarily doing himself any favours - unsurprisingly, the crystal meth story caused quite a stir at a time, given he had successfully evaded a ban and had managed to cover the whole thing up. he does not spare sampras in his account, willing to compare him to a parrot or marvel at his lack of need for inspiration. it is a sincerity that does not necessarily feel malicious, but certainly is brutal. agassi's narrative is harsh, self-effacing, darkly comedic - he stresses how he really didn't take sampras seriously until sampras was beating his ass, talks up how sampras' commitment to tennis was clearly the far better approach than his own... and yet there is inevitably something pretty insulting in how baffled agassi is by sampras' simplicity, by the pure, unencumbered drive and discipline that made sampras such an excellent competitor. by how boring sampras could be

by contrast, sampras was far more reserved in his autobiography, providing a straightforward account of his career that really did mostly just focus on the tennis of it all - hardly a bad book, but one that lacks agassi's flair and skill for narrativisation. there is a rebellion of sorts in sampras' restraint... he's painfully aware of how he was perceived, rankles at it repeatedly in his autobiography, and you hardly need to read between the lines too much to get a sense of how much it really bothered him... but if there's one thing to understand about the guy, it's sampras' incredible stubbornness. if the people wanted a show, he was even less likely to provide him one. if they wanted drama and gossip from his autobiography, he would provide them with no such thing. and it's fair to say that sampras did not exactly appreciate agassi's approach

we'll circle back to sampras' reaction to the autobiography in a minute, but I wanted to bring in these quotes now... because sampras does capture something quite key to their rivalry in a way that is a touch more honest than he was willing to be in his autobiography. agassi hated tennis and always wavered in his commitment towards it, trying to fill his life with all sorts of other pleasures, travelling around with his entourage to make the tour life somehow bearable to him. it never came easily to him - and at several junctures, most notably after his long slide down the rankings set off by the 1995 us open sampras loss existential crisis, he had to make the conscious decision to try and give his all to the sport. sampras was always willing to make those sacrifices, whenever they were demanded of him. he was willing to move wherever he needed to, willing to eat and breathe and sleep tennis if that is what he needed to do to win. professional sports doesn't always reward the biggest personalities - in fact, as said sports become ever more demanding and the level rises further and further, if anything athletes cannot afford much of a life outside of their chosen domain. no time to grow up properly, to experience much of what the world has to offer, to figure out who they are outside of the sport... hey, no time even to start up too much drama where it isn't necessary - because are there many things more inefficient than media shit storms? in some ways, sampras represented the future of the sport. agassi, in all his impetuous talent, could in a sense be considered a relic of the past

that is not to say, of course, that agassi was not massively successful in his own right. and somehow he did what felt ever so implausible - he successfully completed his comeback, making it all the way back to the top of the sport when he had been so summarily written off. in 1998, he made an unprecedented jump from 110 to 6 in the rankings - and in 1999, he came from two sets to love down to win the roland garros title, completing his career slam by winning all four majors. this is one achievement that sampras could not match, having never progressed past the semifinals of the slow clay of roland garros that has tripped up many an american. (oddly enough, that's actually the slam all three of sampras' american peers had won, but courier was a natural surface specialist and chang was a grinder so it just kinda happened that way.) agassi reached the wimbledon final only to lose to sampras once again, then won the us open. and eventually he managed to snap sampras' record streak of six consecutive year end number ones (a rare record that has actually remained intact), capping off his most successful season to date

let's skip ahead once again, and talk a little more about what was possibly the most revered match the pair of them ever played. once again, it was the us open to host their showdown,taking place in the quarterfinals at what was now very much in the twilight stages of their careers. this time let's get some of sampras' thinking about that particular match and how it fit within the narrative of their rivalry:

It was fitting that Andre was the last man standing when it came to my rivalries. Andre was toughest during that great summer of 1995, and then again near the very end of our careers, culminating with the night-session quarterfinal at the 2001 Open—a match that was the crowning moment of our rivalry and, to me, our toughest and greatest battle. Volumes have been written about my rivalry with Andre, and from every perspective. In my heart of hearts, I know he was the guy who brought out the best in me. He had ups and downs, which accounts for why we didn’t have more confrontations, especially in big finals. But Andre was still the gold standard among my rivals. Nobody else popped up as frequently, over as long a period of time, to test and push me to the max. For most of our careers, we really couldn’t have been more different—in personality, game, even the clothing we wore. Our lifestyles were radically different. Andre always seemed bent on asserting his individuality and independence, while I tried to submerge my individuality and accepted the loss of some personal freedoms. Andre was Joe Frazier to my Muhammad Ali, although the personalities were kind of flipped around because Andre was the showman and I was the craftsman. Wherever you lived, we were your neighbors: I was the nice, quiet kid next door on one side, and Andre was the rebellious teenager on the other. Yet as Jekyll and Hyde as we were, and as much as people liked to emphasize the very real differences between us, there were powerful, deep similarities between us, too. The Gift we both had shaped our actions and lives, posing challenges as well as offering opportunities. First-generation Americans (Andre’s father, Mike, was from Iran), we were both champions but outsiders who crashed a sport dominated for most of its history by white Anglo-Saxon Protestants. That never bothered me, because the American Dream fulfilled its promise to my family, a few times over. Because we had both been prodigies, we grew up in the public eye, under scrutiny. It was easy to stereotype us—Andre was the brash, flamboyant showman, I was the reticent, old-school, boring guy. Who was hurt more by the stereotyping? Who knows? What I am sure about, though, is that we were tough, albeit in different ways and with different goals. When we reached the top, we cast frequent, nervous glances across the divide between us. Andre and I always made it our business as individuals to know what the other guy was doing.

as I am aware this post is already far too long, I won't dissect this passage too much. in any case, sampras addresses the sense of absence caused by agassi's inconsistencies elsewhere in his autobiography too... agassi made sampras better, always, agassi pushed sampras to new heights, agassi provided sampras with a legitimacy and also excitement the public would not have otherwise afforded him. but agassi wasn't always there. and the rivalry was ultimately far less kind to him

"in my heart of hearts, I know he was the guy who brought out the best in me" // "he says I bring out the best in him, but I think he's brought out the worst in me"

that entire section is one of the stronger parts of sampras' autobiography, which I'm also resisting the temptation to include in full. I will, however, include just a little more of how sampras describes how the pair of them match up:

Andre had to think a little more about the nuances of the game than I did. Against top guys, he needed to set things up for himself in order to play his most effective game. At his best, Andre was the consummate puppet master, jerking his opponents all over the court. Thankfully for me, he was also a little bit at the mercy of what his opponents could do. My game, by contrast, was much more about what I was going to do, and whether or not the other guy could stop it. The big question for me on every surface but clay was, Okay, what do I do to break the guy? That was because I always felt confident that I could hold my serve. Andre didn’t have that luxury—at least not to the same extent that I did. [...] The overarching theme, in my eyes, was that if I could make it a test of athleticism and movement, things would break my way. I had the fast-twitch-muscle advantage. By contrast, Andre had amazing eye-hand coordination; he was unrivaled as a ball striker. The idea was always the same: avoid becoming the puppet on the end of Andre’s string. Avoid getting into those rallies in which I found myself trying to get the ball to Andre’s backhand, while he’s cracking forehands and jerking me around the court.

sampras does go into more detail about how the actual tactics between them played out, but in a brave act of restraint I shall not discuss any of that. it does, however, tap into one of the central tensions of tennis - namely the curse of the counterpuncher. sampras acted, agassi reacted. in a way, it always felt like the match was on sampras' racquet, win or lose. sampras had the weapons. agassi had the wits. sampras could blast his way past agassi, if he could just summon up all his discipline to execute to perfection. agassi had to try to cling onto his nerves while going all he could to trip sampras up. the curse of the counterpuncher - the helplessness of being beholden to another player's whims... especially brutal when facing someone with sampras' painfully excellent weapons. and sampras had one more great weapon at his disposal: his mentality, that unflappable presence that graced him one of the most ridiculously good tiebreak records you'll ever find. from the moment sampras snatched that us open title away from him way back in 1990, agassi was always going to have to look over his shoulder, eternally wary of the threat posed by sampras. because perfect pete at his very best might have just been a little too much for andre the prodigy to handle

the 2001 us open quarterfinal has gone down as one of the very finest matches in that tournament's history. agassi had come into the tournament the number two seed - sampras, suffering from a slump in form, had been seeded only tenth. it played out over four sets, all of them tiebreaks, with not a single break of serve. the home crowd was riveted for the entire contest and enthusiastically celebrating both of their heroes for the spectacle they provided. you already know who won

so then, both of them slowly but surely reaching the end of their careers, their slam counts tailing off as injuries and frailty scupper them... sampras' decline was earlier and sharper, finding himself struggling after securing his fourth consecutive wimbledon title in 2000. agassi was generally ranked higher during that time and had won the australian open title in both 2000 and 2001. after wimbledon, sampras went for two full years without winning a slam, and retirement looked increasingly imminent. but in the end, they managed to put on one last show - and where else but in the same place where they had contested their first slam final in 1990.

At 4 P.M. on a calm and bright Sunday afternoon in early September, I looked across the net and saw the same person who had been there twelve years earlier, almost to the day, when I played my first Grand Slam final: Andre Agassi. The Andre I saw in 2002 was someone very different from the kid I had seen in 1990, and it went well beyond the fact that the multicolored mullet had become a shiny bald head, and that lime green costume was now a fairly plain, conservative shorts-and-shirt tennis kit. I saw a seasoned, confident, multiple Grand Slam champion who was in full command of his game—a game that could hurt me. This was no stranger. This was my career rival. This was the yin to my yang. Over time and through rivalry, though, our identities blurred a little and parts of our personalities had jumped from one to the other, like sparks sometimes do across two wires. We had a lot of shared history now. The sharp edges had been worn down and the contrasts muted. We were elder statesmen, celebrated champions, co-guests of honor at the Big Moment one more time. In many ways we were just a couple of nearly worn-out tennis players looking for one last shot at glory.

as always, pete

agassi was the favourite in that match. but that's the funny thing about tennis - all this stuff in between, all these matches, talk of form and confidence and all of it, you'll find it has a nasty tendency to not matter at all. because you already know how this story goes. tennis, in particular on the men's side, writes its narratives in advance and then begs us to act surprised when everything unfolds as expected. every once in a blue moon, you will have something different - an australian open 1995, where everything had been disturbed just enough to throw up a different outcome. but otherwise, there is no amount of form or confidence in the world that can change the inevitable. it doesn't matter that agassi was supposed to be the prodigy who would claim his glorious first slam in 1990. it doesn't matter that agassi had been on a 26 match winning streak in 1995 and had bested sampras just a few weeks before. it doesn't matter that agassi was facing a washed up version of sampras in 2002 who had lost touch with his 'gift' and had been staring down the barrel of retirement for the better part of two years. when they faced each other on that stage, at the most important tournament of them all to agassi, they both reverted to type. agassi got a slow start, felt the match slip away from him, as sampras blasted through him - and only two sets in managed to mount any sort of resistance. of course, it was not enough

it turned out to be sampras' last professional match. he announced his retirement a year later. the last time sampras ever played, and it was denying agassi on one final occasion

one more thing before I wrap up this post - a coda of sorts, because the story just wouldn't be complete without it. because there's one more rather infamous story from agassi's autobiography. here's agassi talking about the lead up to that us open 2002 final, lying in bed the night before that match and remembering a moment from a few years prior:

Sipping Gil’s magic water before bed, I tell myself that this time will be different. Pete hasn’t won a slam in more than two years. He’s nearing the end. I’m just starting over. I climb under the covers and remember a time in Palm Springs, several years ago. Brad and I were eating at an Italian restaurant, Mama Gina’s, and we saw Pete eating with friends on the other side of the dining room. He stopped by and said hello on his way out. Good luck tomorrow. You too. Then we watched him through the restaurant window, waiting for his car. We said nothing, each of us thinking of the difference he’d made in our lives. As Pete drove away I asked Brad how much he thought Pete tipped the valet. Brad hooted. Five bucks, tops. No way, I said. The guy’s got millions. He’s earned forty mil in prize money alone. He’s got to be good for at least a ten spot. Bet? Bet. We ate fast and rushed outside. Listen, I told the valet, give us the absolute truth: How much did Mr. Sampras tip you? The kid looked at his feet. He didn’t want to tell. He was weighing, wondering if he was on a hidden-camera show. We told the kid we had a bet riding on this, so we absolutely were insisting he tell us. Finally he whispered: You really want to know? Shoot. He gave me a dollar. Brad put a hand on his heart. But that’s not all, the kid said. He gave me a dollar—and he told me to be sure to give it to whichever kid actually brought his car around. We could not be more different, Pete and I, and as I fall asleep the night before perhaps our final final, I vow that the world will see our differences tomorrow.

and just to quickly add this, about the end of that final:

Now he's serving for the match, and when Pete serves for a match, he's a coldblooded killer. Everything happens very fast. Ace. Blur. Backhand volley, no way to reach it. Applause. Handshake at the net. Pete gives me a friendly smile, a pat on the back, but the expression on his face is unmistakable. I've seen it before. Here's a buck, kid. Bring my car around.

this is probably the most infamous part of the autobiography, excluding anything related to crystal meth. I buried the lede somewhat when I was talking about sampras' reaction to the autobiography - more than comparing him to a parrot or calling him uninspired, this was the bit that really got traction. it's just such a brutal story in an understated way... this is the kind of impression that sticks with you, the slander that stands the test of time. perfect pete the multi millionaire is a bad tipper

which brings us at last to indian wells 2010. an exhibition event the pair of them participated in at one of the most prestigious tournaments in the united states (second only to the us open), done for a good cause to raise money for charity. it was a doubles match they participated in, both partnering up with top players who were reasonably prominent at the time - all in order to put on a show for the crowd. for a good cause. over seven years after the conclusion of their rivalry, more than enough time for any old wounds to heal. what followed is quite possibly the only worthwhile moment indian wells has ever provided us... I hereby present to you a clip of two guys who are definitely over it, engaging in some entirely friendly banter, for a good cause, as a playful continuation of their respectful rivalry, which is fine because they're over it, so it's all fine and it's for a good cause. here you go:

now, honestly I would just recommend you watch this four minute video, because I think it's quite tricky to quite get across in words how the vibes gradually get more rancid. it's the little details that often get left out when this historic event is recounted that really make it - agassi's "you always have to go get serious, huh pete" is a personal favourite of mine. but to give a summary of the main points... sampras imitates agassi's famous pigeon-toed walk (the result of being born with spondylolisthesis, a back condition where one of your vertebra slips forward). then, agassi mockingly and repeatedly alludes to sampras being a poor tipper. which sampras follows up by straight up attempting to murder agassi

well, not quite, but he does use that lovely powerful serve of his to hit right at agassi - rather than diagonally across the court, where your service really should be going. also the serve is supposed to go like, into the box that's just on the other side of the net. whereas sampras' serve was travelling at a trajectory that took it oddly close to agassi's head

what's delightful to me about this clip is how they're both trying to play it off as a joke, even though you can tell that they're both visibly losing their tempers. look at the faces of two men just having a laff

shout out to the commentator for saying the rivalry between the retired players seemed to be stronger than the one between the current players. which - well, yes, that is true! this is what a proper rivalry looks like

they both got plenty of criticism for this episode - and agassi ended up both publicly saying he'd been out of line and messaged sampras to ask if he could apologise in person. and they did move on from the controversy, playing another exhibition the following year with no incident. here's what agassi said then:

isn't this great. isn't every word of this just great. like man he just gets it. isn't this great

still, beyond just being a fun bit of drama, it is a revealing moment between the pair of them. sampras is right that they both usually tried to avoid too much controversy, inclined to keep things civil and resist too much mudslinging in the press. sampras, after all, just wasn't really the type - and agassi had other things to worry about, never in a real position of strength in that rivalry. and yet, sometimes the mask slips just a little. the two of them often didn't understand each other, didn't really know each other at all, but they managed to get under each other's skin nevertheless. sampras was everything agassi couldn't be - and the reverse was true too. agassi couldn't find it in himself to copy sampras' pure dedication towards the sport, whereas sampras could never match agassi's flair and charisma. at times, there's a whiff of contempt in how they judge each other, cataloguing the other's shortcomings and incapable of imagining what it must be like to walk in the other's shoes. agassi could not dedicate himself completely towards tennis. sampras was uninspired. agassi was flighty. sampras was simple. a touch of envy, a little more contempt, and a whole lot of bafflement

for all that he won eight grand slams, in many ways agassi's story is one of failure. this is how much of his autobiography is framed - around hating tennis, around needing to be brilliant at it, over having to cope with loss after loss after loss. so much of tennis is about trying to find ways to process failure. it's all about failing... in matches, where even the winning player typically wins a little more than 50% of all points played and generally will lose quite a few games in the process. in tournaments, where all but one player will emerge from each event the loser. and even if that one has been won, the next tournament and potential loss is generally right around the corner. agassi hated that life, and yet he still took a couple years longer than sampras to walk away from it. and for agassi, the inevitability of that ultimate, final, inevitable loss was tied ever so closely to the existence of pete sampras. once more with feeling: "no matter how much you win, if you're not the last one to win, you're a loser. and in the end I always lose, because there is always pete. as always, pete." it's a bittersweet narrative - for all of agassi's success, for all that everything did turn out well for him in the end... it's always there, inescapably so, that lingering sense of inevitability. that helplessness. maybe the hand of destiny, after all. agassi was never able to overturn that narrative, no triumphant changing of the script or final triumph or any of it... and that'll hurt, and it'll always be a little bit sad. but he learned to live with it - and eventually found his own happy ending. there's something to that, isn't there?

[paddymoonstruck]

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Nepo!OC

Summary: Sofina tells Charles about a conversation she had with her father and he reacts quite the opposite of what she thinks.

Next Chapter

Notes: Please let me know if you want to be included in the tag list!

February 27, 2024, a few days after Pre-Season Testing

It was a fairly sunny morning in Bahrain. The flawlessly trimmed grass glistened in the bathing rays of the celestial fireball in the sky. Three people stood under the heated air, sweat accumulating in their foreheads. The two men stared at the figure of their female companion with with a furrow in their brow and a tug on their lips.

They stood back and watched her swing her arm back, fingers gripping the club firmly. With a powerful force, a thunderous crack shot through the clearing as she hit the ball with the greatest precision.

Her friends behind her jolted at the sound, goosebumps rising in their arms and prickling at the back of their necks.

Charles snorted, slapping Pierre Gasly’s arm in the process. The french man responded by laughing at their own reaction, coming to pull against the sleeve of Charles’s shirt as they wheezed.

A groan of indignation cut through their hysteria, making both men seal their mouth instantly, slowly rotating their gaze at the agitated girl in front of them.

She takes the club, slamming it in the grass. The fierce contact caused soil to splatter on her white sneakers.

Charles hid his lips in his mouth while Pierre pursed his into a low whistle.

“Quiet.”

“I was—oof,” Pierre groaned, retracting his defense as an elbow jabbed into his side. Eyes narrow into slits, he glared at the prideful face of Charles as he rubbed away the pain.

“You’re doing great, Sofi!” He held his thumbs up, hoping to lighten the murderous look on her face.

“I can’t fucking believe he did that. . .” Sofina stressed, laying a slapping on her forehand.

“Why not? Man’s an asshole.”

Horror blasted on Charles’s face as he heard Pierre’s reply. His mouth agape as he stared at his friend.

Pierre brushed off his accusing gaze, motioning his hands to Sofina for support. “What? It’s true! We all know it!”

“Oh, yes. Let everyone know how much I despise our biggest sponsor,” Charles quipped, raising a brow at him.

Sofina muted out their pointless bickering, as she regulated her breathing. The excessive blood flow in her head throbbed painfully, almost as if it could burst a vein in any second. She fanned out her shirt, irritated by the fabric sticking to her slick skin as heat consumed her being. One could argue that her head was a hundred times hotter than Bahrain’s current climate and worsen the hole in the ozone layer.

The memory of her furry slammed back into her brain, jotting into a humorless laugh. “He humiliated me in front of important people!”

“Ey— what’s the big deal? Their just smelly old men—”

“What’s the big deal?”

Charles’s face twisted into despair, shifting his gaze to Pierre with a deep scowl on his face.

“Will you ever stop talking?” He sighed, massaging his temples with his fingers while Pierre shot him an apologetic smile.

“Those smelly old men happen to have a ridiculous amount of money that they were so graciously willing to give me,” She screeched, gritting her teeth. “And if it wasn’t for my dad’s malicious comments against me, I would’ve gotten the team more sponsors!”

“Sponsors?” Charles echoed, her concern suddenly taking his attention. His head tilted and lips thinned in wonder. “Why are you worried about our sponsors?"

Sofina’s saliva dried in her mouth, unconsciously making her wet her lips as her heart hammered in her chest. She swore the pounding could be heard in her ears, overpowering the words that were supposedly coming out of Charles’s moving mouth.

“Sofina?”

She gasp, stumbling backwards as her head returned to the world. Before she knew it, her leg got caught in her club bag, tripping her and making her fall to the ground in a soft thud.

In a second Charles was by her fallen figure.

A groan escaped her lips, a hand instinctively rubbing on her calf. She saw Charles’s hand approaching her throbbing leg and opt to hold his hand instead.

He snapped his eyes back at her, looking for signs of distress but only found a flooding dam of fear clouding her usual malt musing mountain gaze.

She swallowed the thick bile rising in her throat as she returned his stare, bracing herself. Her hand in his began to chill and quake, causing her to grip them harder.

In their predicament, Pierre had wisely chosen to take his leave, leaving the two alone to deal with the unknown situation.

“Promise me you won’t get mad,” She demanded, focusing her wide eyes on him. “And that you won’t tell anyone.”

“I promise.” Charles said without a hint of hesitation but his growing worry sent a shiver down his spine.

There were a few moments in Sofina’s life that made her wear that expression. Charles knows this because he was there through all of them. They were all dark and awful times. So, now that he had witness it again after a long time, he prepared for the blow of reality to come at him.

Charles squeezed her hand, reminding her of his presence. A sign of hope and someone who was listening.

Sofina applied a weaker dose back, trying again despite the rattling in her bones. “My dad said he’ll pull out all our brands and support if you’re not competitive enough this year.”

Nothing. Torturous silence punched her in the face. The empty grassland filled with wallowing in the ghostly rustle of the wind.

Charles’s lips parted, and Sofina immediately shut her eyes as if to protect herself from his impending response.

“That’s it?”

Her eyes shot open so strongly, she might’ve pulled a muscle. She squinted at him, similar to someone observing a newly discovered animal in the wild.

“Did you even hear what I said?”

“Well, yeah,” His laugh burned her core, finding it insulting that he thought it was rather amusing. He tugged her arm, leaning closer to her space.

Sofina resisted the pull, shifting her body in the opposite direction. The contents of her embarrassment was far too great to be at such proximity right now.

Nonetheless, her attempts were futile as he was able to overpower her strength.

Her shoulders drooped in defeat as he got the distance he wanted. A sharp intake of breath entered her lungs at the hot air of his mouth near her lips. His nose almost touching hers as his eyes bore into her own.

“You scared me,” He said, pecking her cheek and leaving her confused. “I thought he did something to you.”

Her brain pounded at his words, lines in her forehead increasing. “He did! Did you not listen?”

Charles merely sighed, offering her an empathic smile. “No, I meant— to you.” He pinched her cheeks lightly, earning a small protest from the back of her throat. “You— Not your company!”

The indication hackled at her system. Perhaps not clearly understanding the heartfelt weight of his words.

She reeled back from his hold, mystified cross in her brow. “I am talking about person me!” Her sneer went straight to Charles’s heart, forcing out a breath from the deepest parts of his patience.

“You know what I mean,” He drawled, getting to his feet and offering to help her up.

Sofina looked away, but nonetheless gripped his helping hand. “Alright . . .”

“Sofie,” He called, tugging her closer. Due to their differences in height, Sofina’s face plummeted at his hard chest when he unexpectedly cocooned her into an embrace. “It’s going to be okay. You don’t know what those people think about you yet until you’ve talked to them again, yes?”

Her grunt was muffled as she dug her fave further onto his shirt. “I don’t need to know. My dad said I was an unreliable child trying hard, and miserably failing, to sound like an adult.”

Charles wasn’t surprised in the slightest. The relationship between Sofina and her father was similar to pa maze without an exit. Mr. Saviano himself is an outspoken intimidating man who has done nothing but criticize his daughter’s every move.

“But you know that’s not true.” He insisted, tightening his hold on her as if to squeeze out her negativity.

“He still said it. You know they worship the ground he walks on,” She hackled, jutting her chin up to look at Charles’s face. “Long live Amarigo Saviano, patron saint of the self-centered and money grabbing.”

Charles made a razzing noise at the back of his throat, taken aback by the sudden insult. “Well—”

Sofina was also unable to contain a smirk as she saw Charles struggling to maintain a poker face. “You can laugh, it’s funny,” She muttered, laying her cheek below his breastbone, shoulders beginning to shake.

“No . . . uh— heh, as I was saying— stop laughing!” There he goes, infected by the girl shamelessly giggling at her own joke.

“Oke. . .” She tried, burying her head on the soft material of his shirt.

Charles cleared his throat, but the smile on his face remained. “I spoke to Nicolas this morning and he said there was someone who didn’t seem to care about what your father said at that party last night . . .”

Doubt and curiosity simmered in Sofina’s veins at his claim. “He was probably too drunk to actually comprehend what he was saying, then” She scoffed.

Charles continued, paying no mind to her reply. “Maximilian Rothchild doesn’t look like a heavy drinker,”

At that, Sofina’s head shot up from his chest, eyes wide as if she’d seen an alien. “You’re kidding . . . Charles I fucking swear—“

“He called Fred, asking about the team and was hoping to set up a meeting with us as soon as possible.”

“Holy shit . . .” She squealed, airy and full of disbelief. “Maximilian Rothchild, huh?”

Charles’s lip tugged into a teasing smirk at the look on her face. “Didn’t you go out with him?”

She grimaced, lip curling in distaste at his allegation.

It wasn’t an allegation at all. She did go on a date with him a several years back when she went to high school in France. It didn’t blossom into a relationship as they both hope it would due to unforeseen circumstances between their families.

“It wasn’t anything serious.” She muttered. “He thought I was pretty and asked me out, he wasn’t bad to look at either so I agreed— you know this story already,”

Charles chuckled at the flooding irritation in her voice, finally nodding to relieve her from the storm of ragging in her eyes.

“You agreed, you went on the date and completely blew it,”

Sofina whacked him in the shoulder, a frown forming at her lips. “No I didn’t! Our families were— and still are business rivals. But I still don’t get the point of trying to square up to such influential people . . .” She shook her head.

The Rothchilds have been around longer than the Savianos. Back then, it was clear that they were barely at the fourth of their efforts when they mercilessly dragged the Saviano name into the mud and dubbed them as “Amateur Magnets”.

The insult did not leave a scratch on Sofina’s pride, and truthfully she found it more hilarious than embarrassing, for she wasn’t delusional enough to believe they would ever stand a chance against a family who established the whole European banking system. The Rothchilds had every right to throw stones at them. Biting the hand that feeds you never ended well for anybody.

Her father was picking a fight he had already lost the moment it began.

From then on, he declared never to bring a Rothchild before him and in his home.

“When you say he wants a meeting with the team, does that include me?” Sofina wondered.

She may have a big impact on the team but her properties solely remain in brand sponsorships. Due to her age and naivety, according to her father, she cannot touch into the her father’s duties to Ferrari when it comes to team negotiations.

“Definitely.” Charles reassured, head titled down to her glazed gaze. “He said he wanted to talk about sponsoring the team, not buying stocks. So technically, that means for you.”

A smile twitched on Sofina’s lip as she heard Charles’s explanation. “When did become such a smart-ass?”

He laughed, eyes glistening with mirth. “I listen when you talk.”

As if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Glad I can contribute to your knowledge.” She scoffed. “It will come handy one day, just you wait.”

Charles glances down at Sofina, a crease drew on his brow as he observed the same expression on her face.

“You look like you’re about to burst a vein,” He addressed the changed in her mood as he squeezed her side, attempting to bring her head back on earth. “Out with it.”

Sofina extended her hand to flick softly at his cheek, causing him to grimace and glare down at her.

Sofina smiled but sighed, shaking her head. “You’re not a bad driver, Charles . . . I hope you know that.”

Charles kept his gaze at her despite having laid her head back on his chest. Away from her view, the stress on his face carefully melted into a look of delicacy. Fondness bloomed at his chest further more as her grip on him tightened, nearly knocking all the words from his brain.

He cleared his throat, and found himself chuckling at the sipping feelings spilling through his devices.

Sofina’s face twisted into curiosity at his sudden display of amusement. She was about to crane her neck upwards to catch a view of what got him laughing but was denied of this as a palm panned on the back of her head, pressing her back onto her previous position on Charles’s body.

Charles ignored her muffled complaints, his fingers dipping into the seams of her hair and ultimately taking out the clip that held it in a poised bun. He watched as her mahogany tresses flowed through her back, internally shivering as it caressed the arm he had wrapped around her waist.

He admired the bright change of tone as her locks attracted the rays of the sunlight, creating a hypnotic reflection on her head that seemed to take half of what’s left of his consciousness.

The short circuit of his brain took effect as his hands worked faster than his mind. His fingers tipped her chin up, immediately being taken by the delicate features presented upon him.

A pout sitting prettily on her lips as she looked up at him. “Give me that . . .” She huffed, taking the plastic hair clam from him.

He let’s her take it. It’s hers after all. He’ll give her everything in a blink of an eye if she asks. One look from her has him going blank and as her voice floods his head, a pinnacle of sanity whispers in his ear to kneel at her feet and be at her side overrides any form of reason that might pull him away from this angelic fate.

No, he can never tell her that. So instead, he smiles and lays a kiss on the crown of her head, hoping to vanish his silly fantasies.

Tag-list: @seairsunset@mindflay3r@tangointhequango@bwormie@eugene-emt-roe@herondalism@comfortzonequeen@weekendlusting@nomie-11@i-ship-bullshit-2020@cc13723things@charlesgirl16@namgification@charizznorizz@missenclod@outerudeth @lady-laura-speaks @fandomscompilation @bwormie @embersparklz @butterfly-lover @sargeantdumbass @a-moment-captured @starshiips

[snakeredbirdbatkatana]

Son of Hell (Part 2)

Lucifer doesn't typically get summoned by his Lily she is usually more than happy to cause as much chaos as possible all on her lonesome. Who needs their loving husband getting in their way he is not bitter.

Imagine his surprise when he is dragged not even to his beautiful Queen, but to a child who is practically dripping with hell magic.

Seems he has a new kiddo, no wonder he's seen less of her lately especially if he's some form of hero which isn't exactly what he would pick for a profession but beggars can't be choosers.

-

Lily is Lilith.

Tim feels like an idiot he had assumed some form of fae or even minor god.

Not the queen of hell he has been bossing around the literal Mother of demons, who's husband is the devil and is smiling at him.

She promised though that she wouldn't leave that she would protect him so this even more doesn't make any sense.

He is still trying to puzzle it out when the fallen angel begins to walk to him.

"Hello my child, may I inquire as to what exactly is going on?"

A voice like honey comes across the battlefield somewhere behind a kneeling Darkseid.

"I believe I can explain, however darling put away the feather dusters you are scaring our imp and his humans."

A woman steps dark black wings almost as big as Lucifer's spread proudly behind, offsetting to the blonde hair and blood red dress that's seems to swirl.

She's looks different but he can feel that it's lily that it's Mom.

"The idiot behind me decided to attempt to kill our child, and well I figured it was time for you to complete your Fatherly duties."

He can't stop his mouth which seems to be operating separately from self preservation.

"You actually want to be my mom?" He can't help the hiccup that follows.

Warm hands come to wrap around his chin his eyes falling to meet emerald.

"You have always been my child, what have I done my imp for your doubt?"

He falls wrapping his arms around her burying his face in her curls smelling the sulfur but also a distinct scent of home.

She stands pulling him fully into her arms like he's a little boy again.

"Now you finish off that annoying stone thing, and than return home it's time for Timothy to meet his siblings."

He turns so he can look at the devil who apperently his adopted father who looks back at him with a wink.

"Anything for you, and yes because I choose to ignore him it's not because my wife never calls to tell me about children no it's all Lucy's fault. Have you been speaking to my father again?"

Tim can't help the giggle that slips out another warm smile comes from both his Mom and his sorta Dad.

He sees the bats and everyone else they look awestruck and angry especially Bruce he hides back in Mama's curls he know that he can't avoid it forever but maybe for a little bit longer.

She must read his mind as her wings begin to move she shouts out.

"To any hero who would like to argue with my child, you may argue with his Father, I'm sure he will be more than willing to make a deal."

As they leave the battlefield the adrenaline gone he feels his eyes start to slip closed he's exhausted.

A kiss across his forehand and a whispered,

"Sleep, sweetheart Mama has you."

Is all it takes before he's dead to the world.

@emstheshortone for you the one that inspired me to make this a series!

[nevertheless-moving]

“Shit,” Lu Ze swore. History monks were not, generally, given to vulgarity. But, given the circumstances, it was more or less the only appropriate response.

Lu Ze swore again, more creatively this time, as the distortions around them became increasingly unsettiling.

“What happens now,” Vimes rasped, still cradling the corpse in his arms.

It is a strange thing to mourn yourself.

But he was just so small.

Carcer giggled helplessly in his restraints. “Should be interesting, huh.”

“Oh, be quiet, you vile man. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused?” Another monk snapped. 

“Nope,” Carcer said, with an obnoxious popping of his lips. “But I’ve got a few guesses.”

“THIS IS ALL WRONG,” Death said.

“Yes, we know,” Lu Ze sighed, rubbing his brow. Reality splintered further, the surrounding troops, which before appeared distorted as if by mist, now simply appeared distorted. Vimes’ stomach twisted in empathy and revulsion.

“I LOATHE TIME TRAVEL” Death said, approaching the Sam Vimeses. The older, living one scowled defiantly, pulling the small corpse away. 

“There’s no time for that,” Lu Ze said sadly.

“HE IS DONE,” Death agreed. “REALITY CAN ONLY TAKE SO MUCH.” 

He turned empty eye sockets towards the monks, as if to glare judgmentally. “PARTICULARLY WHEN IT HAS ALREADY BEEN TWISTED UP LIKE THIS,”

Vimes shuddered as the reaper swung his scythe, passing through his younger self without slowing down. A terrible chill fell down his spine, but the vague unsettling form to the world around them settled into a more familiar pattern. Cracks still ran through the length and breath of the sky, ground, and people.

“FIX THIS,” Death commanded the monks. “BEFORE THE AUDITORS GET INVOLVED.”

“Right,” Lu Ze steeled himself.

He took a slow, oversteady breath. “Alright people, get ready—we’re —we’re going to make another trouser leg.”

"Now?? Here?"

“We’re not prepared.”

“ARE YOU MAD?”

“What about—”

“It’s too big a change—”

“Just do it!” he snapped. “Unless anyone has any better ideas!”

A moment of crystalized hesitation, then the monks got to work, spinning glittering devices and furrowing their brow in concentration.

“I’m sorry,” VImes whispered, shame-faced, “I tried—”

“It’s not your fault. And it doesn’t matter anymore,” Lu Ze said brusquely. “Now hold still— this is going to hurt. A lot.” He reached a hand forward, then paused.

“Sorry about this,” he whispered. “But sometimes we are called to live through things we would rather not. And sometimes... we are called again." He tapped the center of the blood soaked Commander’s forehand.

“Wha—AAARRGH

from this au

[strwbrryeyes]

can u do daichi and/or tsuki x tennis player! reader who plays singles (1v1 instead of doubles which is 2v2 lool)? hcs or fic would be fine :3 esp w a reader who hurt their wrist mid season n is rlly frustrated bcus they can’t play until next season unless their wrist gets better bcus that happened to me <//3 (i play anyway even if my wrist is shit bcus i love tennis; daichi would scold me so bad for it too <//3) thank uuuu, i think u mentioned exams (or finals idk the difference) in ur latest posts so i hope they went well!!!

𖦹°｡⋆ Wristache and heartache (daichi x reader)

⟡ cw: angst, reader has an injusry and feels hopeless, comfort, fluff, lmk if i missed anything

⟡ a/n: i dont know anything about tennis. im alos bad with titles.

Daichi Sawamura had always admired your dedication to tennis. As the captain of the Karasuno volleyball team, he understood the love and passion that athletes carried for their sport. Daichi also knew the importance of listening to your body, something you seemed to be struggling with ever since you badly injured your wrist.

The injury has been a big  setback and it was starting to take a toll on you. The season was in full swing, and you were supposed to be playing singles matches, something you were no doubt the best at. Yet here you were, on the sidelines, forced to sit out due to the sharp pain in your wrist. You couldn’t even try to step foot onto the court during games or team practice because your coach had made it clear: no matches until you were fully healed and cleared by the doctor and although this decision was the right one and a necessary one, it still left you feeling frustrated and heartbroken.

Despite the pain and coach’s orders, you couldn't stay away from the court for too long. Every day after school, you'd find yourself at the community center’s tennis courts, practicing your serves and forehands, wincing occasionally when the pain shot through your wrist. You knew it was risky, but tennis was your entire life and ticket to a scholarship for university. You couldn't afford to be away from it for possibly the rest of the season. However, your secret trips to the tennis court were short lived.

Daichi watched you from a distance one afternoon, his brows furrowing with concern. He had come to pick you up like he has been for the last few day, but seeing you push yourself despite your injury was beginning to worry him more than usual. He approached you slowly, hands in his pockets, trying to find the right words.

“[name],” Daichi calls out with a firm voice that had a hint of worry “we need to talk.”

You looked up, surprised to see him there. You hadn't expected him to come this early. "Hey, Daichi. Just give me a few more minutes. I need to work on my backhand." You said before turning back to throw a tennis ball into the air until Daichi took the tennis racket away from you.

Daichi shook his head, his expression stern. "No, we need to talk now. You're pushing yourself too hard. You need to rest."

You sighed, frustration bubbling up inside you. "I can't just sit around and do nothing, Daichi. Tennis means everything to me. If I don't practice, I'll lose all I’ve worked for these past three years!" you say as you snatch your racket back from him.

He walked over to you, taking the racket from your hand gently once again and setting it aside. "And what good is practicing if it only makes your injury worse? You won't be able to play at all if you don't let your wrist heal and then that’ll make you feel worse!”

"But what if I never get better? What if this is it for me?" Tears of frustration welled up in your eyes as you shout at Daichi.

Daichi's expression softened. He reached out, cupping your face in his hands. "You will get better but to do so, you have to be patient. I know it's hard and the last thing you want to do right now, but sometimes the best way to keep going is to take a step back and heal. I'm here for you, and I am sure your team is too. You don't have to go through this alone."

"I just miss it so much, Daichi. I feel so useless." You leaned into his touch, finding comfort in his words, allowing you to let a few tears roll down your face.

"You're not useless," he assured you, his thumbs brushing away your tears. "You're one of the strongest people I know. Strength isn't just about pushing through pain, it's also about knowing when to rest and take care of yourself."

You nodded, his words sinking in. "Okay," you whispered. "I'll try to rest more."

Daichi smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "That's my girl. And don't worry, I'll make sure you stay out of trouble."

You chuckled softly, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. "I'm counting on you."

The following weeks were a test of your patience but as promised, Daichi kept a close eye on you, making sure you followed the doctor's orders and rested your wrist and the rest of your body, making sure you were fully relaxed and at ease. It wasn't easy, and there were days when you felt like giving up, but Daichi's support helped you stay strong the whole way through.

He'd often join you at the courts, not to practice but to keep you company as you watched your team practice while you were on the sidelines. He'd even bring his volleyball team along, turning your forced downtime into fun, supportive gatherings as everyone loved their captain’s sweet girlfriend. It wasn't the same as playing tennis with your team in the moment, but it reminded you that you had a strong support system no matter where you went, and that made you feel so much better about this tennis break.

Slowly but surely, your wrist began to heal and you started feeling better. The day you were finally cleared to play again was a moment of pure happiness, not just for you, but for everyone who had supported you through this slump and setback.

As you stepped onto the court for your first match back, you looked over to the sidelines where Daichi stood along with his own team, cheering you on with a proud smile. You knew you couldn't have made it through without him. 

And as the match started, all you could feel was happiness, determination, and most importantly, thankful for your loving boyfriend who was there for you every step of the way because without him, you aren’t sure you would have made it through these last few weeks.

With Daichi by your side, you can do anything.

[delusionalmultifandomwriter]

Please do a fic where adult jason todd gets comforted under/hidden in Batman’s cape!! the softer the better

your wish is my command (i missed the topic a little but it is super soft so i hope you like it anyways)

requested?: yes (i am so excited about this, ahh!)

words: 1848

Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Joker, Orphan

Oneshot, angst, hurt/comfort

TW: throwing up, violence, implicite self-harm urges (this got a lot darker than i planned it to be)

credits: the dialogue parts of the italic are from Batman: A Death in the Family

Have fun, thank you so much for requesting!

Ressurection is not exactly healthy. Which is not too surprising but still. The Lazarus Pit healed Jason's body, the scars were still there but very pale and barely visible anymore.

But the inner scars stayed, even after Jason and Bruce figured themselves out and came to terms with eachother again. Jason suffered from PTSD, who wouldn't after getting beaten up with a crowbar? The nightterrors and the coldness that randomly appeared every now and then were the worst.

This week started off with a night terror. Nothing uncommon, it happened all the time to almost all off them. Jason was at his own place where he was alone. Maybe he woke up his neighbours but at least not his family. He didn't like them worrying about him.

"What hurts more? A? Or B? Forehand? Or backhand? The crazy laugh echoed through the hall. Robin helplessly tried to craw away, his hands restrained behind his back. His breath whistled as he spit out some blood and mumbled a curse. The Joker chuckled evil and leaned down. A little louder, lamb chop. I think you may have a collapsed lung. That always impedes the oratory. Robin leaned up and spit the Joker into his face. The clown smashed Robin's head into the floor, his senses got flooded with the distant metallic feeling of a concussion. Nausea instantly hit him.

Jason shrieked awake. Nausea instantly hit him. He jumped up and nearly got tangled into his blanket. He stumbled into his bathroom and fell to his knees in front of the toilet.

Jason hated throwing up. Especially after a night terror when his mind was already full of thoughts. He leaned against the shower glass still sitting next to the toilet and waiting for the nausea to pass. After a few minutes he slowly got up and scooped some water from the washbasin into his mouth. Jason winced, his throat was raw and still shut tight.

He shivered, the bathroom floor was cold. Jason stumbled back into his bedroom. He grabbed the blanket from the floor and slowly made his way into the living room. He sat down against the heater with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He fell asleep exhausted on his carpet floor.

He was drowning. Breath. He needed air. Needed his lungs fill with oxygen. Cloth. There was cloth over his face. His mouth was dry. The sweet smell of death. He ripped the cloth from his face and threw up green, stale water. Flight! Where was he? He turned around and ran off. People. He took them out. The moves where in his muscles. He pressed his thumbs into the eyes of one of them. A tunnel. A cave. Darkness. Away.

The Joker escaping Arkham was nothing new to Gotham. Nothing new to the Batfam and nothing new to Jason. It happened a million times before but it still put Jason on edge ever since that night in Sarajevo.

He thought he was better. He thought he could conquer the Joker and arrest him again. It was a simple mission. A simple task. Then he met him in a warehouse in the Bowery. The green hair was brushed back, the purple suit dirty with some blood stains on it. The clown turned around and laughed at Red Hood hysterically.

And, hey, please tell the big man I said… "hello".

Jason saw red. He lunged at him and slammed the Joker into the wall, punched him in the face, once, twice. He could break him. He was not Robin anymore. He was taller than the clown now. Stronger. He could give back all the pain. He would give back all the pain. He slammed his knee into the Joker's ribs, a sharp crack echoed through the warehouse.

"Wow, that looked like it really hurt." Jason growled deeply as he lifted the Joker up a little and pinned him against the wall. He pulled him away and smashed him against the wall, the Joker's head lulled foreward a little as he coughed.

"Whoa, now, hang on. That looked like it hurt a lot more." Jason shouted angrily as he threw the Joker on the floor. "Now let's try and find out what hurts more?"

"A?" He kicked the Joker into the stomach. "Or B?" He striked out again.

"Red Hood!" Batman. Jason's head snapped around. "Orphan, stay here until the GCPD arrives." Batman ordered, Orphan appeared from the shadows behind the older man.

Jason finally snapped out of his murderous frenzy. His eyes went wide as he saw what he did. The Joker layed in a puddle of blood, his nose was broken pretty obviously and he was coughing and whincing weakly. Jason backed down when the clown started to laugh madly. Red Hood turned around, pushed past Batman and flea from the area.

The thoughts were flooding over Jason as he ran over the roofs. He was out of breath but he kept running and running until he fell to his knees. He leaned against a brick wall and ripped his mask off of his head. His face was wet with hot tears, smeared over his cheeks and neck. He wrapped his arms around his knees and tried to calm his breath.

He needed to get air into his lungs but his whole body blocked against taking a deep breath. Jason panicked. What had he done?! He disappointed Batman, he promised to be better than the Joker. He wanted to be better. His family would abandom him, what else should they do? He was supposed to be a hero. He sobbed violently, black spots started to dance over his vision. He couldn't breath. Jason felt like he would die here, alone on some roof, alone in this world.

Jason felt someone shake his body. "Jason." A deep but very calm voice called out to him. Jason panted desperatly as his lungs filled with air. Not enough to live but enough to survive.

He was lifted up a little and after that leaned against a soft wall. Soft wall. There are no soft walls, at least none that Jason was aware off but he was too close to fainting to truly bother about the existence of soft walls. Jason started sobbing again.

"Jay, come on. Breath." The voice said desperate. A strong hand was harshly rubbing his back. Jason inhaled the air shaky, his body was trembling.

"There you go chum, okay." Bruce. It was Bruce. Noone ever called Jason chum before. Jason was suddenly embarassed and violently tried to dry his tears up, rubbing on his skin roughly with his gloved hands. Bruce gently took his hands in his and Jason's head slupped against Bruce's chest.

Then Jason started babbling. "I'm sorry, i didn't mean to... he... i, i couldn't." He sobbed again. "The memories, they come back... the Joker... i can't stop it." Jason needed to hurt, he needed to feel something. He tried to pull his hands from Bruce' grip but he held them tightly.

"Jason, look at me." Bruce growled deeply. Jason looked up and as their eyes met, he couldn't find any angryness, not even disappointment. He looked back into his lap and sobbed quietly but his breath, although shaky, evened out a little.

"There you go. You are fine, Jay." Bruce said. "You can breath, you are okay." Bruce always was repetitive with his comforting but it didn't really matter to Jason because he was there, he held Jason in his arms and he was not angry. Jason could stay with his family, he could come back.

"You called me chum." Jason mumbled weakly, his voice was still filled with silent crying. Bruce chuckled deeply. "I guess that is true." Jason felt the hand on his back, he shivered a little as the cold hit his body. "Cold?" Bruce asked. Jason nodded softly.

Bruce leaned up a little and deattached his cape from his shoulders. He wrapped the thick, black fabric around Jason and bundeled him up tightly. Jason exhaled shaky. The bone aching cold disappeared from his body and the shivering slowly but surely passed. His muscles were burning, feeling weak like he could not move anything. Jason blinked drowsily. His sobs died down and just like that, his eyes closed.

Gotham City was no place for a kid. Not even a well-trained and resilient kid like Jason Todd. It was raining tonight, the wind whistled through the city. Robin sat under Batman's cape like an owl baby, as they observed the Iceberg Lounge. They had been sitting there for hours but Robin wasn't cold. He was warm. Wet from the rain but warm. He would totally catch a cold but not tonight. Not right now. Right now he was warm, close to Batman and sucking up his body heat. Nothing bad has happened to him yet.

When Jason jolted awake, he was no longer on the roof. He inhaled sharply, as he felt a hand on his back. "Hey, you are safe. It was just a nightmare." Jason turned around to see Bruce, leaning against the head of the bed with his laptop on the nightstand. The older man gave him a worried look. Jason looked around confused. This wasn't his bedroom. It was Bruce'. The kingsize bed spoke for itself.

Jason looked down at himself, he was wearing a black t-shirt and red and black sweatpants not in his Red Hood suit. "I'm fine?" He mumbled. Bruce smiled at him, it was weird to see him so relaxed. "Yes, you are." Jason nodded slowly. Bruce leaned down to the floor and put something heavy on his lap.

"Here, Tim got you this. You looked like you liked the cape a lot." Jason lifted the heavy thing up, it was a weighted blanket. He wrapped it around his shoulders. "Did i fall asleep?" He asked confused. "Right after i wrapped the cape around you. Dr. Thompkins said you where hypothermic and severly sleep deprived. What the hell happened?" Bruce asked concerned

Jason shrugged and layed back down on his stomach with the heavy blanket around him. He was still tired, his body was grounded now and he wanted to sleep. Bruce sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Sleep, we can later talk about you not reaching out for help" He finally said. Jason rolled his eyes. "As if you are better." He grumbled.

Bruce nudged Jason playfully. He gently rubbed the younger boys back. Jason sighed as he moved a little closer. Bruce pulled the other blanket over him a little and Jason was finally warm. "You scared the living hell out of me." Bruce said while he layed down next to Jason. The younger boy moved a little closer and Bruce continued to gently rub his back.

"M sorry." Jason mumbled sleepily. "Didn't mean to." He looked at Bruce with half open eyes. He buried his head into one of the pillows and Bruce smiled as he watched how relaxed and content Jason looked. He leaned over to kiss Jason's hair.

"It's okay. Don't worry about it. Sleep tight, chum."

-----

Same shit on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55397161

:)

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Can I request some Yandere Big Mom Pirates with Female Tanjiro Reader? Yandere Katakuri and with Yandere Platonic Big Mom, Pudding, and others who after discovering Reader, use Pudding to go through her memories only to learn how kind, warm, compassionate and motherly she is, especially after all she went through (Including her brutal training, Final Selection and all the missions she’s been through) all to find a cure for her sister

Pudding accidentally touches her Soul Core and everyone enters to see and feel how beautiful and warm her soul is (Especially with how kind and warm those little spirit things are giving everyone hugs and headpats)

Big Mom becomes very attached to Reader because she reminds her of Mother Carmel and doesn’t want her to leave, thus she makes it where Katakuri will marry her, since she’s also very strong with fighting techniques never seen or used before (She has Pudding alter her memories slightly to where she believes marrying Katakuri will help her reach her goal to kill Muzan and find her sister a Cure)

Reader is loved dearly by the younger Charlotte Siblings since she’s incredibly motherly, soothing, understanding (They like to call her ‘Big Sis’ and see her as the #1 Big Sister) and is very helpful with cooking, cleaning, helping the civilians with any issues they have as she can reason Big Mom better than any of her children can (Which has her earn the respect and admiration of the older Charlotte Siblings)

Reader isn’t afraid of Katakuri’s mouth as she tells him “Your fangs don’t define you! Just like my sister, underneath her nails and fangs she is and always will be my little sister Nezuko!” Which just makes him fall for her harder (And wants to one day have children with her)

This is all happening in the Whole Cake Island Arc, as her wedding is planned to happen right after Sanji and Pudding’s Wedding (Which she ends up winning the hearts of the Straw Hats)

The Charlotte Family are also surprised about Reader’s hard forehand and incredible sense of smell and dedication for how far she’ll go to save, protect and help others all for the sake of finding a cure

-You’re not sure how it happened, you were fighting against a powerful demon, alongside your friends and the Hashira, when he hit you, knocking you into what looked to be a black hole, you and Nezuko both vanishing, never to be found again, in that world.

-You awoke up an infirmary, but everything looked to be made out of sweets, and normally stationary things, like pillows, had faces and were smiling around, happy that you were awake.

-Nezuko called out and you were instantly embraced tightly by her, tears in her eyes as you felt so weak and groggy, “What happened?”

-A cheerful voice was the one to speak up, “Oh you’re awake! Mama is going to be so happy!” you looked over, seeing a very pretty woman with brown hair, smiling warmly at you as she came over, taking a seat beside you.

-She introduced herself as Pudding before telling you that her big brother, Katakuri, found you and Nezuko by the beach, heavily injured, surrounded by an unknown seal, burned into the sand, and he brought you both to the infirmary here on Whole Cake Island.

-You were confused by the name of the island, not recognizing it as an island that you knew of.

-Thunderous footsteps filled your ears as someone entered the infirmary and you couldn’t help but gawk, seeing a giant woman, a smile on her face, “Mamamama~ you’re finally awake! You’ve been out for almost two weeks now, Y/N!”

-You were confused on how she knew who you were before Pudding blushed cutely, playing innocent, “Oh-I apologize, Y/N, I have an ability that allows me to look at someone’s memories, that’s how I was able to learn both yours and Nezuko’s names.”

-You nodded, still a bit out of it as Nezuko called out, agreeing from behind her mask, sitting on the bed beside you, holding onto one of your hands, lifting it to make you pat her on the head.

-Big Mom, or Mama as she told you to call her, was the matriarch of the Charlotte Family, as well as the Big Mom Pirates, a massive family filled with all sorts of beings.

-This confused you as Pudding helped you sit up, showing you your memories, being gentle as she reached into her head, pulling out what looked to be photographs, showing that you had been sent here from another world.

-You were gawking as you looked through the photos, seeing the many different people who had surrounded his massive man, Katakuri you assumed, who was carrying your broken body and Nezuko’s box.

-You saw the sun shining in the window and you instantly sat up, ignoring your wounds, “Nezuko!” you quickly moved her to shield her from the sun, now more coherent before Mama and Pudding both worked quickly to assure you, to calm you down.

-Nezuko patted your cheek before wiggling out of your arms, running over to stand in the sunshine, making your eyes widen as she was completely fine.

-Mama spoke up, patting your head carefully, “I have some researchers looking into it, as we’ve seen what happens to demons in your world in the sunshine, but our sunshine here is not affecting her at all.”

-You nearly broke down in tears, Nezuko saw this, and she ran over, hugging you as you finally broke, crying in relief as you hugged your sister.

-You were unaware that Mama and the rest of the Charlotte Family, who had been present when Pudding was looking over your memories, all of them seeing how hard you’ve worked, how strong and determined you were, and the brutality you’ve faced in one so young.

-As Pudding went through she accidentally touched your Soul Core and everyone on Whole Cake Island, not just the Charlotte Family, felt the warmth and gentleness of your soul.

-Despite all the pain and hardships you had faced, you were so kind and gentle, but also determined, hardworking, and focused, only wanting to find a cure for Nezuko.

-This is what had led to you being moved to the Charlotte Family’s private infirmary, you and Nezuko both being immediately adopted by Mama, as she had broken down into tears when she felt your soul, “It’s just like Mother Caramel.”

Fast Forward 1 Month

-“Big Sis Y/N!!” you turned, with Nezuko on your back piggy-back style in her child form while you were carrying some blankets, a smile on your face as the younger children of the Charlotte Family ran up to you.

-You giggled softly, patting each of them on the head, greeting them.

-You were content in this new world, as Nezuko could run around and have fun, the sun wasn’t hurting her, and Mama was searching for a cure for her.

-The blankets were quickly forgotten as your hands were grabbed, pulling you along to the training grounds, “We wanna see you fight again!”

-Cracker was there waiting for, a big grin on his face as you had been the only person, besides the other members of his family, to beat him with your sword breathing style.

-Cracker made you smile, he was funny and eccentric, but also a strong warrior and a good person to train against as the kids, Nezuko included, sat on the sidelines.

-You drew your sword, holding it in a defensive position as Cracker grinned brightly and charged at you.

-Katakuri heard the cheering as he wandered the garden, looking for you, and he smiled from behind his scarf, seeing you fighting Cracker again, a flaming wave surrounding you as you charged at his brother, disarming him while you were up in the air before you came down and headbutted him hard, sending the both of you to the ground.

-He headed over as neither one of you were moving until you popped up, holding a red spot on your forehead while Cracker was twitching, having been knocked out by your hard head… again.

-You heard the kids call out for Katakuri, running over to him to greet him while your face was bright red, instantly back pedaling to hide behind a tree, peeking out.

-The kids were quick to laugh at you as Katakuri chuckled softly, he had proposed to you, after Mama insisted on you marrying him, and while you did agree, you were so shy with the idea of marrying him.

-Nezuko was the one who pulled you out from behind the tree, dragging you over to Katakuri, changing into her teenage form, only just shorter than you.

-Katakuri held out his hand for you to take, “Will you walk with me? I want your opinion on where our ceremony should be.” You were bright red, not able to look at him but took his hand before the kids were cheering, “Kiss her Big Brother!”

-Katakuri looked down at you, seeing that you had replaced your hand with Nezuko’s, and you had dashed off, holding your cheeks, making all of them laugh.

-Katakuri found you not long after, sitting with Mama on the beach, holding onto one of her hands, smiling up at her, as she had just gotten done having a tantrum, “Deep breaths Mama, nice and slow. You’re safe here.”

-She couldn’t help but smile down at you, you were talking to her as if she was a child, but she didn’t mind it, finding your gently affections soothing, it reminded her so much of Mother Caramel that tears easily welled in her eyes, falling down her cheeks.

-Katakuri sat next to you, putting a hand on your head, silently praising you for a job well done, as calming Mama was a feat that usually resulted in a lot of property damage and sometimes the death of innocents.

-Once Mama calmed down again, Katakuri took you to a couple of wedding venues around Whole Cake Island, showing you photos of previous weddings that had been held there.

-After exploring the two of you found yourselves in a quiet meadow, to sit and relax in private, with you sitting in his lap.

-Katakuri was still very shy about taking off his scarf around you, not wanting you to see him as a monster, but he melted, his eyes closing as you cupped his cheeks, pulling him down a bit so you could see his mouth again.

-You smiled warmly up at him, your eyes soft as your thumbs stroked his cheeks gently, “Your teeth don’t define you, Katakuri. You’re like Nezuko, behind her sharp nails and fangs she’s still my little sister.”

-He cupped your hands, keeping them on his cheeks as he quietly basked in your gently affections, a love swelling in his heart, one that felt like his heart was going to pop.

-His silent vow to you was one that the other siblings gave as well, that they were going to protect you and Nezuko both.

-You met Pudding’s soon-to-be husband, Sanji, greeting him kindly and you met Luffy and Nami as well, all three of them taken with you as well, being so nice to you and Nezuko.

-You managed to convince Mama to not kill Sanji at least, which she agreed to, and soon the other Straw Hats came to the wedding of Sanji, as they liked you as well, being drawn to you.

-However, at their wedding, you were hit on by Yonji, Niji, and Ichiji, making you very uncomfortable and their father did nothing to stop it.

-You didn’t want to cause trouble at Pudding’s wedding, as your wedding would only be in a few days, but as soon at Katakuri saw the first tear in Nezuko’s eye and your own, Sanji’s family, except for Reiju, were quickly wiped out of history by both the Big Mom Pirates and the Straw Hat Pirates, the two forming an alliance, for Sanji and Pudding and for you and Nezuko.

-You were so happy that you had such a large family, you and Nezuko both, filled with so many loved ones that loved you both so deeply, ones who were ready to kill to keep you both safe.

[newtonsheffield]

Week 2 of Proving to myself that no one is paying attention to you so it’s okay to practice new things and not be anxious about it: the only thing that happened is this-

The head of the club came over to ask me to lock up because my court time was finishing the latest. He also told me to put a little bit more of my body weight behind my shots and that I have the makings of a great forehand. Go figure.

This week’s dumb selfie feat. My guns. I am hoping to get one big bicep on my racquet arm like Nadal

Honest to god; No one is paying attention to you. Try new things

[havenmere]

dropping by to say i absolutely adore your wimbledon au! i’m already a huge tennis fan so it’s even more of a joy to read. the dynamic between rhaenyra x alicent is so sweet & full of yearning, it’s so lovely. it makes my day when there’s an update! i plan on leaving a review on ao3 after i go through it with a fine tooth comb so i can leave detailed feedback on each line that i love. <3

i’m curious, if you had to pick a current player who plays similar to rhaenyra, who would it be? same question for alicent!

:’))) thank you so much that is! so incredibly lovely!!! so validating for other tennis fans to enjoy it too haha <3

OK so — def took inspiration from players for both (active and otherwise):

alicent: wozniacki and gauff, both of them athletic with brilliant defence but weaker forehands. more just loopy and cautious like caroline’s than quite as unreliable as coco’s though. kerber too, for that counter punching, although her forehand was obviously a strength. halep— smart build up of play but sometimes a bit of a [jessica pegula rant voice] pusher. when i think of her crumbling i think of ons in last years wimby final where it’s just like. sad to watch lol

rhaenyra: karolina muchova, who is think is like the most “natural” player on tour atm, with all that creativity and variety. justine henin was also a big one, especially for the one-hander that can be attacky. forehand is a bit inspired by swiatek’s — angles, whippiness, got to be cautious of her wrist because the extreme grip pits some strain on it.

thanks for reading my fic i’m so glad you like it!!

[fritzes]

thoughts and ramblings and opinions about the indian wells draw:

wta:

despite being the number one seed, iga has a pretty rough draw that is eerily similar to her ao draw. collins, noskova, and of course her nemesis ostapenko are all lurking in her quarter. ons jabeur is also there, but her form hasn’t been great lately and I highly doubt she can get past ostapenko. all that said, indian wells is not the ao. this surface favors iga a lot more, and she won in 2022. plus, she’s coming off of some great results in doha and dubai, so I wouldn’t count her out by any means. it’ll be tough, but it’s definitely not impossible

on the other side of that half, elena’s draw is looking pretty good. she’s the defending champion, but I doubt she’s one to let the pressure of defending get to her. there’s the potential of paula badosa in the second round, but I honestly don’t know if paula is even playing, so that might not matter. there’s no one in elena’s draw that she can’t beat, but her health is always a wild card and if her body doesn’t hold up I could see maybe paolini or haddad maia pulling off the upset. marketa is in this quarter too, but she’s been all over the place lately. if she’s in-form, then I have no doubt she can make a dent but that’s a massive if

coco’s draw is pretty decent. she seems to have mastered playing to her seed and is really good and pulling off a win even if she isn’t playing her best. she had an upset in dubai, but that did give her some time to train and hopefully work out some of the errors. her draw looks fairly simple until a potential meeting with naomi in the fourth round, but I wouldn’t say that’s super likely unless naomi has really made some strides in the last few weeks. I could see naomi losing to samsonova, but you never know! from there, the quarterfinal matchup would most likely be qinwen, which could be a great match of two pretty similar styles

much like the ao, aryna’s draw is basically the opposite of iga’s. the top 10 opponents in her draw are pegula, who just lost a match from a 5-1 lead, and sakkari, who is, well, sakkari. this should be an easy path to the semis, and I’m sure aryna really wants to go deep in this tournament after losing early in dubai

as for the projected semifinals: iga finally got the better of elena in doha, but that doesn’t guarantee victory at all. I think if they do play it’ll be a really close match. if aryna and coco play, I would probably pick aryna to win that unless coco can minimize the forehand errors

interesting round 1 matchups: giorgi/boulter, blinkova/pliskova,

atp:

really easy draw for novak here. he’s projected to meet tommy paul in the fourth round with no big challenges before that, and that’s not exactly a challenging match for him either. in qfs he’ll have one of ruud, norrie, and hurkacz, all of whom he can beat. I think it’ll probably be casper, since hubi’s serve is pretty useless on this extremely slow surface and norrie has been in a slump lately

poor daniil is stuck in an absolute nightmare quarter. he’s got his kryptonite korda in round three and dimitrov in the fourth round. meanwhile, the bottom half of this quarter has rune, nadal, and indian wells fritz, who is generally much better than regular fritz. honestly, anyone could come out of this quarter and face novak in the semis. if daniil makes it, massive kudos to him

jannik has somehow managed to pull rublev in the quarterfinals yet again, which is a match completely on his racket. he will probably play shelton in the fourth round, but ben’s serve will be pretty neutralized on this surface and I have no doubt jannik will take advantage of that. the only thing that can stop jannik right now is himself, so he has to deal with the pressure of being where he is right now. if he does that, then this quarter is his to lose

and finally, the last quarter, which is just as stacked - if not more - as the second quarter. carlos is gonna have a hell of a time trying to defend his title, with faa, khachanov, and jarry all in his section. I would be shocked if the top half of this quarter doesn’t get swept by adm, who is in the form of his life. zverev sucks on slow hardcourts, and I wouldn’t be surprised at draper or griekspoor pulling off an upset. and in the qfs, we could see a battle for jannik’s heart between carlos and alex…

projected semifinals: like I said, I’d be surprised if daniil makes it there, but he’s done crazier shit before so who knows. that being said, if he gets through that draw and has to face an in-form novak on one of his least favorite surfaces, I wouldn’t favor him. however, if novak is in his ao semi form and is playing just okay, daniil definitely has a chance. and of course, the big one, a possible sincaraz match. I love carlos, but I would be really surprised if he managed to beat jannik right now, especially with the injury concerns

interesting round 1 matchups: sonego/kecmanovic, monfils/purcell, raonic/nadal (I can’t believe this is real), van assche/arnaldi

[deluluduck227]

Please make this stop| Hakim ZIYECH

Synopsis: in which a pregnant reader is having a rough time.

Warnings: none

A/n: if you have any requests don't hesitate to send them please 🫶🏻

" You just enter the house, I'll get the bags and follow you"

You did as Hakim told you, you already grew tired and annoyed. You both just spent an eternity in the mall trying to find clothes that would fit you especially that your baby bump grew obvious but all you could find were dresses and it wasn't the time of the year where you could wear them. Nevertheless you did find some clothes for your son, the son you were carrying. You immediately sat on the sofa, feeling extremely exhausted and down, you felt like you were not ready to be a mother. It is a great responsibility and you just felt unready and unsure. You waited for hakim to enter and as soon as he did he sat next to you, wrapping his arm around you shoulders and putting his chin on your head, his hand soothing up and down your arm. It's like he felt you, he felt that you were going trough some hard time. Him also! The psg deal that collapsed in the last minutes really made him feel disappointed and angry.

"It's okay love, we'll find you some clothes next time. I made sure the store will bring clothes your size. "

You just nodded and after a while you felt asleep. He helped you walk towards your shared room. You just changed into your sleepwear and removed your make up and then headed to bed without waiting for him.

The next morning you woke up feeling horrible, Hakim was still sleeping since there's no training today. You felt like vomiting and you knew it was the morning sickness. It is very common that women get it during the first months of the pregnancy but it lasted so long for you and when you consulted you doctor she assured that it was okay. You rushed to the bathroom immediately, making some noise that made him wake up as he followed you, he helped you by holding your hair back in a ponytail. It was like a routine you grew familiar with. When you finished washing yor face you returned to bed as you left hakim in the bathroom.

But one thing catched your attention. Your feet were swollen, like really swollen. The sight scared you as you immediately called for him. You showed him your feet and he sighed

" I thought something bad happened! Babe that's literally fine. It happens to every pregnant woman. Plus yesterday we walked a lot so surely there will be some consequences. " He said as he kissed your forehead, you were annoyed he didn't show any sign of caring, he acted as if it's the most normal thing in the world but you didn't say anything yet, you just nodded.

" I'll go make breakfast" he stated as he left.

Shortly after, you got up to follow him, your legs, ankles and feet were extremely sore, you felt as if your lower back was beaten up, the womb was really big and surely it will affect you physically and mentally. You were in your 6th month. You walked slowly and when you reached the kitchen you just sat in a chair, he flashed towards you a smile which you smiled back. You kept looking at your feet, their new shape was unfamiliar with you, at that moment, tears started pooling around your eyes, you just started crying and sobbing, you couldn't help but cry. To say hakim was startled by your state is an understatement, he didn't know what's wrong with you.

"What's wrong love? For the love of god stop crying! Talk to me"

" I can't take this anymore, i'm not fit. This is not how i imagined my pregnancy would be. Please make this stop." You said between your sobs. The overwhelming was too much for you handle.

Hakim on the other hand was trying to be the most understanding person especially that he knew how a woman can act differently during this time, but he himself was going trough a lot. Nevertheless he tried to calm you down as he sat on his knees. His hands holding yours while his thumbs are working in your forehands in a soothing way.

" I know babe! I can feel you but this is all normal. Look there isn't much left and you'll give birth. But this pain is a must. Just cheer up for me, will you? "

" Seriously? You asking me to cheer up? I don't know if you noticed but look at me, i can't even walk straight! My back is killing me! The morning sickness is killing! Everything is so fucked up! " You stood up and spat back, he has been acting so nonchalantly. His expressions fell, not able anymore to hold his anger.

" Define fucked up! You want me to make this stop? How exactly? You signed up for this, i impregnated you when you said you were completely ready! Now you have to be patient !"

You were choked, you didn't expect him to react this way, tears of frustration and anger were making their path on your cheeks.

" I need reassurance, you just give me some sweet words! Wear my shoes for one day. I feel guilty about everything i eat. I'm not myself anymore! "

" Okay! I'm trying you know! Stop being so dramatic already! You act as if the world revolves on you, you're not the first woman to get pregnant."

" I'm being dramatic! Maybe you grew sick of this situation which i'm not blaming you, because i think the same. You're not giving me time, you don't talk to me! You think your words are doing the job? Well flashing news: NO"

He hit the table with his fist, he was raging, you flinched a little bit but there's no holding back at this point.

" Ql*wi! Why you jumping into conclusions? You're putting words in my mouth that i didn't say!" He shouted, clearly loosing it

" You know words come from somewhere deep down! There's no fume without fire" your felt your feet burning and some cramps but you didn't even flinch, the last thing you needed right now was this

" Tl3ti liya f krri! You know what! I'm sick of this situation, it's like you're putting the blame on me for impregnating you! I feel unappreciated, you're not talking to me either knowing damn well i am passing through some hard time trying to secure my career but all you care about is your body! Your feet are swollen! If you used your brain and searched you'll find that it's fuckin normal but you chose to cry over them. Db matsd3ich liya rasi."

If you'd describe your state as choked it'll be an understatement, his words were like a flame of fire, you couldn't fight back anymore you needed a break from this all! You wished you could take a break from the pregnancy.

You stormed to your room,took the smallest suitcase and started packing whatever clothes You've found in front of you. Heading downstairs, you struggled intensely as you were carrying the suitcase. When you reached the last step you were met with hakim's face, his eyes were like fireballs, you didn't recognize them. he grabbed your arm forcefully, it hurts and you didn't know if it was in his intentions to hurt you or not.

" What the fuck are you trying to do?"

" It does not concern you"

He chuckled darkly snd humorlessly

" Oh trust me it does! Since it's my child you are carrying. "

" I can't stay here anymore, this house is suffocating i'll go somewhere else where there's no toxic people"

He laughed as he shook his head in disbelief

" If i was toxic as you say then you are inconsiderate! Lifting up a suitcase all the way down. Acting childish as fuck. This could have affect the baby"

" Nothing would affect the baby more than his mother being in touch with toxic people! If anything happens to the baby then it is you the reason. I quit this shit i'm leaving"

" Oh and where are planning to leave ? All the way to morocco? Netherlands?" He scolded soothing on his beard

" I don't care i just don't want to stay near you !"

" Neither do i care! You're not leaving anywhere! Do you hear me? Now go and do whatever yoga shit you do and forget about this idea"

You knew he wouldn't let you leave, you troath was aching from the shouting session you just had and his words were hurtful, they had a meaning. You just sat on a stair ,with his assistance ofc, feeling defeated and tears started to flow again. He was standing before you, watching your movements and started feeling guilty about what he said earlier. You lifted your head looking him dead in the eyes.

" I'm tired Hakim, i can't take it anymore" you whispered with a hoarse voice, face between your palms. His expression softened as he immediately sat beside you, taking your face between his palms, thumbs working on your cheeks to calm you down.

"Hey, listen to me. Whatever you feel or suffer, we're gonna go through this together! I've put this child inside of you and i'm not willing to let you suffer alone! I'm sorry I didn't pay you the attention you needed I'm trying to do what would be the best for the three of us. I'm sorry luv ! Now stop crying for god's sake."

You nodded while occasionally sobbing from time to another. All the anger you were feeling has evaporated. You wrapped your arms around his waist putting you head on his chest, his heartbeat calmed you. His warm hands sneaked under your pajama's top, caressing your back. He felt you lean in his touch. you stayed like that for a while.

"Hakim?" You whispered softly

"Hmm?"

" Did you mean your words earlier?"

His hand stopped the caressing for a second then he started massaging your lower back as you released a sigh

" Of course not! You know i don't mean any of my words when i'm angry" He explained calmly, his deep voive was reassuring and soothing.

" Hakim, i'm sorry"

" No you needn't babe you're good! It was just a moment of anger"

" Hakim, i'm tired! Let's go to bed "

You stared, lifting your head from his embrace, holding an eye contact, this fight drained all of your energy and you needed to charge

" Alright, let's go to bed a n3asa" he giggled, pecking your pouty lips multiple times.

~~the end~~

First time writing a fanfic so please deal it.

Hope you like it 🫶🏻🩵

[calisources]

BATMAN: UNDER THE RED HOOD SENTENCE STARTERS. all these sentences are taken from the animated movie under the red hood (2010) as well some from the comic of the same story arc. there will be mentions of death, torture, loss and the joker, who is like a warning on it's own. change pronouns and names as you see fit.

What hurts more? A? Or B? Forehand? Or backhand?

Now, that was rude. The first boy blunder had some manners.

Nah, I'm just gonna keep beating you with this crowbar.

Oh, Bird Boy, you're so much less fun now. All grown up and in your big-boy pants.

till, better off than his replacement, right?

Even tougher making with the yuks when you're worm food, huh?

Just be happy I only killed one of them. They're all assassins.

I'm cleaning up Gotham. More than you ever did.

You're stealing territory from Black Mask and killing anyone who gets in your way.

Plan? You're becoming a crime lord!

Yes! You can't stop crime. That's what you never understood. I'm controlling it. 

 You wanna rule them by fear, but what do you do with the ones who aren't afraid? I'm doing what you won't, I'm taking them out.

Tell me what happened to you. Let me help.

It's too late. You had your chance. And I'm just getting started.

You know, it only hurts when I laugh. 

I'm just something you helped make.

Is that what you think this is about? You letting me die? I don't know what clouds your judgement worse, your guilt or your antiquated sense of morality.

Bruce, I forgive you for not saving me. But why, why on God's earth is he still alive?!

Gotta give the boy points. He came all the way from the dead to make this shindig happen.

You wanna die? There's easier ways to kill yourself.

Yeah, like yelling at the guy who's holding the AK-47.

I'm chatty. It's part of my charm. 

He sliced that cable off his ankle before it went taunt.You don't just do that. That has to be practiced. Learned.

Then I got him killed. My partner. My soldier. My fault. I own that. I'll carry that like everything else. 

This is not your doing. You loved him. He knows that. It should be enough.

Do you remember how he was when I found him?

You know, I thought... I thought I'd be the last person you'd ever let him hurt.

What? What, your moral code just won't allow for that? It's too hard to cross that line?

Why? I'm not talking about killing Penguin or Scarecrow or Dent. I'm talking about HIM, just him. And doing it because... because he took me away from you.

He's a drug dealing pimp! I didn't think I had to prop up some pillows before I took him out!

You shattered his collar bone!

Please,I can help you.I know what happened.

Does it make it easier for you to think that my dip in his fountain of youth turned me rabid? Or is this just the real me?

I think you may have a collapsed lung. That always impedes the oratory.

 No. This doesn't change anything. It doesn't change anything at all.

It's him or me! You have to decide! Decide, now! 

I'm going to blow his deranged brains out! And if you want to stop it, you are going to have to shoot me, right in my face!

If you won't kill this psychotic piece of filth, I will! If you want to stop me, you're going to have to kill me!

If you can't suit up quickly at home base, I'm concerned how you will handle it in the field.

Perhaps he is primping.

Get out here or I'm going on patrol without you.

Ha! Gotcha!

It feels awesome! Check me out, I'm Robin the boy wonder! Are you kidding me? This Rocks!

Come on old man, we got bad guys who need chasing.

This is the best day of my life.

[muirneach]

no reason for that tweener and then a killer forehand and a big grin welcome back sasha bublik