#i answered an ask in a timely manner. this is one for the record books fellas

[moonjxsung]

No Guts / No Glory

Copyright Ⓒ 2024 by Moonjxsung

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner. Doing so will result in a legal takedown per the Digital Millennium Copyright Act and is subject to legal action.

Read part 1 here.

Pairing: Bang Chan x fem reader

W/c: 18.2k

Warnings: nipple/breast play, clitoral stimulation, fingering, unprotected sex, sex in a semi-public establishment (no one is around), creampie, spitting during sex, depictions of bodily harm, descriptions of blood

Synopsis: Bang Chan competes in the biggest title boxing fight of his life, terrified at the prospect of losing two things now- this match, and you.

18+. Mdni!

•

“The whole world’s watching him. I don’t blame him for wanting to walk away from all of this- I would, too.”

•

Contrary to the truths of a boxer, a trainer’s punctuality is typically admirable.

And Mr. Seo is no different, you quickly learn, as he enters the interviewing studio at a whole five minutes prior to his call time.

He’s a bit hesitant to approach you at first, the same way Chan once was, bowing politely as you gesture to the folding director’s chair across from you. And when he finally takes his seat, smoothing down a sleek black blazer he wears paired with a silk blue tie, you take notice of the way his jacket seems to constrict around the broad muscles he flaunts, the buttons of his shirt practically clinging onto the fabric that hugs his chest.

“Thanks for having me,” he says respectfully, giving you a small nod as his lips pull into a closed-mouth smile.

“Thanks for being here,” you say nervously, scanning his gaze in hopes of reading him better.

But he’s entirely unreadable, evident in the way his eyes don’t leave yours, awaiting some form of instruction as you toy with the camera and ensure it’s begun recording.

“Could you state your name, and relationship to the subject for the camera?” You begin, swallowing a lump in your throat as he folds his hands in his lap and shifts his gaze to the lens.

“Mr. Seo,” he begins, clearing his throat before continuing. “Bang Chan’s personal trainer.”

To which you then nod, satisfied with the introduction, as you begin the interview.

“How long have you been training Bang Chan?” You inquire, observing the way he furrows his brows in concentration.

“Gosh,” he begins, exhaling a sharp breath before beginning his response. “Around ten years now. It was just a hobby for him, when we initially began. I don’t think either of us figured he’d be participating in a title fight one day.”

“What’s it been like, watching him grow so quickly?”

“Exhausting,” Mr. Seo admits, slouching back in his seat as he now crosses his arms across his chest. “He loses his winning streak, I lose all my credibility.”

He chuckles as he finishes, shaking his head and gesturing with a wave of his hand. “I’m kidding. Chan’s great. He’s a perfectionist, and he’s as stubborn as they come, but he’s very talented. It’s all him.”

Your gaze remains on his in a passing moment of silence, desperate to ask him all the burning questions heavy on your mind this evening; how Chan had reacted to the agonizingly transparent rendition of his docu-series. What he’d spoken to Mr. Seo about, upon the realization that the private conversations you’d shared with him had now been broadcast to thousands of anticipatory viewers. His most vulnerable emotions on display for the whole world, your betrayal made apparent with the sweeping number of viewers the episode had garnered. And especially how he’s doing now, considering he’s failed to answer any of your calls since the episode’s broadcast.

Your heartbeat quickens in your chest as you think back to the series, and you shake your head as you’re brought back to the present moment once more, Mr. Seo sat across from you as he awaits another question.

“Could you tell us how your relationship to Bang Chan first started?”

Mr. Seo thinks it over briefly, his eyes scanning the ceiling, and then he nods once before beginning.

“He was only fourteen. Walked into our gym like he owned the place. I watched him from outside the ring, and he caught my eye because he seemed so angry, the way he threw uppercuts like a pro. I suggested he softened his hits a little- work on his form, instead of just his strength. He kept coming back, and I took him under my wing.”

Mr. Seo sighs, and then he uncrosses his arms, grasping his knees lightly before continuing.

“Maybe I should’ve seen it back then,” he finishes.

You furrow your brows, cocking your head as you observe his gaze fall to the floor.

“Seen what back then?”

He shrugs lightly, as though he’s unsure of his response, and then he delivers an answer much harsher than you’re anticipating.

“That he doesn’t want to do this.”

There’s a silence in the room as he shuffles around in his seat, and then his eyes flicker over the lens of the camera before you can utter a response.

“You mean… the fame,” you question, your eyebrows knitting together as you ponder his words.

“Boxing,” he clarifies.

The silence grows louder the second time around, and your back rests flat upon the back of the back of the chair as you allow yourself to get a little more situated in your seat.

“He doesn’t want to box anymore,” Mr. Seo repeats, pursing his lips and nodding to affirm his statement. He seems to think for a moment, as though carefully recalling Chan’s words, before elaborating.

“He’s wanted to quit for years now. He gets in these mental slumps, where I can’t get him to do anything. Nobody can. At first, I thought it was just for fear of losing that damn winning streak. I’ve since realized it’s more than that.”

He seems to fix on something in the distance beyond your seated figure, and you shift in your seat nervously, waiting for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, you nod meekly in his direction, gesturing for him to continue.

“What is it, then?”

Mr. Seo is quiet again, chewing on the inside of his lip as he deciphers an adequate response.

“Tell me,” he begins. “You ever stood in the middle of that ring?”

You think back to all those times with Chan, staring out at the rows of punching bags that line the walls, the gallery of famous boxers peering down over the vast space and the suffocating confines of the wired rope that lines the four corners.

“Yeah,” you say to him. “Few times.”

“What’d it feel like to you?”

Nerve-wracking. Entirely too large- and yet somehow still claustrophobic, all at once. Intimidating, daunting. Voyeuristic.

“It’s awful,” you voice back, swallowing a knot in your throat. “It’s so… public.”

He nods understandingly.

“Fourteen years,” he echoes back. “He’s been under that pressure. On an unbroken winning streak since he started professionally. He’s been dubbed ‘miracle athlete’, ‘athletic genius’- you name it. I’ve never seen him more miserable.”

You don’t say anything just yet, realizing this is exactly what Mrs. Bang couldn’t seem to coax out of him. The harsh reality that although it’s his passion, his lifelong dream to win this title fight, perhaps boxing just doesn’t serve the same purpose it once did for him. It’s now accompanied by the constant expectation to win, the all-consuming fear of what it means to lose, more eyes on him as his private life is publicized and monetized. And now the crushing reality that his reservations surrounding the sport have been televised, much to his utter dismay.

As you make sense of his words, your gaze snaps to the camera, at the blinking red light that indicates this conversation is being recorded, too. Your hand darts out to the shutter release, in an effort to not repeat the same mistakes, and Mr. Seo chuckles when he takes notice of your urgency.

“It’s fine,” he says simply, eyes fixed on the lens again. “He knows I’m airing it all out. It was his request, actually.”

Your motions come to a halt as he speaks of Chan, and you turn to catch his gaze once more, eyebrows arching in an apologetic expression as you find the words to say.

“How is he?” You ask, completely veering off your list of required questions, as you inquire about Bang Chan’s whereabouts.

“It’s been days,” you continue. “I didn’t know they were going to televise all of it. He trusted me, and I get if he doesn’t want anything to do with all of this-”

“He was a little taken aback,” Mr. Seo interjects. “I haven’t heard too much from him, either.”

“You haven’t?” You echo, feeling a pit form in your stomach at the fact that he’s even chosen to distance himself from his trainer in the aftermath.

“Not aside from his request to be as honest with you as possible,” he affirms. “Relay whatever he’s unable to say.”

You’re quiet for a moment, and then you gesture to the camera again.

“You mean… he wants this to be broadcasted?”

He nods, pursing his lips.

You can’t fathom why he’d want this conversation part to be televised, knowing very well that even Chan himself has trouble opening up about the subject. And now he’s urged Mr. Seo to relay these truths to the viewers- the truths that boxing has kept him in a mental slump for the better part of his whole career now. That his favorite sport is just another burden he bears, alongside a long list of fancy titles and recognitions. And that he simply doesn’t want to be a boxer anymore. Confessions that could hurt him preceding the title fight- and may only indicate one final outcome.

“He can’t quit,” you voice quietly. “He wouldn’t just leave all of this behind him… right?”

“It’s hard to say,” Mr. Seo responds. “He’s in another one of his slumps. He’s missing schedules, the fight’s just around the corner. Chan’s done this before, but it seems pretty serious this time around. The whole world’s watching him. I don’t blame him for wanting to walk away from all of this- I would, too.”

The pit in your stomach seems to grow tenfold as he speaks, and despite his assurances to record the conversation, your hand darts out to stop the recording anyway.

“He can’t quit,” you say again. “This is his life’s dream. He said it himself- losing scares the shit out of him. Doesn’t forfeiting fulfill the same thing?”

“I’m sure it does,” he counters, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips. “I’ve talked him out of it a dozen times before. Unfortunately I can’t get through to him this time around.”

Your eyes dart over the camera, and then back to Mr. Seo, as you ponder Chan’s words tirelessly.

Maybe you should’ve seen this coming long before it got to this point- his desire to walk away from all of this has been evident for as long as you’ve known him. The anger that festers deep down inside of him as he throws uppercuts in the ring, the way he gets so fixated on his sport, he shuts out the rest of the world around him. His fear of losing, but also a hatred for winning so consistently. Putting greater trust and vulnerability in a journalist rather than the people he’s known all his life.

Mr. Seo seems to take notice of your distress, cocking his head to meet your gaze which falls onto the tiled floor beneath his leather shoes.

“Hey,” he voices gently. “None of this is your fault. Somebody who’s that down on himself is bound to come to terms with it eventually. He doesn’t resent you, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”

He shuffles in his seat once more, and then he sighs a little before speaking again.

“He has a training session tomorrow, in the evening. If he makes it, you can swing by after and get a word in with him. Just don’t say I sent you.”

You nod at his words, swallowing nervously as you fiddle with the sleeves of your sweater in your lap. And then you meet his gaze once more, furrowing your brows before speaking.

“Mr. Seo,” you begin. “Why wouldn’t he resent me? I’m no better than the spectators. If anything, I’m worse. Chan probably wants me dead as we speak.”

He chuckles lightly before shaking his head.

“You’re just doing your job,” he explains. “Everybody is well aware of that.”

He thinks for a moment, before continuing.

“I haven’t seen him come to terms with his own emotions like this before- maybe ever. All he knew was anger for so long- I saw it from the moment I met him at the tender age of fourteen. He’s finally being honest with himself about what’s causing these mental slumps. It’s a level of vulnerability I’ve never witnessed in him before- it’s hardly possible when he’s constantly being told to ‘man up’ by the rest of the world. Did you know he cried in front of me the other day?”

Mr. Seo shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest.

“He did, if you can believe it. He really cried.”

And you say nothing, in response, simply thinking back to the sight of Bang Chan crying in front of you first, back at his apartment. The way tears cascaded over his hurt expression, and the way he had sniffled in between shaky confessions that losing is what scares him. Losing a boxing match, losing his passion, losing sight of his future in the careful process of finding himself. Forfeiting the biggest title fight of his life, and walking away from all of this as nothing more than a loser.

And perhaps losing you, too- the one person he still finds some semblance of sacredness in.

“Thank you,” you voice to Mr. Seo, as you reach out to shake his hand. “I’m going to talk to him. I’m going to make this right.”

*

The following evening lulls by painfully slow, as you wait for word from Mr. Seo. Your work doesn’t see you in for the afternoon, as you dismiss yourself early to prepare for the conversation at hand in the comfort of your apartment.

And realistically, what can you say to Bang Chan, to convince him not to walk away from this title fight?

I’m sorry nothing is sacred to you anymore. I’m sorry you’re held to such unsustainable standards. Your mom is right to be worried about you, as is Mr. Seo. But that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to be frustrated with all of this at the same time. Thank you for letting me bear witness to the real Bang Chan, not just the perfect boxer. You’re far more to me than just a video subject.

It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, or probably assumed already- but perhaps the future of his career depends on this conversation, and it weighs just as heavy on you, too.

As the evening draws to a close, you’re relieved to hear that Mr. Seo confirms Chan has indeed shown up to his scheduled training session like he’d promised.

“He’s a little down tonight,” he details in a short text to you. “But he’ll be here after hours, if you care to swing by.”

And there’s nothing you would miss the opportunity for, you think to yourself, as you shoot him a quick text back and begin toward the training gym.

Your mind runs rampant with endless possibilities of how the conversation might play out. Perhaps he’ll be angry with you, and send you off with a curt wave of his hand. Maybe he’ll be just as emotional as he was with Mr. Seo, assuming the same disposition he did when he first cried to you that night in his apartment. Or maybe he’ll actually listen to what you have to say, the same way you lent a kindly ear to his vulnerable display of emotions.

It’s hard to say- he’s certainly not an easy read, the way you once presumed him to be.

The gym is void of its usual commotion- in fact, if not granted entry by Mr. Seo first, you’re not sure you would've assumed it to be occupied at all. The entrance is dark, as is the hallway, and you can just barely make out his silhouette when he approaches with a gym bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey,” Mr. Seo remarks in a low voice. “He’s in the back.”

He looks exhausted, mentally and physically, and though he flaunts a sheen layer of sweat on his forehead from training, he wears it somberly, as though Chan’s emotions have now extended to him.

“How is he?” You inquire cautiously, and Mr. Seo shrugs in response.

“I couldn’t say. He’s hardly talking.”

Your heartbeat quickens suddenly at his words, at the thought that you’re trying to talk him out of something he’s already practically set on, even to his trainer’s standards. Realistically, there’s nothing you can say to change his mind- so does it even make sense to try? Is there a good reason to make an appearance, if at all?

“Y/n?” Mr. Seo questions, taking note of the way your gaze fixes beyond his standing figure at the darkened hallway, almost tuning out his presence.

“Yeah,” you say simply, giving him a small nod. “Thanks for letting me in. I really appreciate it.”

He just nods in response, standing aside to grant you full access. And then he’s off without another word, the low hum of his engine starting up in the parking lot.

The gym has never felt more uninviting than in the current chilling atmosphere, as you stride down the hallway and glance around nervously. The gallery wall of boxers is almost indistinguishable amidst the darkness, except for the beaming white smiles of their prideful expressions staring you down. You’re quickly overtaken by discomfort, as your eyes scan the dark gray walls, at the neat rows of boxers that mimic each other with their wide grins. The winners are hard to tell from the losers, and the losers might as well resemble just any normal spectator. Even the greats are unrecognizable to you, despite your proximity to their elegant portraits. And as hard as you squint at the array of frames above you, Baik Hyun-Man could be any of the boxers on this dreary wall.

It’s not until a loud thump echoes in the distance, that you’re brought back to reality, snapping your head in the direction of the boxing ring. It’s dark, like the rest of the gym, with the exception of the dimly-lit recess lights over the punching bag.

And stood in front of it, knees bent, fists positioned to deliver an uppercut, his jaw clenched and heavy bags under his eyes, Bang Chan.

He produces another hard punch to the bag as you take a reluctant step toward him, and then he hits two more times, the contact echoing around the room in tandem with your strides.

Thump. Step. Thump. Two more steps.

When you’re finally behind the ring, your knees grazing the raised platform, you hoist yourself over the edge, finding your balance to resume approaching him. And Chan’s punches finally come to a halt, his chin tucking over his shoulder as he attempts to catch a glimpse of you without turning around fully.

“Hi,” you say simply, halting your actions of nearing him.

Chan remains like that for a passing moment, scanning your standing figure out of his peripheral vision, before turning back toward the bag. He doesn’t deliver another punch, nor does he make any efforts to distance himself from you. He simply exhales deeply, before speaking.

“What do you want?”

“I want to talk.”

“I don’t have answers for you right now.”

“I’m not interviewing.”

It’s only then that he pivots cautiously on his heels, facing you now, a resigned expression on his face. He’s damp with sweat, glistening under the recess lighting, his thin white tank top practically glued to the convexes of his torso with perspiration.

“Then what do you want?”

“I told you,” you say to him, taking a single step toward him now. “I want to talk.”

His gaze flickers to your hands, which toy nervously with loose threads under the sleeves of your shirt. His lips part to say something, and then he scoffs lightly, before speaking once more.

“What, no camera this time around?”

Your heartbeat quickens at his words, feeling a suffocating sense of guilt as you realize he’s still upset with how the series unfolded in its last broadcast.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can say to him, dropping your hands at your sides in defeat. “I understand you’re angry. I would be, too.”

Chan is quiet for a moment, eyes narrowed as though he’s challenging you.

“I promise I asked them to omit the footage,” you assure him nervously. “It got into the wrong hands.”

And then you take a sharp breath, before continuing.

“I became obsessed,” you say to him. “With the film. With you. I just wanted to know you better. And when I found that you weren’t this superficial shell of a person like I assumed you were, I couldn’t stop myself from feeding into their asks for this voyeuristic glance at your life.”

Chan’s expression seems to soften as he registers your apology. A part of him knows you’re right- and just like Mr. Seo had conveyed, he doesn’t resent you. Because a part of him is a little relieved he got it out there, for the whole world to comprehend just how scared he is of losing. And in turn, how to go about coping with it.

“Well it doesn’t matter anymore,” Chan remarks, his head hanging a little as he toys with the bandages around his wrists. “Because I quit.”

You can feel the room spin around you as his words pierce through your chest- you’d assumed that an apology would perhaps change his mind about the brash decision. Maybe Mr. Seo was wrong about him, and he is still keen on carrying through with a lifelong dream. But as he stands here before you, his gaze locked on his wrists and his shoulders sagging with shame, you know Mr. Seo had the correct read on him, after all.

“You can’t quit,” you utter reluctantly. “You can’t give up your life’s work because you’re afraid of losing.”

“And be made to look like a complete idiot? Yeah, great idea. I’ll be the first boxer to lose a winning streak to a title fight in over 20 years. That makes me a loser in every sense of the word.”

“This fight isn’t about winning it,” you counter. “It’s about showing up. You think your role models won anything by forfeiting?”

“You don’t get it,” He retorts, a frustrated scoff leaving his lips. “You never will. You’re just here to write some story for your own benefit.”

He seems to regret the words when they escape his lips, evident by the way he meets your gaze and toys with the hem of his shirt awkwardly. And he begins to apologize, but not before you’re interrupting him again.

“Write a story?” You repeat with a scoff, taking a single step toward him and narrowing your eyes. “You think I’m just here to write a story? Is that what you think this is?”

“I could never even begin to explain it to you,” Chan says finally, lowering his head in defeat. “Just… forget it.”

The words pierce through your miraculously still-beating heart, and you can almost feel your blood boil when you see him pivot away from you to make his departure.

Your eyes force themselves away from him, far too agitated with the sight of him to even warrant a brief glance in his direction. And as you stare past him at the gray gallery wall, your gaze meets the familiar sight of the monochromatic photograph, the subject beaming down at you while you search for a final word.

“You know what?” You voice to him, sounding much calmer now as you find the confidence to speak. “You are a loser.”

“What?” He questions, halting his steps to turn his head in your direction.

“I called you a loser,” you emphasize, observing the way he turns to face you now. “Any respectable boxer would know that I’ve always been here to tell your story, not conjure up some sensationalized version of it. Forgive me for caring so much about all of this. About you.”

Chan remains quiet, interest piqued at the way you manage to reach a stalemate with your carefully chosen words. And then he plants two feet on the floor, toying with the straps of the boxing bandages around his knuckles, as he turns away from you and begins toward the back of the gym.

“I’m talking to you,” you practically shout, following in his footsteps and pulling yourself through the gap off the raised platform. You stumble as your feet plant themselves onto the floor, and then you walk briskly behind him, eyebrows furrowed crossly as frustrated tears brim your eyes.

“Sure, just walk away from all of this,” you shout at him, growing increasingly irate at the way he struts down the hallways in front of you, not even switching on the lights as you trail behind him.

“And you know what? Your mom is right,” you voice at him loudly. “You are so fucking preoccupied at being the best at what you do, and that’s exactly what brings you down. It’s like pulling teeth trying to talk to you. I’ve seen it in all you pretentious athletes before, but you’re by far the worst.”

Chan turns a corner, still silent at your remarks as he makes his way into a narrow tiled hallway and into the gym showers. The thought crosses your mind to leave, knowing that you have no business following your video subject into the men’s showers. And yet you don’t, maintaining your stance confidently as you watch him toy with the faucet handle on the wall.

“You don’t even realize the way being so cold affects the people around you. The way they so clearly worry about you- and all you can do is dismiss them, and lie to their fucking faces. Everybody’s walking on eggshells around you.”

Chan pushes the steel lever to the right, and you take a step back when the shower head begins to run with a steady stream of water, cascading over his lean figure as he remains standing. You stutter to speak as you watch Chan pull the black t-shirt he wears over his head, discarding it onto the now wet tiled floor and running two hands through his dampened hair.

And your eyes make every effort to refrain from staring too hard at the toned body he reveals to you- dripping in beads of sweat and water alike, trickling down the muscular contours of his chiseled abs and finding purchase along the elastic waistband of his shorts.

The etched convexes of his pectorals flex with subtle movements as his head hangs, brows furrowed in deep concentration as he pulls on the tightly-bound bandages around his knuckles- to no avail, the water drenching them as he continues to tug on them frustratedly.

“I hope you know that the silent treatment won’t do anything for you,” you admonish, approaching him with a single step.

You recall his strong aversion to getting his bandages wet, so instinctively your hands find his, pinching the nylon fabric between your fingers and beginning to undo the bandages around his bruised fingers as his gaze fixes onto yours.

He says nothing, the damp ends of his hair dribbling warm droplets of water onto your shirt as he towers over you, the running shower drowning out the sounds of his heavy breathing as he admires you at this proximity to him.

Your ears are flushed a deep shade of red, still riddled with clear frustration as you rant to him about all his shortcomings- and yet he can’t shake the endearing fact that you’re still helping him, despite the callous words you throw at him.

“Asshole,” he hears you utter, amongst his own deafening thoughts of you. “You can go your whole life running away from all of this whenever you feel the slightest bit threatened, and you might be fooling everybody else, but not me. I know boxing hasn’t inhibited you to be this shell of a human. Good luck with everything,” you snap, pulling the last of the bandage off from around his hands.

“But I hope you know that not even a trophy could refute the fact that you’re a fucking loser.”

Chan lets a breathy chuckle escape his lips, eyes flickering over your pursed lips when you finally crane your neck to look up at him. He’s properly drenched now, strands of hair falling into his face as his expression grows serious.

Neither of you say anything, heavy breaths escaping your parted lips and swirling into each other as he waits for you to make your departure. And yet you don’t, your chest rising and falling with labored breaths as you observe the way his eyelashes glisten under the cascading water. You watch the way the water collects along his philtrum, fusing into one reflective sphere along his top lip and dangling as he searches for the words to say- and he can’t find them, simply shutting his eyes as the water streams over his eyelids, practically forcing them shut.

He waits for the sound of your departing footsteps, or maybe for the shower to shut off if you’re even the slightest bit keen on talking things out.

And yet his body relaxes down into yours when he feels you heighten your still-standing figure, shifting your weight onto the tips of your toes so that you can brush strands of wet hair out of his face.

He shivers in your touch, exhaling a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding in this whole time. And then he works against you with ease when you finally press your lips to his, allowing the water to transfer from his open mouth to yours, the salty flavor of his sweat still present on your tongue.

Chan doesn’t say anything when you pull away once more, mentally preparing himself for you to scold him, slap him, something to confirm that you loathe him the way he believes you now do. But it’s the last thing he expects when you cup his face between your hands again, pulling him down toward you and allowing his troubled expression to meet your gaze.

You think to kiss him again, your eyes flickering briefly over his- but you don’t, simply giving him a short nod when you finish speaking.

It’s Chan who opts to kiss you again, with more intensity the second time around, his hands finding the small of your back when he pulls you in against him and allows his lips to work against yours. Your hands press to his toned stomach, grazing fingertips along his flesh as he pulls you a little closer, and you make no effort to push him away or halt your forbidden actions,

Your head is in a daze- somewhere between seething and perhaps also roused as a result of it, knowing very well that this is possibly the worst way you could handle the situation.

He’s stubborn and dejected, and though he knows that being vulnerable is the only way to come to terms with what boxing has become for him, he only seeks resolution by opting to put a lifetime of work behind him. And it’s driving you mad, to practically beg him to let you in like this- yet it feels like the only way to shut yourself up from negotiating with the shell of the man he’s become is to remain exactly like this, your lips on his, hands all over each other, letting gasped breaths escape your lips as he works his kisses along your jawline.

“I missed you,” Chan confesses with a groan as he tilts your face further up between the gentle hold of his thumb and index finger.

You say nothing back, shutting your eyes as you allow his lips to travel down the column of your neck, his hands lowering to find yours and take your wrists in his grasp. He resumes desperate little kisses down your neck, walking you back along the tiled flooring, until your body is effectively slotted between Chan and the wall below the shower head. And when he pulls back momentarily to let his thumbs caress the curves of your hips, the water cascades over you, too, engulfing you in a steady stream of water and wetting the clothes you still wear. Chan watches, mesmerized, as the white fabric of your blouse clings around your body like cellophane, outlining every convex along your flesh, your hair dripping with beads of water and hanging loosely into your face as you look up at him.

“What are you thinking about?” He inquires softly, tucking a strand of hair out of your face.

You pause for a moment, your eyes locked on the droplets of water that trickle down the tiled wall across from you. He scans your expression as he awaits an answer, using his index finger to tilt your face toward him again. The shower seems to drown out in white noise for a moment, Chan’s gaze flickering over your trembling eyes as he waits. Your mind goes back to the feeling of being in that boxing ring- far too big, and yet claustrophobic, at the same time, especially at the thought of hundreds of eyes on you. You think of your camera, and the sight of the little red light blinking to indicate it was recording him, and how it remained angled at him for hours at a time most days, capturing every little movement he produced. You think of the newspaper publications, the faces of the viewers who recognize him in public, even the worried expressions of the people closest to him as he bites back from indulging them in the truth about all of this.

And then you swallow, confidently straightening your posture, as you finally provide an answer.

“I think about you a suffocating amount.”

He cocks his head, rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek, visibly satisfied with your response.

“Yeah?” He questions. “Missed me that much?”

You let out a small gasp when he lowers his lips to your chest, and then he places a single, open-mouthed kiss on the curve of your breast, his pupils flickering to hold eye contact as he does.

“Maybe,” you breathe back to him, feeling your throat still bubble with vexation. “Of course maybe I was just looking forward to watching your fight.”

He places another kiss, and then another, and then several more, traveling inward until he’s just between the valley of your breasts. And then he lifts his head up again, grazing over your parted lips, but not yet kissing you.

“I’m afraid of what will happen,” he says in almost a whisper, toying with the damp hem of your blouse.

And Chan smiles between the tender kiss when you pull him back down and indulge him anyway, allowing the indignation you feel at the hands of him to be replaced by the pulsing sensation between your legs, shutting up your thoughts with the erotic sight of him shirtless, hands all over your wet body as you melt into his touch.

“Then do it afraid,” you tell him.

You breathe between heavy kisses as his hands snake down to your blouse, rolling buttons between the pads of his fingers to undo them. He hums into the kiss when you do, letting your hands tangle in his hair as the final button is undone, your blouse hanging open loosely and exposing your chest to the cold water that continues to streamline over your desperate bodies.

You can feel Chan smirk into the kiss, entirely too satisfied with the method you’ve both chosen to adjourn this prolonged chapter of tension that seems to exist every time he’s near- of words unspoken, knowing looks and stories that barely scrape the surface of who he really is. And though you’re still peeved at his reluctance, it feels right to be all over him like this- perhaps this is the closest you’ll ever get to him, when he’s looming over you with every desire to undress you and know the curves of your body as intimately as you long to know his mind.

The thoughts agitate you the more you ruminate on them, and yet every annoyance is shut up by the sensation of his mouth working against yours, hands snaking down to the small of your back again where he sprawls his fingertips out over the goosebumps raised along your skin.

Of course Chan will never admit that perhaps this is the closest he’s ever gotten to letting somebody into the innermost complexities of his mind- but still, he’s well aware that the desire to let you in is heightened by the reality that he wants you to know him fully.

“Is this okay?” he breathes again, as his fingers graze a little lower, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

The audible groan you emit practically relays an answer to him already, yet he smiles devilishly in response to your clear frustration, your hand tracing eagerly along the waistband of his shorts. You don’t have to advance any lower to know that he’s definitely hard for you- it’s clear in the way he whimpers at the near-contact, his breathing growing ragged when you hum softly into his mouth and tug at his hair a little.

“Answer me,” Chan commands, his hands finding their way to your pants and toying similarly along your waist. Your hand rests atop his, guiding him to pull them lower as if granting him permission, and then he wastes no time discarding them entirely, tugging the soaked fabric that clings to your thighs harshly down your body and allowing them to pool around your ankles.

“Yes, it’s okay,” you gasp, moaning softly when his lips reattach to your neck.

Your lingerie is already soiled, clinging tightly against the outline of your body, and Chan’s clothes now clearly outline his fully-erect cock, strained against the thin fabric of his shorts and desperate for some release.

The shower temperature seems to have risen several degrees with the passing time, cascading over you with almost scalding water as you feel Chan’s hands lower to take yours in his. He caresses your wrists as he pulls away from your lips momentarily, and then he spins you around to press you gently against the wall, his lips finding purchase in the shell of your ear as he prods into your lower thigh from behind. He feels big against you, his whole body indicating his clear desire to take you right here, in the hardly-private environment of the gym showers, and you shiver when you feel him work kisses down the column of your neck once more, now latching your flesh between his teeth to suck a line of bruises where his lips trail.

The reality crosses your mind again, briefly, that you’re definitely not supposed to be getting physically intimate with an interview subject for a second time now. But when his hands trail down to trace behind the strap of your bra, tugging on the fabric until his nimble fingers are working over the clasp, you don’t dare utter a single word of protest at him.

Unlike the way he retracts from opening himself up to you, his movements now are purposeful. He knows what he wants in the way he so skillfully undoes the clasp of your bra, letting it fall to the floor in a puddle of water as his hands now find the mounds of your breasts. And he has clear intentions when he then slips his hands into the sides of your panties and tugs harshly, letting those pool around your ankles too, now, his hands massaging the curves of your ass as you arch instinctively and wait for him to continue.

“Will you let me return the favor now?” Chan asks boldly when his hands travel back to his own shorts. He touches himself over the fabric of his shorts, cupping a hand around his own hard girth to then stroke himself with just enough pressure to coax a heavy exhale from the back of his throat. And when you nod beneath his touch, swallowing the shower water that dribbles from between your lips to rest upon your tongue, his fingers find your face, tilting just enough to meet your gaze with his.

“I didn’t hear you,” Chan states, not yet undressing himself. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe back, hoping the impatience in your voice isn’t picked up so easily in your tone. You’d beg him to fuck you if you weren’t already begging him to let down his stubborn walls.

He smirks at your near-desperation, and then his hands resume the action of gliding upon the grooves on the elastic waistband of his shorts- only this time, he tugs them down in tandem with his boxers, allowing his exposed erection to grow against his abdomen as his clothes fall to the tile beneath him. His hand wraps itself around the base of his cock, positioning himself behind you and pumping himself a few times. And then before he makes any move to enter you, his hand slots itself between your legs, resting along your upper thigh as he presses a chaste kiss to your shoulder.

“I still think you’re a loser,” You say to Chan, for the second time now, gasping when you feel his fingers graze your clit and rub in circular motions. “If you walk away from all of this.”

“Yeah?” he says with a breathy chuckle, pressing a series of open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder. “Is this your way of saying you care about me?”

“Hardly,” you breathe back, eyebrows arching in pleasure when he quickens the pace of his movements.

“I see the way you look at me,” Chan whispers against the shell of your ear. “Either you’re really passionate about this story,” his fingers prod against your entrance, gathering the slick of your arousal onto the pads of his fingers before dipping them into your cunt and smiling when you gasp in response. “Or you’re just as drawn to me as I am to you.”

“Am I right?” He says when you arch back against him, gasping as he moves his fingers in, and then out, swirling them around your clit and back inside of you once more. “Tell me,” he continues. “Do you always get this wet for the people you interview?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you breathe back, your chest rising and falling with every labored breath as he resumes his thrusting motions in a rhythmic pattern. “You’re the one who drags me everywhere with you like I’m your fucking assistant.”

“You could’ve declined,” Chan says plainly, his tongue finding your neck and tracing along your throat in one long stripe, before latching his teeth around the flesh as he had previously. “I think you just like me.”

You begin to respond, quickly unable to as he thrusts his fingers at a particularly fast pace now, your words coming out as a series of high-pitched moans, instead. You silently pray he can’t tell you’re enjoying this entirely too much.

He pulls his fingers out again, and you spread your thighs a little to grant him access to your clit once more, yet he doesn’t indulge you, simply letting his hand find your waist again and caressing your damp skin.

“Why’d you stop?” You say a little too abruptly, earning a chuckle from him as his hand wraps around the base of his cock.

“Someone’s eager,” Chan remarks, and you mentally scold yourself for audibly sounding it.

“Just hurry up, will you?”

His hand caresses the vein that runs along his shaft, thumb toying with his pink tip as he hums in response to your anticipation. And then he pauses again, before tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

You watch as Chan’s neck cranes up, too, his adam’s apple bobbing outwardly as he faces up at the shower head that continues to shoot a steady stream of water over your tangled bodies. He shuts his eyes momentarily, allowing the water to cascade in two streams down his cheeks now as it makes contact over his pronounced nose bridge. And then you watch his plump lips part above you, the flow of water merging into one steady stream once more as he lets it fill his mouth, his chin almost trembling as he struggles to take it all in one mouthful, quickly spilling over and dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t swallow the mouthful, he doesn’t dispose of it as he turns to meet your gaze again. Instead, he angles your face toward him with the gentle maneuver of his thumb on your chin, his lips pulling as much as they can into a cocky grin as he cups your face and allows your mouth to remain agape for him.

No words are exchanged as he partakes in the lewd action of allowing the water to dribble down into your mouth, strings of saliva accompanying the salty taste of his sweat and the metallic taste of gym shower water. He allows his mouth to fully empty into yours, guiding strings of saliva back between your parted lips when your respective mouthful begins to spill over, too. And then as the caress of his thumb along your chin instructs you non-verbally to swallow it, to let the concoction dribble down to the back of your throat and glide with ease past your trembling lips, he’s guiding himself inside of you at the same time, his hands spreading your thighs as he guides his cock into your entrance and holds it there for a still moment.

You want to verbally remark how big he feels inside of you, but you can’t speak just yet as you swallow the remainder of his saliva, gasping for a breath when he pulls back to then thrust into you with a little more force. And then his hand reaches around to your clit once more, the pads of his fingers working you in circles again as he begins to move with rhythmic motions.

“Are you okay?” Chan asks in a gentle voice, as he gathers your hair with his vacant hand, draping it over your shoulder to press a chaste kiss against your neck.

You nod quickly in response, far too overcome by the sheer pleasure of his flesh working in and out of your glistening walls to give him a proper answer, and he takes the heavy panting that escapes your lips as answer enough.

“God you feel so fucking good,” Chan remarks, as he gives your hair a little tug. “I’ve been thinking about this. About you.”

He lets his eyes shut in a blissful state of euphoria as he fucks you, satisfied groans escaping his lips as his fingers grasp at your flesh eagerly, careful not to loosen his hold on you as though he might lose you.

And then before he can ponder the implications of his breathless speech, he’s breaking the silence again, regret overtaking his dizzied state the moment he speaks again.

“What are you thinking about?”

The words are near insensitive as it now stands, and Chan knows very well that he’s going to be met with some version of dispute from your breathless figure. But you surprise him for the second time this evening, when you don’t argue against his callous actions, instead letting your lips part in pleasure as you breathe out a response.

“You,” the simple answer conveys. And Chan can feel his cock twitch inside of you at the admission, another groan escaping his parted lips as he feels himself grow twice as roused at the fact that he consumes your thoughts just as much as you do his.

Between the rhythmic sounds of his groans that precede your gasps for air, muffled by the steady stream of the shower that nearly drowns out your voices the same way the pleasure nearly drowns out your thoughts, you feel his hand reach around to grasp your fingers between his. He gives it a gentle squeeze as he angles your parted legs toward the shower stream, letting the water cascade in a pulsing vibration directly on your clit. And the dizzying sensation of your joint frustration and pleasure only reminds you that the thoughts are not limited to just him.

Thinking about Bang Chan extends far beyond just the charming public figure he now is- they exist in a capacity much larger than a longing to know him for the purposes of any stupid docuseries. The thoughts of him transcend the superficial established connection of a subject behind a camera lens- instead, you long to know the very intricacies of his consciousness, to pick his mind and comprehend his real fears, his hangups, his shortcomings and his plan for a life beyond this one. It’s a longing to know him beyond just his tales of guts and glory, and this life he’s so scrupulously centered around his boxing career.

He’s purposeful- in his strategy and his movements, and you’re quickly brought back to the gym locker showers when you feel him spread your lips a little wider toward the shower stream, earning a fervent moan from you as you feel his cock twitch again inside of you.

“Fuck,” Chan exhales, through gritted teeth, as he staves off his orgasm momentarily.

He observes the way your eyebrows arch in sheer pleasure, all fucked-out as you take him so obediently and allow the shower to pleasure you where he can’t. And then he angles your face toward him as he indulges you in one final sloppy kiss against your parted lips, the lewd remnants of sweat and spit and water still exchanging from his body onto yours.

“I’m sorry,” is all Chan can breathe against your lips, as he assists you in reaching your finish, giving your hand an affirming squeeze as your legs tremble in his touch, your walls contracting around his cock, as the shower water that cascades onto the floor is now mixed with your juices and and the echoing sounds of your high-pitched moans. And Chan nibbles on the lobe of your ear, confessing a string of apologies as he reaches his finish now, too, filling your still-aching body with his load and not loosening his grasp around your fingers.

Before pulling out, his trembling hand finds the steel handle of the shower, which he pushes into an ‘off’ position once more, before relaxing his figure against yours, hands finding purchase on your hips as you both catch your breath.

The tiled room grows much quieter now as heavy breaths escape both of your parted lips, chests rising and falling against each other as his chin rests on your shoulder.

The stream of the shower has now reduced to the repetitive tap of dripping water along the floor, echoing in the near-silence of the steamy room as you remain pressed against each other, bodies languid and far too drained of your frustrations to speak.

And yet amidst the eerie silence of the room, Chan speaks in a voice above a whisper, his fingertips intertwining with each other as he tightens his grasp around your frame.

“I’ll do it,” he says breathlessly, taking your hand in his and bringing it up to his lips for a tender kiss to your knuckles.

“Do what?” You challenge, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair out from his eyes.

He chuckles softly, cocking his head as you await a response.

“Say it,” you reiterate, and he rolls his eyes playfully before answering.

“I’ll do the fight,” Chan says finally, his shoulders seeming to relax when he comes down to rest his forehead against yours. “I’ll show up, and I’ll do this match.”

His head hangs as his figure towers over yours, fingers giving yours a little squeeze before he finishes speaking.

“And we can finish telling this story together.”

And the gentle gargle of the shower drain succeeds his words, disposing a mix of sweat and water and arousal alike.

*

GOLDEN GLOVES CHAMPIONSHIP TITLE FIGHT- BANG CHAN VS. KANG-DAE

It’s not unusual for boxers to flaunt a long list of rituals on fight days. Some have particular food specifications the night before, others ensure a strict routine of stretches. You distinctly recall a few playlists shared by previous athletes you’ve interviewed, and even lucky articles of clothing for others.

For Bang Chan, sherbet popsicles are a considerable factor in his pre-boxing rituals. And yet for the first time in his career, they’re unavailable to him.

“You tried the convenience stores on the south side?” He asks again, pacing back and forth as Mr. Seo slings his belongings into a gray storage locker.

“All sold out,” Mr. Seo explains. “There’s a few similar ones in the freezer at the back. Not sure if you wanna give those a try.”

Bang Chan thinks it over momentarily, electing not to respond as frustratedly as he wants to. And then he shoves his hands in the pockets of his gym shorts, hanging his head in defeat.

All around him, the hallways of the stadium are teeming with movement- from security in black jumpsuits traversing the rooms, sports commentators readying their equipment, makeup artists organizing their respective supplies. Even Mr. Seo seems to be heads-down in his own tasks, hardly uttering words of consolidation as he makes his way over to another staff member.

And all Chan can do is simply wait, in the green room, for further direction, as he tries his best not to get in the way. Mr. Seo had once described this part of the process as a “hurry up and wait” sort of phenomenon- something Chan never fully understood until he was participating in some of his biggest fights to date. The makeup artists will usher him to a swivel chair, where they’ll begin with a base of primer on his face, and then they’re gone again, disappearing to retrieve more supplies from beyond the green room. Staff members will begin to explain the timeline of this evening’s events, and then they’re quickly caught up in an entirely different conversation, not even completing their sentences before they’re a whole room away from him.

Even Mr. Seo will begin a pep talk, reminding Chan to “loosen up”, and that “whatever happens, happens”- and then he’s absent once again, too, quickly reminded of something he’s forgotten back at his designated locker.

So all Chan can do is wait, his eyes scanning rows of photographs that line the unfamiliar walls of this foreign stadium.

He’s entirely riddled with fear, the way he always is before a fight. Yet his thoughts are also plagued with you, and you, and more of you, as he recalls the way all of his previous evenings alongside you had unfolded.

Perhaps all of the desperate kisses you’d exchanged, and the now several times you allowed him to return the favor, served as pre-ritual enough for Chan, who practically bites back a smile when he remembers the way your delicate fingers weaved between his, reassuring him for one final time that he’s not a loser for showing up.

All of your sagely words circle his mind as though he’s indulging himself once more in the sacred moment of a boy and his favorite sherbet popsicle- apologetic confessions that he’d become an object of fascination for you. A myriad of shaky words detailing a sheer gratitude for allowing you to know him this intimately, the way he’s been withholding from the people closest to him. And although his truths had been publicly broadcast, a newfound appreciation for this level of vulnerability.

And he’s quickly brought back to reality when Mr. Seo makes his entrance again, folded blue satin grasped tightly in his hold.

“Robe’s here,” Mr. Seo explains, as he nears Chan’s seated figure. Chan cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of the familiar article of clothing- blue, upon his mother's particular liking to his first pair of sparring mitts.

The whole room seems to halt their actions and stare when Chan finally rises from his seat, pulling his ribbed white tank top off over his torso with the swift motion of a hand. And beneath the bright lights of the green room, a series of camera flashes illuminates the space around him, as they capture the first moments he’s finally undressed.

“Arms out,” Mr. Seo commands.

He assists in pulling the robe over Chan’s broad shoulders, smoothing down the silken fabric as Chan adjusts the collar.

Another staff member unbeknownst to Chan gestures for his hands, where she begins to wrap nylon around his knuckles. One more readies his boxing gloves, pulling open the velcro from around the closure strap.

Makeup artists begin to circle him again, brushing powder along his nose and instructing him to pout his lips for chapstick.

As they prepare him for the biggest title fight of his career, Chan can still only think of you.

He knows you’re prohibited from interacting prior to the fight- rules which you mutually opted to establish, knowing it would be entirely too difficult to conceal your emotions in the presence of each other. But the fact stands, that he misses you, and that in the absence of his typical pre-fight ritual, you’re the only other means of instilling a sense of calmness within him.

“Kang-Dae’s already here,” Mr. Seo then says, as he fastens the strings of Chan’s robe.

“He’s here?” Chan echoes, eyes widening as the realization sets in.

He pictures the green room opposite to his in the stadium; it’s probably just as busy, with staff members working to prepare Kang-Dae for what will also be the biggest fight of his career. Chan realizes for the first time that he’ll be face to face with the same figure he’s spoken so highly of, the same person he’s made strategic efforts not to run into, and the same person he’ll now be facing in the ring- not just a practice match against Mr. Seo, or even a punching bag.

“He arrived not long ago,” Mr. Seo explains. “We have 15 minutes until entrance.”

Chan rotates his hands, at the staff’s request, as they fasten the black sparring mitts around his fists. And then his gaze falls to the mirror across from him as another stripe of powder is brushed along his nose.

His eyes scan his own standing figure for a moment- he looks taller than usual, and stronger, his shoulders pulling back as the blue satin robe hangs loosely around his toned body. His hair is smoothed back again with a gel comb, his shoes knotted three times at the laces.

And then his gaze falls to the standing figure behind him, as you make entrance into the green room at last, a colleague by your side and a team of cameras filing in after you.

“… you can begin setting up in ten,” a staff member directs them, gesturing to the hallway beyond them.

You do your best to register the instructions, nodding your head as they speak right past you, yet completely unable to do so, as Chan’s lips pull into a closed-lip smile.

He can say nothing at the sight of you, simply admiring the elegant black double-breasted dress you sport, your hair pulled back to flaunt a sophisticated makeup look. And your eyes remain locked with his for a passing moment, as you examine his appearance in all its glory- the way the blue satin robe falls loosely around his chiseled abs, the glow of his makeup under the bright lightning, even the new sight of his gelled hair, pushed out of his face to reveal his handsome features to you.

He hardly looks familiar to you this way- much less like the Chan you know at the proximity of his lips on yours, and more like renowned boxer Bang Chan, the way the rest of the world refers to him.

Mr. Seo seems to take notice of Chan’s eyes on yours, his gaze flickering over Chan’s intense stare in the mirror and then around to you, who scrambles to face your camera crew once more. He smooths down the collar of Chan’s robe one last time, giving him a pat on the shoulders, and then he calls out to the nearby staff in a moment of understanding.

“Let’s give Bang Chan a moment,” he says, gesturing to the hallway with a cock of his head. “We’ll make entrance in ten.”

The makeup crew packs the last of their belongings, shuffling out with briefcases of pallets and brushes. Security assume their positions just past the door in the hallway, shutting the heavy steel door behind them, and Mr. Seo leads the rest of the crew out, shooting Chan a small wink as he observes you maintain a safe distance from Chan.

When the green room is finally cleared, the steel door shutting fully with an echoing thud, Chan pivots to face you, leaning back on the vanity, his hands shoved into the pockets of his robe.

“Hi,” he muses curiously.

You take several steps toward him, arms crossed at the elbows, and then you halt in front of him, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

“You look cool,” you tell him, the corners of your lips pulling up into a smile. “Like a winner.”

He chuckles softly, standing up straight now, his broad figure towering over you as he maintains an amused smile. He begins to close the gap between your smiling figures, but you reach a hand out to stop him, sprawling your fingers out across his stomach and pushing him away lightly.

“You can’t kiss me,” you say to him. “It’s bad luck.”

“Oh really?” Chan questions. “Says who?”

“Says me,” you voice back, chuckling softly in response. “You just got your makeup done. And I don’t want to run the risk of being seen by somebody.”

“There’s nobody around,” he emphasizes, taking your hands in his. “Besides, the makeup’s going to get ruined enough as it is.”

“Still,” you say to him, reaching up to run a finger along his gelled hair. He searches for the words to refute your argument again, but instead he’s silent, cocking his head to observe your expression.

“If I can’t kiss you,” he begins. “I think it’s only fair that you indulge me in a story. For good luck.”

You smile up at him, thinking it over a second. He rubs his fingers over yours tenderly as he awaits a response, and then his expression grows serious again when you begin to produce one.

“In 1988, Baik Hyun-Man was the first heavyweight boxer of his kind to make it to the Olympics. He trained for an incredible amount of time, and he swept in his division that same year.”

Chan nods as you speak, recounting the tale in his own mind.

“Two years later, he retired. And the world didn’t know what to make of him. In his final speech to the world, he detailed his reasoning- that maybe through tales of his, of guts and glory,”

“… we find our footing in the knowledge that we tried,” Chan finishes.

He says nothing as your lips pull into a smile, mirroring his.

And then he gives you an understanding nod, as a knock is heard on the steel door, indicating time for his entrance.

*

The arena is almost deafening with heavy anticipation when you finally make your entrance, assuming a reserved spot at the front, amidst the rows of occupied seats. Spectators sport face paint and signs, balancing buckets of popcorn in their elbows and chugging gargantuan cups of soft drinks and alcohol. The chatter of sports commentators can already be heard overhead as they detail the sight to viewers at home. And as you glance around the arena, you can’t help but worry for Chan, who you know already feels suffocated enough in the confines of the practice gym.

The same emotions you harbor when staring out at the gym are elevated- perhaps tenfold, as you lose sight of the rows in the shadows beyond the bright white recess lighting. Your cameras are set up alongside you by the crew, who assemble the tripods and angle the lens toward the ring.

And you watch nervously, waiting for sight of Chan’s entrance. Your eyes scan the sea of people, who talk excitedly amongst themselves, and then back to the boxing ring, which seems to glow under the blinding white lights- and then your attention is drawn back to the seat beside you, as a figure shuffles past toward you.

“Mrs. Bang!” You exclaim, bowing graciously as she mirrors your action.

“So good to see you again!” she states, a warm smile on her face. “We’re sitting just that way.”

She points to the right of your spot, and beyond rows of fans, you can clearly locate what appears to be the rest of Chan’s family, who greet you with smiles and excited waves.

“Wow, there’s so many of you,” you say back to her, chuckling lightly as you wave them down.

“We’ve never missed a match,” she explains. “He always knows where to find us.”

The statement is comforting to you, as you recall how nervous Chan is to have hundreds of eyes on him at any given moment- at least among a sea of spectators, he can always still count on a few familiar faces rooting for him.

“Listen,” she begins to say. “I wanted to thank you for this whole film. We had a long conversation about it, following the second part of his series. I always knew it was taxing for him- I guess I just hadn’t realized how scared he was of all this.”

She lowers her voice to just above a whisper, glancing nervously at her side, before continuing to speak.

“It was eye-opening for all of us, to view it from a different perspective. We all want him to win- just not at the cost of his well being.”

You’re quick to shake your head, shooting her an understanding smile.

“I wanted to apologize to you- I didn’t know they were going to air a lot of it,” you tell her. “I didn’t mean for his secrets to be so… televised.”

“Don’t apologize,” Mrs. Bang reassures you. “It’s the kind of honesty nobody’s been able to coax out of him before. Sure, it reached a lot of people. But it was bound to, considering how long he’s kept all of this from us. Sometimes when we’re most vulnerable, it’s the only time we’re able to truly understand what we want.”

You ponder her words momentarily, not yet separating from her gaze, as her lips pull into a small smile. You see a lot of Chan in her- restless when she’s distressed, and yet a robust willingness to decipher a meaning from all of the pain. She’s enchanting the same way Chan is- it’s no wonder he holds his family so close to his heart.

“Thank you,” is all you can utter in reply, as she reaches out a hand to give your forearm a squeeze.

“Whatever happens tonight,” she voices. “I’m glad we got to tell this story. I think you’ve done a fine job at knowing him.”

You return her words with a smile of your own, your eyes darting back to the ring, where staff members circle about and make their final preparations.

“It’s not over yet,” you remind her. “We’re still telling it.”

And she shoots you a knowing wink, as she bows graciously and begins back toward her designated seating.

*

When the spotlight illuminates over the west wing of the arena, the rest of the venue goes dark, crescendoed chatter making itself known all around you as fans eagerly await the entrance of both athletes.

“… tonight’s biggest match of the year here at the Golden Gloves Championship,” you can hear a commentator announce from the platform far above you.

“Bang Chan vs. Kang-Dae, a battle of undefeated superstars, scheduled for 12 rounds of boxing. Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you our participants in tonight’s main show.”

All eyes seem to shift nervously over the west wing, squinting amidst the contrast lighting to make out whose entrance will precede the next. And when the commentator begins to speak again, your heart practically drops in your chest, when you observe the first.

“Introducing to you first, on my right, fighting out of the red corner, wearing red mitts,” he begins. “A campaign record of 23 wins, 19 coming by way of knockout. Please welcome the hard-hitting, former lightweight champ of the second division, boxer Kang-Dae.”

Your eyes fall to his looming figure on the left, observing the way he jogs in place, a bright red robe draped over his muscular build as he wears a cocky smile on his face.

He sports a shaved head, cracking his neck with a jerky movement of his neck, his buff build flexing beneath the overhead lights. If you’d previously assumed Chan to assume the appearance of an arrogant athlete, Kang-Dae’s definitely broken that record now, made even more clear in the way he raises his fists to the audience and circles the ring as they cheer for him.

“And on my left,” the commentator begins, your head snapping to the other side of the ring.

“Fighting out of the blue corner, wearing blue mitts, completely undefeated in his division on a rampant winning-streak. A total of 40 wins, 26 coming by way of knockout, we welcome the electrifying king of boxing and rising star to fame, champion boxer Bang Chan.”

The lights are illuminated over Chan’s standing figure now, and your heart skips several beats when you witness his powerful stance in all its glory, for the first time in a professional setting.

Chan adjusts the velcro around his wrists, pulling it taut between his teeth, craning his neck out at the audience, before raising a single fist and shooting the spectators a nervous, closed-lip smile.

The crowd is much louder this time around, the entire arena erupting in a sea of applause and cheers, as he rolls his shoulders back now, his gaze finally falling onto Kang-Dae’s.

You reckon you could cut the tension with a knife when they make visual contact, their eyes darting over each other’s statures and mentally relaying words of self-righteousness at one another. Although Bang Chan is visibly nervous, he looks angry, the same way he does when he’s throwing punches in the practice ring. As they approach each other at the center, your gaze is drawn back to the referee, who holds a hand out in front of each of their figures, beginning to voice a list of rules.

“Touch ‘em up,” he tells them, as you watch them raise their mitts to make contact just once, before retreating to their respective corners.

The noise is drowned out momentarily amidst your own thoughts, eyes scanning nervously over Chan’s figure, as you watch Mr. Seo fit a mouth guard over his teeth. He talks loudly over the deafening cheers as he relays some form of instruction to him, giving his shoulders an affirming tap and gesturing to Kang-Dae.

Your own gaze falls to your camera crew, who meticulously adjust the lenses to not miss a second of Chan’s movements, and you chew the inside of your lip nervously as you wait for him to assume his position. On the overhead screen, you crane your neck up to catch a glimpse of their names in flashy text, illustrating ROUND 1 alongside a headshot you’ve never seen of Bang Chan.

And then before your gaze falls over his figure once more, the double chime of a boxing bell fills the room loudly, indicating start time for the two.

It happens faster than you were prepared for, when Kang-Dae lunges forward to deliver a harsh hook, just barely missing Bang Chan as they begin to circle around each other.

Both sides of the arena are equally deafening, fans practically rising from their seats to cheer for either member. Chan’s movements to dodge Kang-Dae are swift, yet sharp, as his blue mitts conceal his serious expression, his tongue rolling once over the harsh blue color of his mouth guard.

“Approaching the midway point of a cautious start to the first round,” a commentator states. “There’s a jab, from Bang Chan in the blue. Who just barely misses Kang-Dae’s dodge- folks, do you see that footwork?”

The screen overhead now displays a timer- 45 seconds left of round one, and you turn to your own cameras when you take note, observing the way Lin fidgets with the pan arm.

“He’s being careful,” Lin comments. “We should start seeing more action by round 3.”

Your lips part to say something, but you simply turn back to the ring again, eyes darting briefly over the screen.

20 seconds, 19, 18…

“It’s neutral,” another commentator states. No one’s attempting to put the other out just yet.”

14, 13, 12…

“Listen for that bell, gentleman,” the referee announces.

“A landing jab, from Bang Chan on the right! And time, right there.”

As both boxers return to their places, you can see Mr. Seo approach Chan, who assumes a spot on a little stool in his corner, exhaling sharply before he’s quickly surrounded.

“Perfect start,” Mr. Seo tells him, pulling the mouth guard out from between his teeth. “He’s gonna start making some hard moves at you. We’re looking for counters, right? Just be relaxed, and be light on your feet.”

Bang Chan nods, as somebody to the right of him brings forward a sports water bottle and gestures for him to take a swig. When he pulls away once more, they reach out to wipe a drop from the corner of his mouth. Another figure behind him runs what appears to be a bag of ice over the back of his neck, giving him a quick massage, before retracting.

Chan doesn’t say anything for the duration- he simply nods, seemingly regulating his breathing and focusing on Mr. Seo’s advice.

And when the break is called to an end, both parties meet at the middle of the ring again, as the referee ushers for them to start round 2.

The boxing bell is just as jarring the second time around, a double chime echoing loudly throughout the arena. And this time, Chan doesn’t waste a second lunging at Kang-Dae first, his fist making robust contact with his opponent’s stocky build, a loud thump revertebrating from the hit.

Kang-Dae seems to duck as he does, his fists coiling around Chan’s waist, as he holds him tightly in his grip and shoves him forward, earning the attention of the referee, who holds out two hands to stop them both.

“Stop, stop,” he calls out. “Not another until I say go,” he explains. And the two shoot furious looks at each other, before the referee announces “go!” once more. Kang-Dae dodges a series of quick punches from Chan, whose footwork remains light and skillful, as he circles the perimeter of the ring.

“Bang Chan utilizing lateral movement along the ropes,” a commentator says loudly. “Now, Kang-Dae is still excellent coming off the ring.”

Kang-Dae quickly coils his mitts around Bang Chan a second time, swiftly pushing him forward once more, and the referee is louder when he admonishes a second time.

“Back,” he tells Kang-Dae aggressively. “Can’t tie him in a hold.”

At a minute-thirty into the match, Chan delivers another punch, this time landing hard.

And with bated breath, you watch as Kang-Dae takes a harsh tumble to Chan’s left hook, quickly pulling himself off the floor again and retreating to his corner.

The audience erupts in roaring cheers as Chan adjusts the waistband of his shorts, rolling his tongue again over his mouth guard. The referee says something indistinguishable to Kang-Dae, who nods furiously in response, and then they meet in the middle of the ring again.

“After a slow start to round 1, Bang Chan drops Kang-Dae in round 2, marking only the second time to occur in his career,” the commentator announces. “We’re at 15 seconds left now.”

Both continue dodging a series of punches and circling each other, with neither delivering another jab as ceremonious as Chan’s for the remainder of round two. And then the referee calls time again, as the boxing bell chimes five times now, and they retreat to their corners once more.

While their respective teams make haste to tend to both athletes, the large screens overhead project highlights from round two in slow motion. You watch proudly as the recap shows Chan deliver a particularly harsh jab to Kang-Dae’s chest, lunging him backward until his footing is lost, his muscular thighs making contact with the floor of the ring. While he’s quick to get back up again, his expression is irate, and Chan does a perfect job of maintaining his stance when he attempts to hit back ten times harder.

“Focus,” Kang-Dae’s trainer tells him, as another member dabs at the beads of sweat that line his brow. “Don’t think about his campaigns. This is about you. Remember- he’s scared. Take advantage of it. Get up. Man up.”

Kang-Dae hardly produces an answer, simply grunting, as the mouth guard is pulled from between his teeth.

“He’s fast,” he says between labored breaths.

“Then be faster.”

On the opposing side of the ring, Mr. Seo pats Chan’s knee, pulling out his mouth guard and allowing him a swig of water.

“Atta boy,” he says to him. “Don’t overcommit. Perfect energy.”

Chan simply nods, rolling his shoulders back, as he’s massaged in the remaining seconds. And then they’re at the center of the ring once more, as the referee calls for round three.

*

Five rounds in, Bang Chan continues to take lead of the match, delivering a sharp uppercut to Kang-Dae’s jaw, which precedes another series of smaller punches.

The crowds seem to be much louder for Chan, his punches eliciting excited reactions from all over the arena as he throws hit after hit, and Kang-Dae’s expression appears defeated each time he retreats to his corner.

“Keep it coming,” Mr. Seo tells him. “Watch for those counters. Your hooks are perfect.”

He appears more breathless each time he hoists his body over the little stool, simply nodding in response to the praise around him. And right before the sixth match, he cranes his neck, as though he’s looking for somebody in the crowd of people. His eyes tremble as he scans over the east wing, and then the west wing, his staff members practically pivoting his body back in place to hydrate and clean him of sweat.

“Focus,” Mr. Seo says, forcing his gaze back upon him. Chan nods sheepishly- but Mr. Seo is well aware that Chan seems to be seeking you out amidst the crowd, a sort of desperation present within him like he’s never observed before.

He’s competent in this evening’s fight, but he also appears distracted, like there might be something more important to be found in your presence rather than the biggest fight of his life.

And ten rounds in, Mr. Seo’s theory proves correct when Chan’s performance begins to falter.

He fumbles a little in response to Kang-Dae’s swift attempts at a landing jab- and consequently, just enough to permit contact, failing to dodge when he produces a sharp uppercut to Chan’s left side.

It feels as though it’s another slow-motion replay when you watch it unfold, observing the way Chan’s whole body jerks to the left, his eyes squeezing shut and a stream of saliva escaping from between his parted lips. He successfully dodges another one at 10 seconds to the round’s conclusion, but he’s visibly rattled when they finally call for a break.

“Easy,” Mr. Seo instructs the staff who assist him onto the stool and pull his mouth guard away, strings of saliva finding purchase on his chin and then swiftly wiped off.

“What was that?” Mr. Seo questions. He’s stern, but still gentle in his speech, and Chan just shakes his head in response.

“Spit,” a staff member chimes in. Chan turns his head to expel a thick mix of saliva and bright crimson blood into a bucket, and then he holds it agape for a swig of water, swishing it over a deep cut on his inner lip before swallowing.

“Listen, you’re getting shaky out there,” Mr. Seo tells him. “What’s going on?”

“Where’s y/n?” Chan interjects, earning a deep sigh from Mr. Seo, who simply shrugs with his hands on his hips.

“Doesn’t matter,” he counters. “Don’t get distracted now. We’ve got three rounds left to win this thing.”

Chan’s shoulders seem to sag in disappointment, attempting to peer over his shoulder again for a glimpse of you, but Mr. Seo is quick to force Chan’s gaze back to him again.

“Listen to me,” he says sharply. “Get your head back on. You start getting distracted, and you’re practically handing him the belt. Focus.”

Chan hangs his head again, and then he nods understandingly, extending a hand to hoist himself back up.

“Two rounds,” Mr. Seo repeats. “Two more rounds, and you can take home the title. Knock him out.”

Chan nods again, as staff members tighten the velcro around his wrists once more, and then the timer reduces by the seconds, as he prepares to meet Kang-Dae in the center ring again.

When the boxing bell chimes twice for round eleven, Lin turns to you, arms folded at the elbows as she leans in to speak loudly above the chatter.

“Hey,” she says, and your head turns to meet her gaze.

She watches the match for a moment, admiring the sight of Chan dodging a hard jab, and then she resumes speaking.

“I know this series didn’t necessarily follow the footing you were expecting.”

You remain quiet, wanting for Lin to conclude her speech before producing any sort of response.

“But I wanted to say thank you. As of…” she glances at a wristwatch briefly, and then back to you, folding her arms again. “Fifteen minutes ago, we’re officially the most tuned-into channel for this fight. All because of your series.”

Your eyes widen when you meet her gaze properly, mouth parting in disbelief at her words.

“Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious. Numbers are in, too- he averaged 15.2 thousand fans per broadcast. That’s more than twice of what we pulled in the last series.”

A breathy chuckle escapes your lips at the fact- it’s no secret this series was predicted to be huge for the channel, but you were hardly expecting to outdo your last by more than double the viewership.

Both your gazes fall to the ring, distracted momentarily at the sight of Chan delivering another hard jab to Kang-Dae’s side.

“I wanted to propose an offer,” Lin continues.

Your heartbeat quickens when she begins to speak the next part- perhaps she’ll convey to you that she knows broadcasting the moments which weren’t meant to be aired was wrong- and subsequently, it’ll be an offer to pull it from the channel entirely. Maybe she’ll acknowledge that you haven’t cared for this genre of series in a long while now, and suggest a transition to another topic.

“… for you to direct the next few parts, this time about his post-win life.”

You pause from viewing the match when she speaks, turning slowly to face her again, your expression visibly dropping at the proposal.

“Next… few parts?”

“That’s right. Seeing as he’s definitely going to win this thing, it’ll be huge. I’m thinking we can pivot to some… sports reality show, about Bang Chan only.”

She wears an amused smile on her face, nudging you with her elbow, as your gaze remains fixed on the match.

Below you, you watch Chan skillfully dodge a series of hooks, stumbling back on his feet.

And then in one swift movement, Kang-Dae delivers a strong uppercut to Chan’s left side, striking him hard in his jaw. You can hardly make out Chan’s demeanor when his whole body contorts to the left, his mitts coming up in an attempt to hold his jaw. But you can make out the unsightly image of blood and saliva trickling down the side of his mouth, and the way his eyes squeeze shut in a pained manner.

When the bell chimes five times to call for an end to round eleven, you shuffle quickly past Lin to the stairs, beginning your way down to where Chan’s team prepares a bucket and a towel. You don’t have any sort of plan devised, knowing very well that you’re prohibited from congregating in the midst of a match, but you make your descent anyway, overtaken with sheer panic at the sight of his weak silhouette.

“Hold that thought!” You call out to her, assisting yourself down the banister with the swift brush of your hand.

“What- where on earth are you going?” She calls, being met with no response, as she watches you near the blue corner of the ring.

*

“Is he okay?” You call out to Mr. Seo, quickly shuffling past Chan’s team to where he’s hoisted over the stool. His body lies limply back on the surface, chest rising and falling with short, sharp breaths as they dab blood from the corners of his mouth with a white towel.

Several members grant you entry to make your way closer to him, until you’re standing just behind his slouched figure, your hands coming up to grasp the ropes as you raise your voice.

“Chan!” You call, and he seems to straighten his posture, finally pivoting around to meet your gaze. His lips pull into a hazy smile, exposing his blue mouth guard, which drips with thick, stringy saliva, mixed with the harsh contrast of bright crimson blood. A single hand comes around to pull it out of him, instructing him to spit into a bucket. It’s Mr. Seo’s hand, you quickly realize, as Chan complies and swishes a mouthful of water over his wounds.

His brow appears bruised, a gaping cut being cleaned by several pairs of hands, and his shoulders look weak, you notice, as they work to loosen them up in massaging motions.

There’s no time to position him back into place, so Mr. Seo simply lets the conversation unfold between you two, dabbing at Chan’s bloodied wounds and understanding that leading you away is only going to distract him even more.

“I still haven’t been fully honest with you,” Chan begins to say to you, between labored breaths. Blood continues to dribble out from out between his lips, wiped away as fast as possible while the timer counts down until his return to the match.

“What?” You question, confused at the direction of his speech. You shake your head, aware he may simply be concussed, as your eyebrows arch in concern. “Chan, are you okay?”

“About what scares me,” Chan continues. He chuckles as he speaks, sounding almost crazy, as the etches of his gums are outlined again by deep crimson, dribbling onto his chapped lips.

“Losing scares the shit out of me,” Chan says to you. “But not just losing a match,” he clarifies.

Your eyebrows furrow as you watch a hand come around to dab at the gash on his brow again, the fresh white towel turning a dark shade of red as his blood soaks right through it.

“I never told you that I loved you,” Chan finishes.

You halt speaking, and perhaps also breathing, as his lips pull into a satisfied smile. “And that losing you is what scares me the most now.”

His team members glance at you curiously as they work to get him cleaned up, some of them just having seen you for the first time. A few of them know you to be the “filmmaker”, a little perplexed at his admission of romance to you. But before you can respond, Mr. Seo is shoving a guard back into his mouth and gesturing to the ring.

“Let’s go,” Mr. Seo commands. “Last round and we can bring this thing home. Let’s finish this at round twelve.”

Although Chan remains weak, he rises from the stool, kicking it aside and rolling back his shoulders. His gaze doesn’t leave yours for a moment, shooting you a saccharine smile, before pivoting back toward the ring and tapping his mitts together.

“Let’s finish this at round twelve,” he repeats, eyeing Kang-Dae’s figure from across the room.

And you say nothing- somewhere between dazed and also in love, as you begin back toward your seat.

The boxing bell rings just twice to indicate the start to round twelve- or otherwise the start of what could be the very last round in this match.

“And so we begin round twelve of this historic confrontation, between undefeated champ Bang Chan and his opponent Kang-Dae,” an announcer echoes loudly over the arena. Chan coming in again with strong jabs, appeared to be fully re energized as he corners Kang-Dae in the ring again.”

Your view of him is much more intimate than it was prior to being stood here on the outskirts of the ring. You can now observe every minuscule bead of sweat that flies off either member when the other produces a hit, and the thumping echos of their jabs are much louder at this proximity.

“This is certainly an adjustment by Kang-Dae,” the announcer states. “He seems to be quicker on his footwork. Chan seems like he’s resuming with heavy punches like before, but he’s still stumbling a little bit.”

Your heart races at their words, taking note of the way he visibly falters when Kang-Dae delivers a punch to his chest.

At the sight of Chan pivoting to dodge an uppercut, you glance around at the spectators, observing the sea of people whose eyes all remain set on his stumbling figure. They gasp when he gets hit once more, and they seem to laugh when he regains his balance, his arms darting out to strike Kang-Dae’s torso.

They flaunt colorful face paint, parade signs with images of his smiling face and shout for him to “fight, win!” as though their discoordinate voices may somehow be the defining factor of tonight’s outcome. And upon closer inspection, they even twirl sherbet popsicles around in their grasp, devouring them with such desperation, as though they could ever begin to comprehend the sacredness of Bang Chan’s favorite dessert- something entirely out of his reach now, unattainable. Much like a life not tainted by the pressure to win is.

It’s only then that you realize the deep sense of discomfort the sight instills within you- it’s entirely unnerving to be entertained by his fear- and even his pain, like this. To consume the sacred intricacies of his life, to know him at such proximity and put him on a pedestal like some higher power. Only to rob him of all things sacred, televise his secrets and serve as a stepping-stone into a life he never wanted for himself. Whether it be the relativity of a spectator to his public image, or of a lover to his vulnerability, it feels wrong. You can make sense of why Chan hadn’t wanted to do this for a good amount of his life now- it feels entirely too voyeuristic.

“… The current unofficial score reads 10-9, still in favor of Bang Chan,” the announcer reads. “Who’s keen on uppercuts- but Kang-Dae certainly isn't far behind with his jabs.”

Chan dodges another harsh jab, producing a strong hit to Kang-Dae, who appears breathless as he regains his composure.

“Folks, this could be the night Bang Chan maintains his unbroken winning streak, putting him ahead of all boxers in the Golden Gloves Championships for the last 20 years.”

The audience erupts in another wave of cheers when Chan hits Kang-Dae again, and again, producing repeated, robust punches to his torso.

You shift your weight onto your toes to catch a better glimpse of him, admiring the way he clenches his jaw angrily, fists spread to shield his face.

And at just 30 seconds to the conclusion of round twelve, Kang-Dae strikes again, lunging forward to deliver a harsh uppercut to Chan’s lower right jaw.

At first he stumbles backward a little bit- and then he seems to loose his balance entirely, collapsing onto the ground beneath him, his mitts outspread to soften the landing.

Although the arena is louder than ever before, it seems to grow almost silent as you hold your breath.

You approach the ring a little closer, your eyes scanning over Chan’s lying figure, his eyes blinking in a dizzied state as the recess lights illuminate his glistening torso.

He’s bloodied, in several more areas now, a generous stream of crimson growing in a patch on the side of his right eye.

You call for him once, and a second time, and then a third time- to no avail.

Perhaps your screams only escape from between your lips as whispers, if at all- that, you can’t tell, as the sound of your own heartbeat drowns out the physical noise of the arena.

A comforting hand is felt on your back, quickly realized to be Lin, from out of your peripheral vision, who watches equally as paralyzed.

The referee makes his way to Bang Chan, beginning to count down aloud, as the audience scream from all sides of the room at him.

“Get up!” They say, making erratic motions with the wave of their hands.

“You can still win!” Another is heard shouting, their voice in a clear state of panic.

“10, 9, 8…”

And as Chan lies, his back parallel to the floor of the ring, he remembers the feeling of this beside you, your languid figures silently relishing in the presence of one another.

Even with eyes shut tightly, Chan swears he can still see pairs of eyes observing him carefully, analyzing his every move and holding him to the standards of a consistent winner. Angle your fist upward. Quicker on the footwork. Harder. Faster.

Atta boy. Be a man. Be a winner.

It’s only when his coach has gone home for the evening, when the other athletes file out of the training gym one by one, towels slung over their broad shoulders and duffel bags packed with spare gloves and changes of clothes. It’s when he’s the last shower of the night, letting scorching water roll off his toned body, steam fogging the mirrors until his own reflection is indistinguishable to him once more. And it’s when he’s concluded throwing practice punches in the now-empty ring, his muscular back parallel to the floor of the ring just like this, and his eyes fixed on the gray industrial ceilings and recess lights. It’s only then that he isn’t so easily defined by a winning streak.

In fact, his wins mean nothing in the absence of other athletes, who are also defined by the numerical realities of trophies gained and matches lost. The world feels much clearer to him like this, no longer clouded by the gym chatter and bruised knuckles that seek permanent shelter in his conscience. He’s just Bang Chan- not a winner, not even a boxer. Just Chan.

And though he allows it to consume him entirely, often replacing his curiosity for the world around him and a lingering loneliness with the insatiable appetite to fight, win, conquer- he knows deep down that it’s still not all of him. There remains a sort of fragility tucked somewhere beyond all this rigidness- there’s still a heavy humanness underneath these conjectures that he’s the ‘perfect boxer’.

What is a winning streak relative to an empty boxing ring? What is a spectator relative to a participant? What are concealed identities relative to a lifetime of falsifying new ones?

“6, 5 …” the referee continues.

From well beyond his position, he can hear something about the historic event of watching a boxer lose his winning streak for the first time in his career, amidst the crescendoing sounds of simultaneous cheering and booing alike.

Kang-Dae jogs in place, tapping his own mitts together as he awaits Chan’s next move, mentally pushing for the second hand on the timer to move faster than 2mm per second.

“4…”

Yet Chan remains there, parallel to the floor of the ring he was practically raised in, letting a gush of crimson now conceal his sight, as his head cocks to one side in defeat.

“3, 2, 1.”

The word “loser” is uttered somewhere in the announcement of his loss, as Kang-Dae’s fist is raised victoriously in the air by the referee, preceding the loud blow of a whistle and another uproar of cheers.

And although the word rings throughout his ears like he’d always feared it would, it doesn’t sound nearly as scary as he imagined it might.

In fact, you’d have thought he won the match, by the way his lips pull into a satisfied smile, as the weight of a lifetime is lifted off his shoulders at last.

*

EPILOGUE

Calloused hands adjust the lavalier microphone a little higher up onto the collar of Chan’s button-down shirt, his fingers easing through the process, as he’s already done this a dozen times now.

He raises his index finger up to his right brow, running it along the row of butterfly bandages still adhered to the gaping wound he boasts, and your hand darts out instinctively to stop him, lowering his wrist back onto his lap.

“I said don’t touch it,” you instruct him.

He seems to wear an amused smile for the millionth time today, as though maybe he’s doing it on purpose to elicit a reaction from you.

Chan observes as you scribble something onto a stack of papers, your head lowered in concentration to review a long list of questions.

And then you meet his gaze finally, mirroring his smile with one of your own, as you gesture to the camera.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” you say to him. “Just answer as honestly as you can.”

“Are we rolling?” Chan asks, and he’s swiftly met with a nod of your head.

“Yeah,” you say to him. “We’re rolling.”

His hands fold in his lap, the jingle of his silver bracelet making itself known as he fiddles nervously, and then you start with the first question.

“Chan,” you begin. “You recently lost your first boxing match ever.”

He nods, not appearing disappointed, but rather contented, as he crosses his legs at the ankles.

“Can you tell us how you’re feeling?”

His eyes scan the ceiling momentarily, chuckling softly, before he speaks again.

“Nobody wants to lose,” Chan admits. “When I started boxing fourteen years ago, all I wanted to do was win. And I won consistently- at some point, losing ceased to even feel like a possibility. I hadn’t considered it very seriously.”

You nod as he speaks, and then Chan swallows nervously, before continuing.

“And then I began to think about losing,” he says. “And I couldn’t stop. The thoughts consumed me, to constantly imagine putting myself in the shoes of somebody who had to walk away from something so… unvictoriously.”

He sighs, and then he shrugs his shoulders just once.

“And now I’m a loser,” he finishes. “And I realize that there’s a lot more to boxing than just winning or losing. In fact, there’s more to the word than simply being a person who didn’t come out of it unvictorious.”

“What do you mean by that?” You say to him.

“Well,” he begins. “Prior to this event, I was fully set on forfeiting the whole thing. It’s something I had wanted to do for a long time- something I felt was right, in the midst of my aversion to this… vulnerable version of myself, that I kept tucked away from the public for my whole life.”

His expression grows serious now, brows furrowed as best as he can manipulate them, in deep concentration.

“And I realized that walking away from something you’ve always wanted, in response to a fear of your vulnerability- that’s unvictorious. I was scared for people to see me as any less than a strong, consistent winner. But that’s not realistic.”

You nod as Chan speaks, shooting him a proud smile- he’s allowing himself to be vulnerable on camera for the first time since you’ve met him. And though his voice shakes a little as he speaks, he conveys his truths so elegantly, the same way he did when you first interviewed him. He upholds this new image of him with such dexterity, careful not to accidentally portray a version of himself which might somehow contradict all that he’s learned. Yet it’s easier than he assumed it would be, he quickly realizes, when he finishes with a small nod of his head.

“I might be a loser in the sense of a boxing match,” he explains. “But relative to everything else I’ve gained along the way, I feel pretty victorious.”

You glance down at your papers, brushing your fingers over the next set of printed questions, and then you disregard them entirely when you meet his gaze again, producing your own now.

“You’re stepping down from being a boxer for the first time in your life,” you say to him. “Are you scared?”

Chan thinks it over momentarily, and then he shakes his head.

“I used to get punched by people for a living. There used to be so little that actually scared me.”

Your lips pull into a smile, recalling this conversation from long before his championship match.

“That being said-” he continues. “I’m terrified. But I guess that’s just a part of being honest with yourself. I’m just going to do it afraid.”

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, your eyes not leaving his as he observes the way you smile back at him. He’s just as charming as the day you met him- but he’s also real, and fascinating from this distance, made more perfect by extension of all his very human traits. His fears, reservations, embarrassments, frustrations- they’re all a part of who he is- not some “perfect boxer”, or a “born winner”, but simply Bang Chan- an imperfect boxer with one hell of a story to tell.

“Chan- what’s next for you?” You ask Chan, cocking your head slightly as you speak.

A breathy chuckle escapes his lips, his eyebrows raised curiously as he ponders the question.

“I’ll return to boxing someday,” he confesses. “It’s been an honorable 14 years here. I’m just going to find what else makes me tick. Maybe… pick up a thing or two about journalism?”

You laugh lightly when he does, shaking your head in response.

Of course he jests on the topic of journalism, knowing very well that you too, are set to take a break from this line of work following the air of the final interview.

With Chan losing the fight, Lin had begged you to rope him into another series, knowing that the general public had not faulted Chan for his broken winning streak. In fact, they had taken a larger liking to him than ever before, publishing raving reviews about his persistence to compete, despite his fears. And though you’d been offered a hefty pay to film another voyeuristic series into some new athlete’s life- a fencer, so you’ve heard, the offer was politely declined, as you opt to follow Chan on to the next chapter.

“Only if you teach me a thing or two about boxing,” you say to him, and he holds out a hand to shake on it.

“Deal.”

“That’s a wrap,” you tell Chan, as you press the shutter release one last time, detaching your camera from its tripod and stowing it away into its leather casing.

“Last time, huh?” A voice says from behind you.

You pivot on your heel to meet the gaze of Mr. Seo, who shoots you a kind smile as he makes his entrance, giving Chan a friendly pat on the back.

“Hey!” Chan exclaims, turning around to deliver a warm hug to him, instead.

“I was just leaving for the evening,” Mr. Seo tells you both, his hands on his hips. He then raises his eyebrows knowingly, glancing around at the gym, before gesturing to the wall with a cock of his head.

“Come on,” he says. “I wanna show you one last thing.”

You both exchange confused looks, and then oblige to follow him down the hallway into the ring, where he halts just in front of the gallery wall.

You crane your necks up to the portraits- all the familiar faces remain in their respective positions, except for the addition of one new photograph, concealed by a white sheet.

Before Chan can inquire about the recent addition, Mr. Seo pulls it off ceremoniously, letting the white fabric drape onto the floor of the gym to unveil a brand new photo.

This one’s in color, for the first time, the stark contrast of the bright blue mitts against his tanned skin drawing the attention of all your eyes. It’s a still shot of Bang Chan, his fists extended into a mean uppercut, eyebrows narrowed into a stern expression as he strikes at his opponent. You recognize it to be from the night of Chan’s title fight, and although he hadn’t taken home the title that evening, the photograph is no indication of any form of loss. In fact, he’s entirely indistinguishable from the rest of the winners housed on the wall- including Baik Hyun-Man, who now lives just to the left of him.

“You’re kidding,” Chan exclaims through tearful laughter. Mr. Seo just smiles, shrugging casually in response.

“All the greats are meant to live here,” he tells Chan. “Especially the winners.”

Before Mr. Seo makes his departure, the same black duffel bag hoisted over his shoulder, he stops in his tracks, turning to Chan with a sense of urgency in his voice.

“I almost forgot,” Mr. Seo exclaims. “Popsicles!”

“What?” Chan questions with a small chuckle.

“I found them finally, in the convenience store on the south side! I left them on the table for you toward the gallery wall, though. You’d better eat them before they melt.”

And then he’s off at last, the setting sun outlining his departing figure beyond the glass gym doors.

Chan does as he’s told, retrieving what are indeed his favorite sherbet popsicles from the table by the gallery wall, and providing you with one this time.

“You’re gonna love these,” he says to you, undoing the wrapper of both your popsicles and discarding them both on the gym floor.

“You’re making a mess!” You exclaim, as Chan shoves one into your grasp, instructing you to devour it entirely.

You bring the bright orange dessert up to your lips, taking a small lick, and Chan eagerly awaits your reaction.

“Well?” He questions, beginning on his own in the process.

“That’s phenomenal,” you say to him with a chuckle, taking another lick, and then another, and several more, the dessert quickly melting in your grasp and finding purchase along your forearms.

Chan laughs, too, bringing his lips down to your arm to trace his tongue along the trail of sticky sherbet and leaving a trail of tender kisses as he cleans you up. And then he kisses you just once when he’s finished, a sweet mixture of sherbet present on both your tongues as you bite back a smile.

When he pulls away to resume working on his popsicle, he cranes his neck up at the gallery wall once more, cocking his head to examine the rows of portraits.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, the way he always does, and you chuckle lightly in response.

“No need to interview the interviewer,” you say instinctively. And then you hum softly as you crane your neck, too, remembering you’re no longer an interviewer relative to Bang Chan, but rather comfortably in love with him, as you move onto the next chapter alongside each other.

“I’m thinking about all these boxers,” you opt to say instead. “Like, where do you think Hyun-Man is now?”

Chan hums in response, shrugging at your question. It’s a strange thought when he remembers how future spectators will be pondering his whereabouts someday, as they hold their respective gazes on this very wall.

“I don’t think he’d want us to know,” Chan confesses. “I think he purposely left us only with tales of guts and glory to remember him by.”

He tilts his head the other direction now, working his tongue along the base of his popsicle, before speaking again.

“Through tales of mine, of guts and glory,” Chan voices deeply, mimicking the renowned boxer’s famous last speech. And then his words are pacified by his popsicle, as he relishes in the flavor of something finally sacred to him once more.

But neither of you need to utter another word to conclude his sentence, mentally finishing it on your own.

“… we find our footing in the knowledge that we tried.”

[shaisuki]

Could I request Kaiser with reader. The two of them are partners for a project when he offers her a brownie he made, (one that he drugged), she was hesitant but took it, once she felt a little intoxicated, he took advantage of her, despite her trying to push him off, her state made her weaker and unable to push him off as he did what he wanted with her. At the end, he blackmailed her with the recording he took of him taking advantage of her

contested cravings

PAIRING. MICHAEL KAISER X CHUBBY READER

CONTENT WARNINGS. noncon + drugging, nonconsensual recording + groping and touching + kissing + blackmail + sabotage + penetrative sex + manipulation + cunnilingus.

SYNOPSIS. michael's is the bad news with his good looks and talent and the reason why you avoided him.

class projects aren't bad not until you're paired with michael kaiser. the school's star athlete and the resident asshole if you must add. have a bad habit of belittling others that pisses most of the whole student body and only hangs out with alexis ness. whom may have developed an unhealthy obsession with the school's golden boy. following him like a lost pup and would skedaddle if kaiser shooed him off.

you found the dynamic between them unsettling and how could ness accepted being treated like that. you guess is just how they express their feeling or to make the other feel good about themselves and you kind of really don't care, not when michael is your partner. his blonde hair is streaked with baby blue highlights on the tips and that haircut that suits him.

you instantly averted your gaze when you see him walking towards you and pretends that you didn't notice him. feigning interest in a book that you have read over and over.

“at my place?” he asks, smoothing his blonde locks. “s-sure.” you answered him. a little worriedly than you have liked and it looks like you were hesitant and regretting your action towards him.

michael paid it no mind. people acted around him like he was a real total assholes and he is and you were no different from the reactions people have shown him. he just gave you a smile and left you to your own devices.

of course, he have a room for himself. he's the school's star athlete and it comes with privilege including personal spaces. you texted him earlier and there he is. opening his door for you to come in. you gave him a curt greeting. “can we start now?” you asked him. the sooner this project is done the better. you really don't want to be alone with michael. “does my presence annoys you that much?” he smirks, eyeing you in such lazy manner that your eyes widen at what he was saying. kaiser chuckles at your reaction. “just kidding. don't want to waste more than time. make yourself comfortable then.” pointing at his work table. the books and papers and pens are neatly arranged. you didn't took him to be the studious type regarding how he acts in the general but you have judged him too early and mentally slapped yourself for thinking that way and you were still suspicious that he is too polite to you.

“what?” pursing your lips in thin line. you shaked your head. “nothing, michael.” he ignores you and sat beside you. already grabbing the needed materials and you both began in silence.

working with michael isn't so bad. he wasn't his usual asshole self who picks fight at school and insults someone for how they look and their skill. michael's behavior placed you in a dangerous situation with him and interactions with him meant to break what little self-confidence you have. opposite he was. he was so good at following up instructions and have studied in advance. it looks like it was better that you should both have split the workload.

“oh i forgot, i would be a bad host if i didn't you offer you some food. i've gotten brownies in that newly opened bakery.” he said, taking off his round glasses he was wearing while you both worked. michael screams like he comes from old money from how he acts and it was totally out of character for him to offer you some refreshments.

he placed a tray of food in the table. consisting of various sweet treats and some drinks. “pick what you want, sweets.” the nickname made you cringed cause michael is really acting nice to you. something's very off at this whole situation. looking at the assortment of sweets in the tray. you hesitated but the look michael is giving you told you otherwise. so you grabbed one and took a bite. “good choice.” he praises you before grabbing a treat for himself.

the brownie's good. the chocolatey goodness melting in your mouth, bursting with flavor. you hum in delight to show your appreciation for the good food and michael nods. smiling a bit and slowly chews. you just only ate one. afraid that he'll comment something and you would rather die than have him say something. it took awhile before you both decided to pick up what's left of the work.

strangely, you have never been feeling so lightheaded before followed by a strange pounding on your head. you grasp the pencil you were holding and it only rolls away from you. you try grabbing it again and it feels like you were holding air. “is something wrong, (y/n)?” you follow the sound of the direction of the voice. why was kaiser is blurry to your vision. did h-he? you were unable to finish your muddled thoughts and even in such state you feel his lips to yours.

your lips is what he imagined to be. soft and plump with the right touch of sweetness. thanks to the brownies. heh. it wasn't really he brought. he put an effort to it just to have what's in front of him. the drug that ness brought him did work just like how he wanted it. you were still conscious and a bit aware of everything but is unable to do anything but he is quite surprised that you were still able to move a bit even it was just an attempt to push him off.

“i can't have you pushing me. i really worked for this.” is what you heard before you are being pushed slowly in his bed.

when you laid there in his bed. michael admires you like he was a painter of his greatest masterpiece. looking like some baroque period painting coming to life while your body's is temporarily incapacitated. his efforts have bore results and he's about to sow.

he begins to strip you. quite annoyed from the layers of clothing you wore. he knows it was fully intentional. not wanting to be called a slut nor a prude by him. he knows his harsh and he likes people when they cry and you were no exception of it. he could have bullied you. break you and pull you apart until you were left nothing but michael withstood all the desires of it cause he wanted you like this. helpless and needing of him.

his palms slowly glides through the expanse of skin. you were the definition of what he deemed perfection in his eyes. your perfectly fit in his and he was about to mold you from his very own hands. he can see the tears pricking in your eyes. glistening as you helplessly watch him defile you.

kaiser never liked giving and receiving. he only takes but what's between your legs leaves him hungry for it. the plushness of your fat pussy drooling with slick is enough to drive him crazy so he did what he did. giving your fat pussy a lick and he was hooked immediately. he continued to devour your pussy until he was satisfied besides his cock is really needing some relief and it was painful. he just found the right place to stick it on.

it was only the tiniest of moans and gasps coming from you but he sure enjoyed it. a symphony being composed and is a music to his hears he won't get tired of listening to. he grabbed and bite whatever his hands and mouth can get to. you were so fucking supple and divine. fitting for an emperor like him. the way your body jiggles and ripples with his very thrusts leaving him grunting and growling for more. your fat pussy is deliciously wrapped around his fat cock that it leaves a drooling mess to your cunt. he already has cummed many times and it squelches with every thrust along with your pussy. his cum being deposited inside of you.

michael glances at the clock. the night is still young and he was going savor all of it until the morning comes. he continues to assault your abused cunt. smiling to himself at the direction of where his phone is currently placed. he needs to commemorate this special occasion.

you were sore. your body screaming in pain while you grab the pieces of your clothing besides you. the tears uncontrollably running down your cheeks while you scramble to get your things and leave this hell hole that was michael's room. “why are you crying?” he asks, sipping a cup of coffee. dressed in his robe and his reading glasses resting in the tip of his nose. “fuck you, michael.” you seethed at the blonde. michael chuckles. “strong words coming from you.” he added.

you were about to grab the last belonging of yours before he interrupts you. “i believe you have a favor to ask me.” your eyes widens. he shows you a video of him repeatedly fucking you. putting you in different positions. “don't you dare, michael.” you warned him. “you fucking raped me, you son of a bitch.” michael didn't really like the tone of your voice and it just triggered something to him. he stands up and made his way to you. grasping your soft jaw in a tight manner. he forces a smile. “oh, i really am.” he taunts you. his blue eyes is filled with storm inside them. “defy me and you're getting this video leaked.”

“what the fuck you want?”

“watch your tone.” he warns before smiling.

“be mine and i'll let this thing disappear like it didn't happen.”

“fuck no.”

“oh really, such a shame. you were enjoying it. see?” he really made it look like you were having the best night of your life. he wipes the tears on your round cheeks.

“good.” he whispers. seeing the look in your face and it left him triumphant.

“don't leave. we really ain't done. i am still starting to enjoy it.”

[eds6ngel]

why can i see either nancy or eddie being in absolute HEAVEN with a nara smith coded reader and them falling in love with their cooking and sweet domestic mannerisms during their relationship 🎀 can you please perhaps do a blurb on that with whoever you choose?

had to whip this up asap! i chose eddie as my brain conjured up some background quicker ♡ also i’m not the best baker/cook, so sorry for any inaccuracies !!

warnings: fem!reader (reader referred to as ‘momma’.) teen pregnancy mention. abortion mention. r is a stay-at-home mom. established relationship. kissing. swearing. food mentions. rockstar!eddie. eddie book context but i changed said context. just lots of fluff!! [0.6k].

Yours and Eddie’s lives hadn’t always been easy.

When you found out you were pregnant at 16-years-old, you were locked and loaded in to have an abortion. Your parents immediately agreed to the decision, wanting you to continue your education and graduate with your high school diploma.

However, after crying your eyes out the night before the scheduled appointment, you just couldn’t do it. And after nine long months of pregnancy, you gave birth to your baby girl Joni, named after Eddie’s mom’s favourite singer.

You moved in with Eddie and Wayne at the time, realising it was easier to take care of a baby in a smaller, more secluded home, rather than a family home full of your bustling, younger siblings.

But, luck managed to strike the two of you when a girl named Paige offered Corroded Coffin a record deal. Your boyfriend made it big.

Big enough that you bought your own home in the center of Indianapolis.

When Eddie wasn’t touring with the band, he would take over from you, looking after Joni whilst you got to doing your favourite activity: baking.

Eddie relished in the fact that he got to see you dancing around the kitchen in your pretty, little apron, decorated with strawberries and calligraphy writing that spelled ��Kiss the Cook.’

He would always sneak up behind you when you were baking, making you shriek and pressing a firm kiss to your lips, teasing “Just following your apron, sweetheart,” with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“What-cha makin’?” he would always ask with his arms wrapped around your waist, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder.

And your answer could be anywhere from chocolate chip cookies to a new homemade stew, but, in typical baker fashion, you were always making bread.

“I attempted a new sourdough starter whilst you were off in Europe, and it seems to have worked this time! So, I’m attempting to make some sourdough bread for you.”

“Mmm,” he hums contently, “Sounds delicious.”

“I hope it is,” you replied, “I bought a store-bought one for Joni, but she literally turned her nose up at it. She’s got your fussiness, Munson.”

“I think fussiness is an understatement. She’s getting the rockstar attitude instead of me,” he chuckles.

“But, hey, at least we’re both fans of chocolate. Can always put that on our bread, can’t we, babe?” he yells to his daughter, who simply replies with ‘Dada.’ She’s not quite there with her words yet, but at least she knows who you both are, which is a good start.

“Well, the two of you might just be in luck. Take a look outside.”

Eddie reluctantly lets go of you and steps out into your shared garden to find a new tree had been planted.

“Babe, what is this?”

You cheese at him, “A cacao plant! I’m harvesting cacao beans so I can make authentic chocolate for you!”

Eddie literally moans in delight, running up to you and smacking a kiss onto your cherry-flavoured lips.

“You’re perfect. I love you. I can’t wait. I have to tell Joni.”

His energetic self bounces off to his child, literally singing “Baby, baby! Momma is the best!”

You love your little family so much. You can’t wait to marry Eddie one day so you can have more of his beautiful children. Children which he treated as his own personal best friends. But, maybe that’s what family was all about. Maybe it was creating and loving your own best friends on the deepest level possible.

taglist: @cosmorant @ye0nvibezzn @tlclick73 @superlegend216 @agxxb

eddie masterlist.

[nyracel]

someone sent me an anon ask about the anti rhaenyra agenda most rhaenicent shippers have and like a dumbass i accidently deleted it so i'm just going to try my best to re-answer it here (yes i wrote a whole spiel about it and now it's gone forever and i'm upset.)

from what i can tell there are only two reasons as to why people can't stand rhaenyra but love rhaenicent; and it's because they either have some heavy internalized misogyny OR that's the only way to continue and keep their uwu sad lesbian alicent headcanons semi-tethered in reality. alicent is a character that has next to no positive interactions with other characters, least of all any women. she has a 'good' (and i say that lightly) relationship with rhaenyra for 2 episodes in hotd, and then they are adversaries for the rest of the show. the only other women we see her interact with are helaena and her lady in waiting talya ( who regularly spied on her for mysaria) and minus talya, those are the same female relationships she has in f&b. she doesn't really have a good track record with anyone.

in the book she terrorized rhaenyra from aegon's birth up until rhaenyra's death. rather than teaching her son to rule and raising him to be an upstanding prince of the realm she instead spent her time calling rhaenyra, a literal child, a slut, she accepted criston into her service as her own personal protector in spite of his predatory behavior towards rhaenyra (which she acknowledges), and continuously tries to have rhaenyra and her sons disinherited and killed due to her own spreading of the bastard rumors. not to mention that she was eighteen when she married viserys to rhaenyra's nine. there's really nothing romantic about it. in the show almost everything is still the same except for her being the one to arrange helaena's marriage to her known degenerate and rapist son (in f&b viserys is the one who had them marry) and most likely told her the same rhetoric of rhaenyra killing them to secure her claim that she told her sons from when they were babies up until the coup. with rhaenyra she still antagonizes her because she (lemme check again, told alicent she didn't sleep with daemon and got otto fired because he was working against the crown to install his grandson as heir over her). don't even get me started on the villainization of rhaenyra in order to uphold alicent's constant victimization storyline. alicent is the one who abused rhaenyra, not the other way around, and the age changes in the show (which are so stupid omg) only serve to make alicent more sympathetic and rhaenyra an apparent privileged brat who doesn't understand what it's like to suffer because of the men in her life and therefore deserves her fate (i can literally see the entire galaxy with how far back my eyes are rolled rn.)

if the show wanted to include or focus on two women who were torn apart by the patriarchy and the men around them, helaena's blank character was right there for the taking (and would've been even juicier with the sister vs sister, queen consort vs queen regnant debacle.) she has no personality in the book or any relevance besides losing her children in violent ways and going mad, they definitely could have made her a more present character on screen in a manner that adds an actual emotional connection to her but alas, rhaenicent is top priority. furthering that, if the show wanted to include queer representation with their leading lady, laena had more hints in the text for that type of relationship than anything the show has given us for the rhaenyra/alicent dynamic, even with how hard they're trying to force it down our throats.

the entire relationship has made the story go completely off kilter because the show won't just let it be, and it's affected almost all of their other relationships. they're not going to convince me that rhaenyra cares about alicent more than her own children or even vice versa (though in an entirely different manner) and that reconciliation is possible in spite of aemond murdering luke. it makes both the characters and the writers look like delusional idiots. there's absolutely no reason for these types of glaring mistakes in a series where characterization and the relationships that revolve from them are the reason it's so popular amongst the masses. this lack of proper relationship building has caused hotd to feel a lot more shallow and lackluster than what you'd expect with how massive it's budget was when they created it, the amount of talented actors they casted, and the literal blueprint laid out of what not to do that got season eight is. someone should have taken accountability for these dumb decisions and realized how quickly they're streamlining straight towards what ruined game of thrones in the first place.

[dilxcc]

chapter two

summary. in which two friends who desperately clings to each other until the other slips away . . .

contains. fem!reader, friends to lovers, angst, fluff, slowburn, cussing, grammatical errors . . .

note. sorry that it took me so long to write this!! one, i had my final exam so i was studying real hard. two, i totally forgot abt this!! 😭

previous chapter

20 august 2006

gojo held back his laughters as he and geto crept up behind you. geto put a finger over his lips, a warning that gojo was slowly getting louder. the white haired male clasps a hand over his mouth, his eyes slowly shifting to you, who was reading a book with earphones plugged to your ears.

without waiting any further, gojo and geto surprises you with their hands on your back. "what the-" you yelled and stumbled forward before looking behind you. you take off your earphones aggressively and glared at them. "i've been waiting for an hour for you guys to show up and this is what you greet me with?!"

the two of them were laughing non-stop, both of them slapping each other's back in amusement. "that was- that was so funny! you should've seen the look on your face!" the white haired male laughed.

you heaved out an annoyed sigh and rolled your eyes at them. "anyway, where's shoko?" you asked, crossing your arms as you stared at the two of them. "she's waiting at the cafe," geto answered, wiping the tears at the corner of his eyes due to the previous laughters.

.

22 august 2006

you watched the stars twinkling in the sky, accompanying the moon. gojo stayed laid down beside you, his hands resting behind his head. "it's gotten quite warm lately," the male stated, his head turned slightly to see the beautiful structure of your face. you hummed in response. "have you been drinking enough water?" you asked softly.

he hummed. "have you?"

"i have," you muttered. "that's good," he said softly, his eyes still lingering on you. "the moon, it's beutiful," you said softly, your eyes still gazing the moon.

"yeah," he answered softly, his eyes not moving from your face. "it is beautiful,"

.

xx xxx 2006

he ran as fast as he can, his heart pounding hard in his chest to the point that he could hear it in his ears. "you idiot..!" gojo muttered, his eyes getting misty from tears.

"where is she?! where's y/n?!" he asked frantically. his eyes were trained on shoko. "calm down, satoru! she's still inside!" the female said, her voice slightly raised to scold the man. "if you can't calm down to think rationally, then you can't save her!" shoko continued.

gojo ran a hand through his hair frustratingly. "tell me where she is," he said quietly, his voice slightly calmed. "we don't know her exact location. suguru is inside too," she added. his eyes widened.

"we should trust them, satoru," shoko said in a comforting manner.

.

xx xxx 2006

his hands stayed in his pockets as he stared at your unconscious figure. "you've always been so stupid," he scoffed, taking a seat by the window. "you made me stupid too..." he whispered, his voice barely above whisper. "i don't know why i couldn't have just warped to you. instead, my heart was telling me to run towards you," he lets out a pained chuckle.

"will you please wake up?" he said softly, his voice almost sounded as if he was begging. he lets out a sigh and rubbed his hand over his face. "im sorry..." he muttered under his breath.

.

xx xxx xx

"what took you so long?" gojo asked, looking at you with a straight face. you smiled slightly before chuckling a little. "where's suguru?" you asked him softly, your voice slightly croaked due to not talking for a long time.

he flinched at that question. "he... betrayed the jujutsu high. he's not here anymore," he said under his breath.

.

xx xxx 2017

he sprawled in his bed, eyes still wide open from his previous dream. it was a dream of you. satoru sighed and sat up, his legs folded whiled he rewind the dream in his head like a broken record. it was still clear. he couldn't forget about it even if he wants to. how could he? when you were the source of that very dream.

he can't help it.

he put his hand on his chest where his heart is, feeling every beat of it. how fast it was beating because of you. he almost thought that the dream was real. hell, he wished it was real.

he could still feel the way your hand caressed his cheek. then he snapped himself out of his daydreaming. how could he? how could he be daydreaming about you when he had just lost suguru? what kind of friend would he be for being happy when his best friend had just passed away.

he looked over at the bedside table where his phone were ringing multiple times. seeing the caller's id, he decided to ignore it. it was for the best. he was punishing himself.

taglist @instantmusico @wooasecret

masterlist

[fudgelling-away]

You are my favourite sans person, so i wanna ask you, what do you think his singing voice would sound like??? I don't know if it would be similar to his speech which I imagine is like a deeper baritone sort of thing, OR, he's one of those dudes who sounds drastically different depending on what he's doing.

he's sexy either way though🤫🤫

I've been thinking about this ask for the past several days 😳

That is such a sweet thing to say!!! Thank you for telling me this, I appreciate you reaching out so much!

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

To answer your question, I think Sans would be very skilled in modulating his voice.

I imagine him being an expert in communication - that means not only having an uncanny ability to read your face like an open book, but also being able to masterfully control his own expression and the message that his voice and his body language send.

(note: this has nothing to do with controlling emotions, that's a whole another topic)

That's also why his ability to lie is straight up scary. This man could sell you the most otherwordly ideas in a believable way and you would never know.

Sans is scary. The power he wields IS scary, and I do not mean piercing bones. He's one scary little cookie and I love him so much-

Also, isn't it amazing that he never uses those talents to abuse others? We as the Players commit atrocities and treat the in-game world like our playground. There are also all these other characters who misuse their strength and influence in a destructive, careless way. And on the other side there is Sans. Intelligent, powerful, both in battle and in soft skills.

He is so- ah, you know what I mean?! He could, but he doesn't! He's got all the abilities necessary to become the scariest predator ever seen, and he chooses not to.

But I digress.

HAVING SAID ALL THAT, I think he would be a very good singer in his natural vocal range.

As I have mentioned before, he can read you very well. That means he recognizes each tiny change in your voice. In the game we can also see the way his text speech changes, many times, in different ways. It, of course, is not THAT important - we are discussing headcanons anyway ♡ But I really like that about him, too.

I don't see anything stopping him from using all that knowledge and talent to sing well (if he wanted to).

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

I'd love to share with you who is my voice for Sans, but I can't. He actually is a singer. I have never seen him linked to Sans in any way whatsoever, so I really don't want to put his name out there.

But that's such a good voice... Oh man...

It's deep, of course, but with a totally unique timbre. I have never heard any voice similar to it, and it's so... It's so pleasant to my ears! It's smooth, and ahhh I can't explain it. It has got that special something... Those undertones that feel and taste like SANS. That relaxed, though positive and attentive manner of speech. Ah. I am obsessed with it.

And I have found it by a total accident. Several months ago I was driving, minding my own business, there was radio playing in the background, and at one point they started to play an old song from the 1980s.

30 seconds in and I'm like, oh shit. No.

1 minute in and I am starting to sweat.

No.

no

no no no-

YEEEEEESSS!

[IMAGINE: A STREAM OF HAPPY EXPLETIVES]

That was an epiphany.

The feeling was euphoric.

SANS

sans sans

ASDDASDASFSSASA

I have no memory of the rest of the drive, but THAT VOICE.

I came back home. I looked up the radio station on the internet. I checked what they played an hour earlier.

And I found out who it actually was.

Immediately I went searching for some recorded interviews and yesss, there they were, perfectly available on youtube...

I spend a couple of hours every week listening to those interviews while I am working or drawing. That voice is ingrained in my brain now. That's my Sans' voice.

I am so sorry I can't show it to you.

--------------------------- Let me know what YOU think! ♡

I love to read different headcanons and ideas.

[gayassbish]

Genshin Guys as Your New Bestie. Highschool AU

Genre: Platonic of course and very much so crack

Reader: Gender Neutral | References to “girly pop” in Childe and Kaeya’s Part

Characters: Diluc, Zhongli, Childe and Kaeya, Alhaitham, Bennet, Xinqiu and Chongyun, Xiao

Diluc-

The kid who raises his hand and asks a bunch of questions, but still manages to not come of nerdy, but intelligent. He doesn’t talk to anyone in class and some other kids in class thinks he’s arrogant cause of it. Like “he’s too smart for us vibes.” You, on the other hand, know better than to trust the rumors and actually get to know his ass. That is lie, I can’t imagine anyone walking up to his emo self unless you’re the most extroverted person on the planet. He also definitely plays chess online in his chromebook 24/7.

Butttt you do end up sitting next to him as your seating arrangements change every semester or so. You say hi like a normal person and he sorta just grunts?? Terrible first impression, but you realize he’s very kind. Always picking up your fallen pencils, sharing homework answers with out you asking, and you end up getting a long pretty well once you find your stuff in common.

P.S. He’d 100% drive you around everywhere

Zhongli-

A popular dude cause he’s handsome ig and the fucking valedictorian. Plus he manages to know everything without coming off like a know it all, so he is generally well received by everyone and helps basically everyone out. Has a 10000 IQ and a calculator for a brain too. Probably wears granny glasses.

So… you’re at your part time job and notice him coming in. You immediately hide cause you don’t know him like that (yet) and don’t want to be remembered as “oh they’re the person who works there.” One of your coworkers helps him out instead while you secretly spy and realize he’s not as smart as he looks?? He is very much so only book smart and has no street cred what so ever. He looks so lost as to why he can’t take whatever y’all sell now and pay latter. He honestly gives your coworker a hard time. (rip coworker </3) You eventually help out and he recognizes you!! You learn he has an excellent memory and actually knows your name. And viola now your the person who he can go to for financial means. Have fun!

P.S You drive him everywhere…

Childe & Kaeya-

They’re those loud kids in the back who don’t shut up. I want to say they’re pant saggers but I know I would get canceled. (They so are though.) Anywho, you end up being forced to sit next to them and they like start flirting of sum shit idk?

But you’re girly pop and you don’t take that crap. After you put them in their place and educate them on how they shouldn’t talk to anyone that way like some cat calling NPC, they start to really respect you?? Well to be fair you don’t know if they’re scared of you or are just putting on an act.

Y’all get closer as you stop a lot of fights that happen between them and do your best to quiet them down in class.

And they kinda just drag you to places. Once you lost a bet and were forced to go shopping with them. (If you didn’t show up, they threatened to upload a photo of you sleeping in class onto their social media.) At the mall… Childe started to pick fights with the security guard (he claims it’s the other way around but we both know it was him) and Kaeya DOES NOTHING?? He just records the whole thing while giggling like an idiot. Y’all get banned from the mall. They do nothing but apologize on the way to your house (they picked and dropped you off.) It didn’t work cause you didn’t talk to them for a month after that.

P.S. Kaeya actually has really good fashion taste and was the one the blackmail you because he wanted to Project MakeOver you??

Alhaitham-

He’s an obnoxious, self-centered asshole to everyone and you do your best to avoid him until you’re stuck together for a group project.

Even though you know to the rumors about him, you still introduce yourself like a person with manners would… BUT he cuts you off. Immediately orders that he will do the project by himself entirely. And while you would usually take that deal (cause who wouldn’t, let’s be honest) you CANNOT stand the disrespect from this MAN. You guys start arguing until the teacher has to break it up between y’all and fucking Alhaitham is just like “I’ve never been so embarrassed infront of a teacher,” as if he didn’t start the fight. smh

Anyways, it’s really rough between you guys and it’s now presentation day. After you guys present, Alhaitham turns out rather pleased with your part, and though he would NEVER admit it to you (or even himself) you actually did better on your part than he would’ve if he went solo. At the end of class, he apologizes for being so cold at first. He explains how he hasn’t had the best group partners and almost always does all the work. He asks if you’d be okay working together again.

P.S. If you said yes, y’all would turn into an unstoppable duo. And if you said no THEN GOOD. He needs a lesson.

Bennett-

You definitely decided to just look after him once you saw him drop his phone, bag, papers, and himself down the stairs multiple times. You’re basically his bodyguard atp. You literately carry around extra bandaids cause of him omg. You guys have a bunch of classes together so it’s easy for y’all to get a long. You help protect him from bullies (Bennett just attracts the worst kinds of people) and he starts to think you’re his lucky charm.

Basically starts to worship you?? Invites you to hang out in his friend group of misfits featuring Razor, Barbra, and Fischl. They play DnD during lunch too and drag you into it. Honestly it turns into a cult with you as their leader. At the end of the school year, the five of you pull a bunch of pranks on the kids who were messing with Bennet.

P.S. The cult had a name: Lord Y/N’s Pimps. Barbra came up with it because she thought calling someone a pimp was a form on endearment… the name ended up just sticking.

Xingqiu & Chongyun-

They’re those fucking kids who won’t shut up about Harry Potter or Star Wars or sum shit. Luckily for them, you can be just as geeky. You fit in pretty well with them.

Y’all met after you went off on them for spoiling the new Star Wars movie and eventually bonded over your love for those space ninjas. You get invited to watch movies and join the arcade with them 24/7. You join in on Xinqiu’s bullying of Chongyun and in turn actually out smart Xinqiu. So it balances out. They love you cause they probably get tired of each other after a lot of their own fights, but you’re always there to ground them <3

P.S BY FARRR the best people to go trick or treating with on halloween.

Xiao-

The kid who never got out of ‘emo skater boy phase’. A lot of people think he’s cool, but he doesn’t have many (tbh any) friends for two reasons. One, he’s hard to approach, and two, he’s socially awkward as fawkk.

You guys have been going to the same school for years, but never actually talked to each other until you saw him playing The Legend of Zelda on the switch. You ask to watch and he kinda just scoots over without saying anything. Weird, but you bring up how nostalgic it is to see people from back in the day to when everyone still wet their pants to how they’ve changed now. Xiao just kinda mumbles in response. He actually doesn’t want the conversation to end and sorta just awkwardly asks how you’re weekend was on a tuesday…

Once you learn he’s not as scary as he looks and is secretly a big giant marshmallow on the inside, you guys get a long pretty well. Then when he gets more comfortable with your presence, he’s so much more less awkward (a sign that he trusts you) and his real personality will start to blossom. You guys go to the park a lot and feed the ducks (WITH real duck food, may I add, and not the nasty expired bread). You guys play on the swings and exchange playlists/sound recommendations.

P.S. You wonder if he actually knows how to ride a skateboard because he’s one of those skater boys who actually just brings a skateboard with them everywhere while they never use it?? Like we get it. You have legs for a reason but then why bring the skateboard if you’re just gonna walk.

And you get closer to them all once they trauma dump on you </3

A/N: My first post wowowow | 11/01/2023

[yennasun]

A fighters' redemption, part 1.

Many ex-fighters talk about a point in their lives where they felt unstoppable. Unbeatable. Destined for greatness.

But they also talk about the first big mental obstacle a fighter overcomes; losing their undefeated record and losing for the first time.

There are also times where a fighter can't cope with this, and spirals down in what many call "the long slide downwards."

"And the winner of this 10 round contest, by 6th round technical knockout... Green Becker!"

He threw his arms up as the crowd cheered for him. Another opponent, another name on his growing resumé.

Midas went and picked the young stick up and lifted him in celebration, but this time green doesn't reciprocate...

He was far too focused on the roar of the crowd.

He breathes the chants in like a drowning man, soaking in the applause as it washed over him.

This was his peak, and it could only get better from here.

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

During the post fight press conference, green had plenty to say.

"So, do you have any thoughts about the stoppage?" One reporter asks.

Green thinks for a second.

"I was thinkin' "finally, they gonna let me kill this guy or what?"" And let out a chuckle, but the crowd seemed to turn to one another.

Another reporter quickly chimed in.

"Was there anything your opponent brought to the table tonight that caught you by surprise?"

This one, green answered quickly

"Not at all. Read him like a book and did what I needed to... I can't really point out anything that stood out to me other than his toughness, cuz he sure took alot longer than most others to put away."

Some people in the audience shifted a bit as green set his microphone down, waiting the next question.

"And where do you think you should go from here, after a big win like that?"

Greens hand shot towards his microphone.

"Title shot... title shot, title shot, title shot. That's all that's on my mind right now, I'm sick of fighting these bums on the prelims... gimme the shot that I fully believe I deserve!"

Now Midas shifted slightly... he'd felt green's mannerisms shift slightly after agreeing to coach him on his professional journey... but with each win and crumpled opponent, his confidence grew.

Midas began to fear it'd maybe grown a little too much...

Just as the thought passed his mind, the same reporter followed up;

"You say you feel you deserve it, can you elaborate?"

Green gave the reporter a look, like it was the dumbest question he'd ever been asked.

"Elaborate on what? 2 of the guys in the top 10 I already beat, 2 more of 'em are matched against eachother already, ones out injured and I dunno how he's kept his ranking, another 2 are coming off losses..."

After his tirade, he took a deep breath.

"...who else is there, but me?"

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

Green felt a bit odd that he'd let his mouth go off like that, but it didn't change that the fact that he fully believed what he said.

With everything he's done, all the work he's put In, he felt he could act just a little entitled.

But it also didn't change how everyone else felt about it.

The first to speak up was yellow, a few weeks later while he was booked to another fight.

He'd been in training camp for about 2 weeks and still had another 4 weeks to go. And Midas was quite ruthless in his training.

Yellow herself was in the amateurs, still contemplating turning professional, but still quite on the fence.

Yellow slowly began to speak up more and challenge him more and more.

She herself couldn't understand why, but something about the way green spoke to her now aggravated her deeply.

"Alright, let's go for a spar then!" He growled after the two exchanged particularly heated words that were so petty green couldn't be bothered to remember.

He could tell yellow was taken aback by his request, but her pride wouldn't allow her to step down...

"Let's go, then!" She growled back, shoving him.

Green charged, but Orange and blue quickly jumped in between them.

"You two! Stop!" Orange shouted as he grabbed ahold of green and held him back.

"Breathe, yellow, breathe!" Blue coached while he did the same.

The twos' attitudes quickly calmed down, but their tempers didn't.

"What about that spar?" Yellow said, more calmly.

"Read my mind." Green obliged as yellow let out a low growl in response.

The two began to head towards the ring, orange and blue decided to go with incase it got heated.

Orange sighed, he felt something bad was gonna happen.

"Where's the old man when you need him..." he said, referring to the currently-absent Midas.

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

The two eyed each other down from opposite sides of the ring they were in.

No words were spoken, but both made it clear that neither had any intention of having a "little sparring match."

Blue was in yellows' corner.

"Any way I can still talk you outta this?" He asked.

Yellow was bouncing around on the balls of her feet. She shook her head.

Blue took a breath.

"Alright, then."

He stopped out of the ring and went over towards the timer.

Before he hit it, he spoke up;

"Try not to hurt each other, 'kay?" Neither responded.

"You two ready...? ...Go!" Blue yelled as he hit the timer for the first round.

The two came out patiently, with green in an orthodox stance and yellow in her native tricky southpaw stance.

The two jabbed at range, yellows twitchy head feints and footwork made it hard for green to pin her down with his own jab, despite his height and reach advantage.

Yellow kept her guard up and stayed in range, not allowing green to space he wanted to box at range. She kept it a mid range sinping contest.

She followed up a jab with a straight left that just barely caught green and he clinched, using his height to bore his weight down on yellow and move her where he wanted.

He moved them both back to the center of the ring, but this time he established his own jab to seize control of the center.

Now it was yellows turn to defend and move, which fortunately for her (and midas), she was very good at.

This time she tried clinching with green, this time when he bore his weight down, he pushed yellow back and into a left hook that stunned her.

Yellow never saw it coming, let alone the power it had behind it.

Yellow backed up and put her hands up to defend, she took a few punches to the body but was able to smoothly angle out.

Successfully resetting it back to the center, this time yellow used her own lead hand to block green's jab.

She used this tactics to manufacture confidence in herself and eventually began timing her straight left right as green jabbed.

It was a sort of "catch and shoot" tactic but it seemed to repeatedly catch green off guard as he had a habit of not bringing his hands back up to his face.

The bell sounded, and the two took a minutes' rest in between rounds. But it was clear that they were looking to get back to it as soon as possible.

Green made sure to keep his distance in the 2nd round. He snapped his jab out quickly to get a feel for the timing of yellows' head movement, but she always seemed to move just before or just after green thought she would.

Eventually, green began pinning yellow with his jab. He baited out her parry-blocks and used them as openings, with an opening found, he rammed his jab out with authority.

Successfully putting yellow on her back foot, he was able to control the center of the ring and corner the southpaw.

He used his signature left hook to the body, yellow began to wince in pain, but green continued to press her again the ropes and set up his left hand.

Yellow landed a counter right hook and clinched. She didn't out-mucle him but she used slick movement and footwork to angle her way off the ropes.

But now her hands were low because of the body shots.

At the end of the round, green began to mix it up. He threw long hooks to the body mixed in with straight punches, and while yellow was doing a great job defending, her offense had shut off entirely.

At the end of the round, green threw a 1-2 that yellow slipped. She tried to pivot to her right to get an angle for her own hook, but green already landed his body hook.

Yellow stepped back and pulled her head away, expecting a follow up straight-right immediately after, but green's timing was impeccable.

He landed flush and visible stumbled yellow right as the bell sounded.

Both orange and green were watching closely. Yellow by far had the better skill and ring-generalship but green had more experience and knew how to impose his style on others... and yellow just didn't have the power to make green think twice.

In the third, green began to catch on.

He figured trying to out-skill his smaller foe was alot tougher than just out-muscling them.

Using his jab, he shut down yellow's feints and had her biting on every movement green made.

He pinned her to the ropes, then quickly made just enough space to land more body shots.

This time, yellow wheezed as all the air in her body was violently beaten out.

Green went up high with a left hook and caught yellow on the side of the head, and all she could do was move away and flick her jab out once or twice.

This time, green timed a straight right as yellow jabbed. He sent it quickly right down the middle, and caught her on the very end of it.

Her legs buckled and she stumbled back into the ropes, green gave chase.

He tried to go for the finish, until he felt something slam into him.

It was enough to knock him off his feet, the air left his lungs as he felt his back slam against the canvas.

He tried to struggle against whatever was holding him down, but he was thoroughly pinned.

He finally noticed the dark orange arm that wrapped around his chest and pinned his other hand down.

"Midas?!" Green squeaked, but was quickly cut off.

"Quiet! What the hell were you doing?! That's your own teammate!" Midas snarled in his face.

Green's face lit up in anger.

"She's the one that wanted this, she's the one that asked me!" He said.

"It doesn't matter!" Midas said, getting off of green.

Green stayed on the floor for a bit, and Midas looked down at him.

"I taught you better than this... if I keep seeing this attitude I'm pulling the plug!" He snarled as he stormed off.

Now green was left tired, embarrassed, and... even a little guilty...

And all this manifested into bitterness.

He went over to yellow, who was sat on her stool with her head drooped.

Now he could see the swelling he'd caused, it made him angry at himself. It made him hate himself.

And still, he couldn't control his ego, or his mouth.

"Stick to the amateurs, this isn't for you." He said lowly, before storming off himself.

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

Later that night, dinner was quiet. Green had gone off to his room earlier, once the reality of what he said and did hit him, it was like a punch he didn't see coming.

He hadn't asked for forgiveness, part of him felt he shouldn't have to. Another part of him felt that he didn't deserve to.

Alone that night, he decided to open up a social media.

He could use it to promote himself and get himself on the public radar... maybe make some friends...

...

...

...

This couldn't end well.

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

This is going to be the last fic that I post on this account as i will be moving over to a different one. I don't like how disorganized this blog is and i want to get a fresh slate.

Keep in mind, I am not deleting this account and will reblog several old works over on the new one, and the continuation of this mini-fic will be posted on the new one as well as soon as I make it.

Thank you guys for sticking with me for this, I really do appreciate it and I can't wait to have a blog where i can finally get my ideas out in a more comprehensive manner.

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Daughter of the Rain and Snow

Concept: Around ten years after the events of Crooked Kingdom, 25-year-old Captain Inej Ghafa frees Maya Olsen from a pleasure house in Ketterdam. Maya is looking for revenge against the man who put her in her position, a man who she knows nothing about except his name: Kaz Brekker.

Tags: @wraith--2 @lunarthecorvus @just2bubbly @real-fragments7 @ethereal-maia @cartoon-clifford @origami-butterfly

Content Warnings: in more general terms I want to remind people to be aware of the nature of Kaz and Inej's experiences and relationship since even if I'm not directly addressing these things they tend to be implicit in any writing about them, but specifically to this chapter there's ptsd references, discussion about drowning, threats, violence, and there isn’t any child death taking place but it is talked about so I wanted to mention that just to make sure I’m being clear

Chapter 15 - Kaz

“What are the chances of being arrested if I murder a member of the Merchant Council in broad daylight?” Kaz snarled as he limped into the Crow Club.

He was finally going to give Ethan this Saints-forsaken financial record. Part of him was hoping the boy was guilty after all, so he’d have an excuse to kill someone. Annika looked up from her table and snorted a short laugh.

“For anyone else pretty high. For you? Depends on the Council member,”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it depends on whether Jesper would shoot you before the Stadwatch got there,”

“Like Jesper could take me,”

She laughed again. Kaz didn’t have time for that. He flung two bags of coins into her lap and marched on past as he said:

“One for you. One for Rotty. Keep the tables busy,”

Annika’s mock salute was the last thing he saw from the corner of his eye as he headed straight for the back room.

Ethan sat, alone, behind his desk, head half buried in the books until Kaz hit his cane against the doorframe to summon some attention. Ethan flinched and threw his head up, and upon seeing Kaz found himself somewhere between relieved and even more anxious. He closed the book in front of him with slightly trembling fingers.

“Kaz, you - I don’t-”

Kaz dropped the record into front of Ethan, open on the Olsen transaction. He took in Ethan’s twitchy manner and dishevelled appearance with a slow study if the boy, who was now leaning over and blinking several times to read the words.

“When did you last sleep?”

“Wh- I don’t- I was waiting for you,”

Ghezen, the kid hadn’t left the room since Kaz told him he’d be back with the ledger.

“It’s been 30 hours,”

“You said you didn’t know how long you’d be,”

“Well you’re useless to me like this. Go back to the Slat and get some sleep, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,”

Ethan left in a haze and Kaz shook his head as he took a chair and pulled the most recent books towards him. Something was telling him the last 2 days of adding were going to need redoing, and besides it gave him a good opportunity to read through the recent ledgers for any discrepancies. This wasn’t as good a distraction as talking to Ethan would have been, but it was something. Kaz thought of Inej pulling away from him in their little house, dark eyes burning like a fire half- hidden by the black silhouette of the moon. He flexed his fingers in his gloves.

“What was the alternative?”

“Me!”

She was right, in a way, he thought. What would their little piece of the world look like if he had taken the energy he gave to the Dregs and put it into them? A marriage that didn’t rely on letters left from the beyond, safety, security, maybe family. And where would that leave him? Following Inej around Ravka, replacing the fear of the ship with the fear of her falling from the swings? Watching her teach their children the high wire whilst he imagined them falling, saw their little bodies splayed across the concrete? Or would he still be left waiting for her ship to return, tucking the children in every night whilst they asked when their mother would come home and he had no answer to give them? Always passive, always outside, watching her life through a lens whilst he couldn’t find where he fit into it.

She would have her ship, and he would have his city.

Even now that had to be the way it was. He had watched her try to be part of his world for years and known she wasn’t happy, he couldn’t ask her to sacrifice that again. But he didn’t know if he had the strength to sacrifice his world for hers instead.

And now this.

Kaz didn’t want to blame Inej for being angry with him, but she’d read the Saintsforsaken ledger hadn’t she? She knew he’d done nothing to this girl or her father that justified her placing blame on him. Something itched at him in the corners of his mind her shut out. You didn’t want to blame Jordie. Of course he didn’t. But it seemed all a more clean cut affair with Maya’s father, didn’t it?

No matter how Maya felt though, surely Inej could see?

She reminds me of you.

Kaz had no hope of focusing on these stupid ledgers. The numbers swam from line to line, like they were taunting him with the one thing he was supposed to be able to do. This, at least he was supposed to still be good at. A glance, an acknowledgment, and the numbers should have been stored in his mind. The filing cabinets in there scrolling over a decade of records that he could call upon at will. But now he was straining to concentrate, and his mind was filled with nothing but Inej and her dark, burning eyes. Flinching away from his touch. Drowning in the harbour. Thirty hours. When had he last slept? He didn’t want to. The dream came too fresh, too often. That oil black hair spilling around her, floating in the water. Limbs drooping, borne aloft by the waves, fingers in his turning to taut and bloated flesh. He couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t reach her. He was falling from the wire without a net.

He shoved the books away and hurried out, ignoring Pim trying to get his attention as they passed each other near the stairs. He went into his office and slammed the door shut, feeling the shake of his gloved fingers on the lock. He was stronger than this. This wasn’t supposed to happen anymore.

And if it did? He wasn’t supposed to be alone.

He slid down the door and sat on the floor in cold, shivering silence, his bad leg stretched out in front of him. He had to get her, had to explain to her, had to - what? What did he even want to say?

He would move the earth for her. He would kill, had killed, for her. He would die for her. And it didn’t mean anything, because even now he didn’t show it. Because even now, he refused to torture himself with the idea of their future. Their happiness, together. In Kerch, in Ravka, they could move to the permafrost in Fjerda for all he cared. He would carve a life for her in the face of a mountain, if that was what she wanted. But it felt like an infection. It was worming its way through him, and if he didn’t quash it there was every change it might destroy him. Destroy them both. All he was so desperate to give her was impossible to say, because saying it out loud made it real. It made it something that could be lost.

Kaz didn’t know how long he’d sat there before he managed to slowly pull himself back up, weight first in the door handle and then against his cane. There were no lights on in the room. He let the door swing on its hinges as he left, to walk back to the Slat. To force himself to sleep; to let the dream wash over him so he could fight it like he’d fought everyone and everything else.

And so it was as the door swung and the lights remained off, as Kaz limped away in stoic silence and the street lamps began to glow, that no-one noticed the hand reach up from beneath the desk and leave a neat, sealed letter next to the inkwell.

[zhongrin]

Good evening Rin! I come by with another zhongwrinth thought! It’s always been a personal headcanon of mine that Zhongli knows how to fight with different weapons, maybe because he’s the God of War or smth but anyways! I like to think combat practice does happen from time to time in the teahouse or in the adeptal relams.

At first it’s Wriothesley practicing punches then Zhongli passes by and asks him, “Have you tried (insert boxing tip here)?” And Wriothesley tries it out, he’s surprised at the improvement. Wriothesley knows Zhongli is powerful, he’s in the adeptal realm after all. So sometimes he’ll seek Zhongli out and ask for a combat tip or two.

For Al-Haitham it’s a little harder? Feeble scholar he calls himself, i just like to think he passed by during Wriothesley’s practice once and Zhongli happens to be there. Zhongli comments on the Wrio’s form and Al-Haitham, curious, asks Zhongli for comments on the scholar’s form.

Zhongli gives a detailed comment and Al-Haitham just goes. “I’ll try it next time.”

So now three of them have one joint combat session, I forgot to ask, how much does Al-Haitham and Wriothesley know about Zhongli’s being a former god in the zhongwrinth household? Do they know all the details or do they just go ‘he’s powerful and gives good advice’?

That’s not the best part, the best part is when you come home and see three of your husbands, shirtless and sweating from their workout practicing together.

*runs*

*EXCITED CHEW TOY NOISES* HIIII STORM (if i can call you that??? but lmk if you prefer to be called something else <3) UEUEUE IM SCREECHING THIS WAS SO <3 <3 <3 🫠🫠🫠

(more utc bc this got long helphsdlkfjskd)

yessss i'm pretty sure zhongli can wield a lot of weapons (i mean…. 6k years and counting, god of war, knowledgeable about all things, man wears an archer's ring - and i refuse to believe it's just for 'status' or aesthetic purposes….) and he just so happens to prefer the polearm!! ough… imagine him with a claymore…. *nosebleeds*

...... they're bonding your honor. they're bonding and i like it very much. i love them i love them i love them i love them i love them i lov- wait sorry what were we talking about again? /silly

OH RIGHT YES AHEM joint combat training (or, as al haitham claims, 'just an exercise') session. does wriothesley and al haitham know about zhongli's identity? well, the answer is both yes and no lol

i'd like to think zhongli is kind of a menace in this one - he doesn't really straight up tell them, but he doesn't really try to hide the fact that he's not just an ordinary guy. they have seen him with his horns and tail out. they have seen him in his compact form wrapped around my neck like a scarf. he doesn't hesitate to tell stories of old when he was rex lapis/morax over dinner (but he does this in a storytelling fashion and in third-person pov). they have asked me for clarification, but i'm also a menace so i choose to keep quiet i don't think it's something i should be telling them, so all i tell them is "if he's not telling, then i'm not telling <3" lmao

i'd say wriothesley suspects that he's a dragon sovereign, simply because he knows neuvillette and these two old men give similar vibes and mannerisms. i imagine he keeps sneakily trying to bribe zhongli to visit fontaine with its ✨selections✨of✨tea✨ but he's actually secretly planning to make the two dragons meet so he can test his hypothesis.

as for al haitham, i think he has enough resources and brainpower to do a proper observation and research to conclude that zhongli is the ex-geo archon. he's the type who would deep dive into liyue history books and journals and records, learn ancient liyuean to explore the ruins, and ask questions to zhongli to crosscheck between the books, the facts he's seen, and whether zhongli's story corroborates it. man's hyperfixated now. someone help him.

brb now i'm imagining shirtless wriothesley and zhongli in that transparent bodysuit and al haitham in his own bodysuit, all sweating aー oh god zhongli's hair is upー oh god wrio's pouring water onto his face and it's trickling down hisー oh god haitham's lifting his bodysuit to wipe his swー HWERHFIE)OWWEDLIAJDIKASD *explODES*

[pokenimagines]

SFW | Raifort | Headcanons

So, y'know how in the background of one of the Raifort scenes you could see a picture of Professor Laventon?

How would Raifort react to seeing the protagonist/Reader's picture in the books and then later seeing them waltz through the door. Older, battered, and definitely sporting some scars they didn't have in the photos. But alive and in the present.

Oh my goodness this was so much fun to write. I actually had to stop myself from going overboard on it. The concept is amazing and I don't know why I didn't think of it before!

Rules | Discord Server (16+)

SFW Raifort: Shadows of History

Raifort was very well versed in history; probably the one who knew the most about it in the entire region minus Professor Sada.

She had spent hours and days hovered over text books and images, learning as much as she could.

The day that you walked into her class though, she couldn't believe her eyes. She could recognize you immediately.

Sure the hair was different, and the outfit was a big change, but there was no doubting it. You had appeared in her history books several times; mainly when discussing ancient Hisui. Though now you were older with new scars over you; she could see it despite the winter uniform you wore.

At first she thinks perhaps you're just a distant ancestor that happened to copy/paste from centuries ago. Then she gets a closer look at your mannerisms.

You had some more old school ways of doing things, and the glimpses she had seen you out in the school yards or wild areas was different from any student. You looked almost wild; like you had adapted to surviving in the wilds. Hell, she saw you directly dodging several pokemon attacks while recording something in a journal.

You were an enigma to Raifort and she couldn't help but study you closely. Time travel surly wasn't a thing, so how did you end up here?

This didn't stop her from being inquisitive. If you really were from Hisui, that means you knew stuff that never appeared in history books. When she went over Hisui in her class, she wasn't subtle about putting questions on the test that nobody would know the answers to.

She was disappointed to find out you were careful though, not revealing too much on the tests. It was frustrating and she was fighting back the urge to just corner you and ask you directly. She knew that might not be the best course of action though. What if you took offense and reported her? Then she'd be fired and wouldn't have opportunities to observe you.

So Raifort studies in silence and slowly tried gathering as much data on you as she could; fully expecting to one day find a way to ask you straight up.

There was just no doubt about it. You were the ancient Hero of Hisui.

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅• Thank you for reading! Did you know we have a discord? It has everything from RPs, General Discussions, and even an 18+ area to go hog wild in! We even do announcements early for when the inbox is opening for requests, as well as other events! Come in and join us!

[rin-hanarin]

There's this 11 years old Homestuck fic that forever changed my perception of the post scratch timeline called Like Forgetting the Words.

I think about it sometimes and I imagine Rose and Jade would remember important bits and pieces, but Dave and John wouldn't. Alpha Dave gets the shades and the bunny, "had brief obsession with Con Air" according to Dirk, built and entire memorabilia museum, but he doesn't consciously remember. He'd watch things John Crocker was starring in by accident and have a good laugh at how dumb and friend shaped he is and get an unbearable sense of longing for something, but he wouldn't remember anything still. Then one day Rose takes him to some random grave in Washington and says that she needs to visit a friend, and she brings flowers and talks to the stone, and Dave just kinda watches her do that. She asks him vague questions and he has no answers, so he one day comes back alone to the grave and brings red flowers, saying something like "thats probably blasphemy or some shit i hope your family doesnt freak out if they ever see that". He finds the meaning of these flowers in a book by a certain J. English Rose conveniently gifts him one day, and it's something really specific, written in a manner young girl would write and not a famous old rich woman. He comes back to the grave every year in April, talks about whatever at it and has one-sided conversations with himself, and wishes "John" a Happy 13th one day in 2009 and finds it hysterical that it's the date of his death on the gravestone for some reason. He comes to the grave one last time after killing the juggalos because he thinks he saw a flash of blue there and says that he "wanted to bring these motherfuckers heads to you didnt you hate clowns or something? thats kinda fucked up now that i think about it i dont wanna defile your grave with these pieces of shit bro my bad". He dies to the Condesce and thinks that maybe he'd get to see them again.

Young John Crocker would spend hours listening to clocks ticking and writing in journals in different colors, trying to find the right one with the right voice to go with it. He ends up being left behind by his sister, the last thing remaining is her garden with a wide selection of rose plants, so he looks after it to pass the time, begging of Betty not to destroy it. He has a great interest in film and the way it develops during 1900s, but never someone to share it with, and he so desperately wants to that he end up writing his every thought about it like he's writing a letter to someone. He would collect vinyl records and scratch them sometimes for no apparent reason, and asks his son in his will to auction his collection some day after his death, only for some rich movie director to buy them later for such an obscene amount of money that Mr. Crocker expects him to ask for a refund. He never remembers anything, but his family recalls how detached he was sometimes, like his thoughts were in a completely different world, and in the end of the day no amount of movie roles and comedy gigs made him any less lonely.

[eli-kittim]

When is the end of the age?

Eli Kittim

When is the end of the age? Not where, not how, but when? The New King James Version calls this specific time period “the end of the age,” while the King James Version refers to it as “the end of the world.” Biblical scholars often ask whether the end of the age is a reference to the end of the Jewish age, which came to an end with the destruction of the temple in 70 A.D., or whether it’s an allusion to the end of human history. Given that the signs of the times coincide with this particular age, we must examine whether this is literal language, referring to first century Palestine, or figurative, pertaining to the end-times.

Since “the end of the age” is a characteristic theme of the New Testament (NT), let’s look at how Jesus explains it in the parable of the tares in Matthew 13:37-43 (NKJV emphasis added):

“He answered and said to them: ‘He who sows the good seed is the Son of Man. The field is the world, the good seeds are the sons of the kingdom, but the tares are the sons of the wicked one. The enemy who sowed them is the devil, the harvest is the end of the age, and the reapers are the angels. Therefore as the tares are gathered and burned in the fire, so it will be at the end of this age. The Son of Man will send out His angels, and they will gather out of His kingdom all things that offend, and those who practice lawlessness, and will cast them into the furnace of fire. There will be wailing and gnashing of teeth. Then the righteous will shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father. He who has ears to hear, let him hear!’ “

In this parable, the constituent elements of the end of the age are highlighted, namely, the end-times, judgment day, the wicked cast into the lake of fire, and the end of human history. The key phrase that is translated as “the end of the age” comes from the Greek expression συντελείᾳ τοῦ ⸀αἰῶνος. In a similar vein, let’s see how Jesus explains the eschatological dimension of the parable of the dragnet in Matthew 13:47-50 (italics mine):

“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a dragnet that was cast into the sea and gathered some of every kind, which, when it was full, they drew to shore; and they sat down and gathered the good into vessels, but threw the bad away. So it will be at the end of the age. The angels will come forth, separate the wicked from among the just, and cast them into the furnace of fire. There will be wailing and gnashing of teeth.”

Once again, in this parable, the end of the age (συντελείᾳ τοῦ ⸀αἰῶνος) is described as taking place at the last judgment, when the righteous will be separated from the wicked, while simultaneously placing emphasis on the end of the world, when “there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth.”

Similarly, in Matthew 24:3, the disciples ask Jesus to tell them two things, namely, when will the coming of Christ and the end of the age take place. In comparison to Matthew 24:3, the book of Acts tells us that the apostles asked Jesus if he will restore the kingdom of Israel at the end of the age (Acts 1:6). This question was asked just prior to his ascension and departure. Historically speaking, Israel was restored in the 20th century, which is one of the signs that ties in closely with Jesus’ coming and the end of the age. Jesus responds in v. 7 by saying, “it is not for you to know times or seasons which the Father has put in His own authority.” And v. 9 informs us that Jesus’ response is part of his farewell speech. In like manner, the last recorded words of Jesus in Matthew’s gospel (28:18-20 emphasis added) are as follows:

“All authority has been given to Me in heaven and on earth. Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all things that I have commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age [συντελείας τοῦ ⸀αἰῶνος].”

If Jesus promised to be with the disciples until “the end of the age,” and if that age is a reference to first century Palestine, does this mean that Jesus is no longer with those who have long since outlived their first century counterparts? Taken as a whole, this would also essentially imply that the resurrection of the dead, the rapture, the great tribulation, the lake of fire, judgment day, and the coming of Jesus were events that all took place in Antiquity. Is that a legitimate theologoumenon that captures the eschatology of the NT?

We find an analogous concept in the Septuagint of Daniel 12:1-4 (L.C.L. Brenton translation). Daniel mentions the resurrection of the dead and the great tribulation, but in v. 4 he is commanded to “close the words, and seal the book to the time of the end; until many are taught, and knowledge is increased.” Curiously enough, “the time of the end” in Daniel is the exact same phrase that Jesus uses for “the end of the age” in the NT, namely, καιροῦ συντελείας.

As for the biblical contents, given that the exact same language is employed in all of the parallel passages, it is clear that the end of the age is a future time period that explicitly refers to judgment day, the lake of fire, the harvest, and the consummation of the ages. Obviously, it has nothing to do with the time of Antiquity. Not to mention that the parousia is said to coincide with the end of the current world, when everything will dissolve in a great conflagration (2 Pet. 3:10)!

[chanshoesunite]

24 Days of CHRISMAS: Day 24

Content info: The threesome sequel to “Chan wants to record your moans for a song” that only I wanted but maybe you’ll enjoy (because #HyunjinBiasWrecker)

Word count: 2650

Warnings: dirty talk, mature language, threesome, unprotected as well as protected sex (wrap it up, kids, be like Hyunjin), use of the word slut (but in a loving manner), oral sex (m and f receiving)

It’s been a few weeks since you’ve had sex with Chan in his personal studio at home and he mentioned the idea of asking Hyunjin to join you in the bedroom. Personally, you haven’t thought about it (much) throughout the following days because Chan is pretty territorial with you and the idea of sharing you has never seemed to make him anything but indignant. And as weeks go by and Chan doesn’t mention it again, you let it go and forget about it completely.

Then, one early evening, as you come home from an afternoon of drinking coffee and chatting with your friends, you unlock the door to find the flat completely dark and quiet. You didn’t expect that – you promised Chan to be back in time to cook dinner together. Also, he wanted to work on new songs all day, and his studio being empty seems weird. You call out – no answer. You pull out your phone – no messages. Strange. But maybe Chan is just getting groceries and will be back soon.

You make your way into the bedroom – you’re wearing a cute dress, printed with books, with buttons all the way down its front and a belt to tie at the waist, but for cooking and a comfy night in, you’d rather wear something practical, so changing sounds like a good idea.

However, in the bedroom you find that the indirect wall lighting is switched on, and there’s someone on the bed. But it’s not Chan.

It’s Hyunjin – glorious, ethereal Hyunjin. His blond hair is down, and he’s wearing a dark purple silky robe as he’s reading a book.

You stop, staring down at the man on your bed, as he calmly closes his book and tosses it onto the nightstand. “W-what are you doing here, Hyunjin?” you stammer. This feels like the beginning of a very clichéd porn, but at the same time you can’t help but feel intrigued, given the fact that you do fancy Hyunjin just a tiny bit. Okay, maybe more than that.

Hyunjin smiles a crooked smile at you, charming and naughty at the same time. “Chan let me in,” he says, as if that explains everything. “He mentioned that you would be very happy if you found me here.” He leans forward, and the robe falls open, revealing his smooth, muscular chest and stomach. You cannot help but stare some more.

Then there’s a chuckle behind you, and you turn to see Chan sitting in the armchair you usually use to dump your clothes on. He looks regal, sitting there upright, his thighs spread, his hands splayed across the armrests. “Go on, baby girl,” he says mockingly. “I thought the idea of having Hyunjin in your bed excited you. Why don’t you go play with him for a bit? I’d like to see that.” He leans back, like a king waiting for his order to be executed.

You glance back at Hyunjin, who raises one eyebrow at you, then pats his thighs in an inviting gesture.

You would be lying to say the situation doesn’t arouse you. You’ve actually dreamed of a threesome with Hyunjin and Chan more than once, and now, here they both are, seemingly on board with it. So, of course, you’re going to seize the opportunity.

Still in your dress, you walk over to the bed and climb on top of Hyunjin, who is still leaning against the headboard. Straddling him, you bring your hand to his face, tipping it up slightly so you can reach his plush lips more easily, and kiss him.

Kissing Hyunjin is different from kissing Chan, not only because it’s unfamiliar, but Hyunjin’s kisses are trying to seduce you, coax you out of your shell, draw gasps out of you. The tiny flicks of his tongue, the soft nibbles of his teeth make you sigh with pleasure after only seconds. His hands find your waist, drawing you closer, and you can feel he is already half hard under you, his growing bulge rubbing against your panty-clad pussy. You bite his lower lip, and a groan escapes him that lets on that Hyunjin might also enjoy treatment a little rougher than mere making out.

“Take off her dress.” You start, having almost forgotten that Chan is watching you, but Hyunjin immediately complies with the request and starts fumbling with your buttons, all the while breathing heavily. You sit up straighter, helping with the buttons, but all the while rocking against his bulge, coaxing little groans out of him.

Finally, due to your team effort, the dress falls off, and you sit on top of Hyunjin in a matching set of simple yet pretty red underwear. Hyunjin lets his eyes roam over your body hungrily, but it’s obvious he promised Chan to only do what he allowed him to do, so he waits for instructions. You just know how much Chan will love that, holding the reins to both your pleasure.

“Go on, Jinnie,” Chan encourages. “Play with her tits. I know how much you want to.” The way Hyunjin immediately reaches for the clasp of your bra has Chan chuckling. “You should see the way he stares at you when he knows you’re not looking, baby girl,” Chan continues, and from how close his voice sounds, you know he must have stood up from the chair. “He has a thing for your curves.” The bra falls away and Hyunjin unceremoniously throws it across the room before putting both of his hands on your breasts. He touches them gingerly, weighing them in his hands before softly stroking his thumbs across your nipples, making your breath hitch. He is so gentle, almost devotional as he leans forward to suck one of them into his mouth, stroking his tongue across it over and over again. You moan, throwing your head back, and Hyunjin grabs your waist again, holding you against him, making sure you can’t escape the pleasure.

As you blink your eyes open again, you see Chan standing over you, his expression unreadable but his blown pupils giving away the fact that he’s enjoying the show. You extend a hand towards him. “Won’t you join us… Sir?” you ask, your voice already wrecked from Hyunjin’s constant assault on your nipples.

Chan seems to contemplate that for a moment – maybe he hasn’t planned on joining the action at all? – but then he unbuttons his trousers. “Suck,” he commands, a single syllable full of authority, and with Hyunjin still licking your nipples even though they are already hard as pebbles, you lean sideways to put your mouth on your boyfriend.

Hyunjin lets go of you so you’re more comfortable, and you’re still straddling him, but now you’re focused on getting as much of Chan’s cock as wet as possible, bobbing your head up and down messily, sucking the tip to wet it additionally. Beneath you, Hyunjin is moving his hips, his bulge rubbing against you, and you moan around Chan’s cock, enjoying being the one who pleasures and who is also being pleasured. Above you, Chan’s deep grunts, below you, Hyunjin’s heavy breathing, yourself in the middle of it all.

Hyunjin moves, leaning on his forearms, watching the spectacle before him. “Need help?” he asks simply, his voice hoarse with arousal. You briefly hesitate, but Chan’s hand on your head has you continue, so you kiss along the side of his shaft, down to his balls and back up. “You want to help YNnie?” he asks Hyunjin.

Hyunjin stares up at Chan, his eyelids heavy. “I don’t mind if you don’t” he rasps before leaning in and meeting your lips just above the tip of Chan’s angrily red cock. And then you’re making out, his length between you, and it’s less of a kiss and more of a joined effort to get Chan’s cock as wet as possible with your lips and tongues. Chan’s guttural moans are all the motivation you need to give it your all, and you can feel your pussy getting wetter and wetter, and you rut against Hyunjin’s cock (which also feels substantial in size, from what you can gather from your position), earning more desperate moans from Hyunjin.

You can feel Chan moving frantically, and know that he’s close, so you put a hand on Hyunjin’s chest, signalling for him to stop, and swallow down Chan’s erection. Hyunjin’s hand finds its way into your panty to your clit as you continue bobbing your head frantically until Chan comes down your throat with a shout. You pull off and show your boyfriend the come pooling on your tongue because you know he likes it, and Chan groans at the sight. “Aren’t you gonna share with Jinnie, greedy girl?” he asks, and Hyunjin, still rubbing your core, leans in to kiss you. Your tongues dance together, and you can both taste Chan’s release in the kiss, slightly bitter, but it’s still hot, especially when two of his fingers slide into your achingly empty and dripping wet pussy. You break the kiss, moaning wantonly.

If Chan disapproves of Hyunjin taking initiative again, he doesn’t let it show. “You were both so good for me, I think you deserve a reward,” he pants, trying to collect himself after the orgasm he’s just had. He’s still mostly clothed, you realise, but now kicks off his trousers which are hanging around his ankles, and rids himself of his shirt. Hyunjin’s robe is still pooling around him, but it’s obvious he’s naked underneath – that leaves you in your panties, being slowly fingered by Hyunjin.

Chan grasps your chin. “How would you like to ride Jinnie’s cock, baby girl?” he asks, his gaze holding yours captive. “Because if you’re gonna have someone else’s cock in your cunt, I am still going to be the one in control.”

You shudder at his harsh words but nod as best you can with him holding your chin. “Yes, please, sir,” you say softly, and both men groan. Hyunjin pulls his hand out of your panties and discards his robe, but not before grabbing a condom out of its pocket, which he is quick to put on himself as you slip out of your panties. Chan joins you on the bed, kneeling behind you as he grabs your pussy, giving it a light slap that has you groaning between pain and pleasure. “This is my pussy, don’t you forget it,” he growls in your ear, biting your shoulder as you make to straddle Hyunjin again, now that there is no cloth barrier between the two of you anymore.

Chan grabs your hips, and he controls your movements as he has you sink down onto Hyunjin’s cock, eliciting a moan from the two of you. He pushes you down faster than you would have chosen to, given that you’ve only had two fingers and Hyunjin’s cock is girthy as well as long, but it doesn’t hurt, and you find the fact that you are not in control quite thrilling.

Chan has you roll your hips at a certain pace, and Hyunjin, propped up on his elbows, stares up at your bouncing tits in awe. Behind you, your boyfriend is pressed against you, moving with you, and one hand lets go of your hip to play with your clit.

“You are being so good for us, baby girl,” Chan whispers in your ear. “Look at how much Hyunjin likes feeling your tight little pussy around him. He’s buried so deep, isn’t he? I’m sure he’s stretching you out so well, but I know you’ll be just as tight when I pick up his sloppy seconds later, huh? Because no matter how often I fuck this little cunt, it’s always perfect, makes me feel so good.” He slaps your clit again, and you clench around Hyunjin’s cock, making his hands go to your hips. For a moment, you think Chan is going to slap them away, but he allows it.

“Seems like Jinnie wants to fuck up into your little cunt, hm? Should I allow that?” Chan’s voice is mock contemplative, and Hyunjin actually whines. “Please, Chan, I’m so close, let me have a go. Please!”

Chan moves away to give you space. “Rail that cunt, Jinnie,” he simply says.

Your world is toppled over, because suddenly Hyunjin is above you, and he’s pounding into you with a force that you wouldn’t have attributed to his lithe dancer’s body. Despite his flushed face and strands of hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, he is still the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen. He’s drilling into you hard, and every thrust punches a high-pitched moan out of you, and then he’s coming with an absolutely sinful moan of your name.

As Hyunjin catches his breath, his head against your neck, Chan tsks. “You didn’t make her come, Jinnie. Shouldn’t you have at least the decency to do that?” Hyunjin nods. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says, picking up on the title you used earlier. “Should I eat YNnie out for you?”

You can see Chan nodding from where he’s sitting at the end of the bed. “That sounds like an acceptable compensation,” he concludes, and Hyunjin, condom still on, wiggles down to lie between your legs and, without much ado, dives into you. He eats your pussy like a starving man, relentlessly licking your clit, and your gaze flicks from his beautiful face between your folds to the love of your life watching your face as you are approaching orgasm. You push your pussy against Hyunjin’s face, both hands in his hair, and he moans against your wet flesh as he redoubles his efforts, slipping two fingers into your cunt for you to clench around. Seconds later, you’re coming against his face, your moans resembling sobs as he licks you through your orgasm, your sensitivity reaching almost painful levels.

“Enough.” Chan’s word stops Hyunjin dead, and he raises his head to look at him. “Sir?”

“Get out of the way. I need my pussy.”

You whine. “Sir, I’m tired,” you protest weakly. “And Hyunjinnie really fucked me hard.”

Chan shakes his head as he replaces Hyunjin between your legs. “Not hard enough if you can still complain.” And he slides into you, his hard cock engulfed in your sensitive flesh, the stretch familiar and welcome.

Hyunjin lies next to you, watching as Chan fucks you hard, but slowly, his thrusts powerful, yet interrupted by little breaks in which he kisses you, licks you, bites you, tells you how well you’re doing, how you’re such a good little slut for him and Hyunjin, how you make them feel so good.

“Hyunjin, lend me a hand, make her come with me,” he says, gasping, and Hyunjin’s hand slips between you, stroking your clit, pinching your nipple, as Chan chases his own orgasm.

“Fuck, baby girl, you’re being so good, I love you so much,” Chan whines as he comes, and his confession, timed perfectly with a particularly harsh pinch of your nipple, has you coming as well.

The three of you lie together, panting, sweaty, but content – except that Hyunjin is half hard again. You catch his eye and point to his cock. “Need me to take care of that?”

Chan’s arm curls around your middle. “Baby, if you blow Jinnie now, I will absolutely need to fuck you again, and I don’t think you can take it.”

You laugh. “Yeah, no, definitely not. Let’s maybe keep that for next time.”

Hyunjin and Chan glance up at you simultaneously. “Next time?”

You shrug. “Excuse me, Jinnie is fucking packing, there’s no way I’m not getting my mouth on that.”

Hyunjin giggles shyly, hiding his face against your shoulder, as you’re snuggled up between the two of them.

Chan sighs. “I think I’ve created a monster.”

You press a kiss to his chest. “It was your idea. You only have yourself to blame.”

[caparrucia]

What's IA and why is it relevant? Lol

So I'm gonna answer this in good faith, but I will point out that this is a very weird query to send to a stranger. This is the kind of basic research you should do on your own whenever you encounter topics you don't understand. Like, if you're at the bare bones basic, starting point of a discussion, it is actually very rude to walk up to a stranger participating in that discussion and ask them to give you the primer. Don't do that online, certainly do not do that in meatspace. Your teachers and professors are paid for their time to educate you, random strangers are not and unless they've clearly and openly signaled they're available to provide that kind of barebones, basic primer? Exceedingly rude to just feel entitled to demand that explanation from them.

If you don't know where to start, start with google. I know, google is not great these days, but you can add ?udm=14 to the base google URL to get the strict results, no AI slop added. Or you can bookmark this:

From a basic google search you can then go to wikipedia for a more in depth primer, and hunt down the sources and citations to track down more thorough explanations and resources.

Once you have a more nuanced understanding of the topic you can also search for forums and communities where the topic is discussed and track down more resources there if you need them.

But you have to do it. Because you have to be responsible for your own learning.

And also because asking random strangers, disregarding the matter of manners entirely, subjects you to their bias. Case in point, I will, as I said, answer the query in good faith, but that's a good faith answer with my bias. And because they're my bias, I can't signal them out for you. I might not even know they're biases.

Do yourself a favor and get in the habit of not delegating all your perspectives and opinions to others. Your very sense of self is built in your convictions. You become the person you want to be, by sculpting yourself with knowledge. You do yourself a disservice by letting other people determine who you are and what you should think.

That said!

IA stands for the Internet Archive, which you might know for their URL, www.archive.org They're a US based non profit organization dedicated to archival work effort. Their most famous and well-known project is the Wayback Machine, a webcrawler archive that maintains records of a good chunk of the lightnet. The lightnet, surface web, indexable web or accessible web is the part of the internet that can be reached through the use of standard, common web tools like browsers (windows edge, google chrome, mozilla firefox, etc) and search engines (google, bing, duckduckduck, etc). This is the thing that a lot of people are worried about being lost, since a good chunk of the last thirty years of the internet no longer exists or is accessible anywhere else. They also curate digital collections of materials otherwise unavailable to wider audiences, like out of print books, music, tv shows, and other media.

The Internet Archive is relevant because it is a well-established, well-known institution in the sphere of conservation that plays a crucial role in the preservation of modern, contemporary history. They have under their stewardship countless, invaluable assets that are simply not available anywhere, and they are one of the most public, vocal advocates for digitalization of and, in their view, access to information.

The conversation surrounding access to information and also accessibility of resources as well as the crucial role libraries play in their communities, often in the physical world and which cannot be digitalized by their nature as a Third Space, is a nuanced, often thorny one. Mostly because people whose idealism stops at ideas and has never contended with the practical application of any of those ideas, are very bad at understanding that they live in a nuanced, imperfect world and there is no true one size fits all solution to literally anything.

This particular group is having A Really Rough Time handling the fact their darling IA fucked up spectacularly in a preventable, observable way, and are trying desperately to silence any criticism about the IA leadership - which is... flawed, to say it politely - by screaming about bootlicking and fantasizing about The Great Revolution that will surely come one day to fix all of their problems.

It's all very Evangelical, if you ask me about it.

But then, most Americans are Culturally Evangelical and don't even realize it. So!

It's what it is.

[aphroditestummyrolls]

between hope and desperation for the game? if you're still doing that, if not, have a lovely day <3

Hi anon ❤️ I’m so so sorry for how long it’s taken for me to reply to this. The holidays are just so busy, and visiting home makes writing a slower type of process. And for some reason, BHaD takes so much longer than other stories! I think I just want this one in particular to be perfect, and that’s tripping me up.

Thank you asking for this story, though. I love it, and it is coming! 😅 slowly but surely!

I have a job for you, Brekker had said when she was summoned to his office. The words were out before she even had a chance to breathe. But, I need your utmost discretion. Is that clear?

Nina barely suppressed the urge to roll her eyes— they’d been constantly searching for nearly two days! She was too tired to waste her breath coming up with comebacks for the likes of Kaz Brekker.

And besides, she heard his heart. It was hammering away in his chest— terrified.

Instead, Nina just raised an expectant eyebrow.

There’s a property manager in the Zelver District by the name of Smeet— he does all manner of work with the assets of different merchant council members, and anyone else with secrets they can afford to pay him to hide. He handles the more conventional things, yes, but is also known in the right circles for being discreet. He likes gambling at the Club Cumulus, and has a penchant for young blondes who aren’t his wife. He takes these blondes to a set of rooms he rents in the Garden District.

And what does this have to do with me? Or Jesper and—

Patience, dear Nina. He was snide, choosing to condescend to her rather than snapping. It was absolutely worse than his usual short temper, and her chest went hot with the flush of anger. I’ll answer questions at the end.

I have it on good authority that these rooms aren’t just where he keeps secrets from his wife. They’re also where he keeps his clients' most clandestine paperwork— the things they want records of without them ending up on any official books. They’re kept in a safe behind the mirror in the bedroom. It’s bolted into the wall, has a gaudy old frame— you can’t miss it.

Nina blinked. Are you asking me to sleep with some crusty old lawyer?

It was a strange kind of relief, watching the way Kaz’s face twisted at the idea. He shot her a look that was an emphatic no, if ever she saw one. She felt herself exhale. At least that was one less fight she needed to have.

I want you to flirt your way into his secret rooms, and get answers from him. He said it as if that was obvious. Use your power to learn what you can, then take him out. The safe combination is 6-8-3-4– take duplicates on anything you find of note in the Van Eck file.

I still don’t understand what this has to do with Jesper or Wylan. Your crows are missing! Your best friend! And his—

I know what Jesper is to me. Kaz snapped, slamming a drawer. He had a blonde wig in his gloved hand. But what do you actually know about Wylan?

At the time, it had stalled her heart. Kaz’s blood pressure had spiked on Wylan’s name, and his eyes were like pieces of ice.

Thanks so much for your patience! And thank you for playing my little game ❤️❤️❤️