#still trying to catch up on posting these here

[thepitlanepress]

BREAK DOWN –

↳ oscar piastri + gf!reader

⌗ :: masterlist

⌗ :: a/n: coming out of the aus gp with no will to live and an idea for a fic is probably the worst thing ever but here we are...

oscar was devastated.

you knew it, from the moment he spun out of the race, you knew he was crushed. his words on the radio were filled with so much sadness and you had to fight the urge to run out of the garage and hug him as soon as he finished.

you could see it in the way he got out of the car, you could see it in the way he held himself during interviews, you could see it in the way he was walking.

you had always been able to read oscar like a book, and it was moments like these when you were grateful you were so fluent in him. because you can see his hurt and the disappointment coursing through him. he puts on a brave face that falters every so often and fans catch onto that but you can see past it.

it crushes your soul when you watch the post race interview through a screen tucked away in a corner of his drivers room. you so badly want to comfort him, to assure him everything will be okay.

when he does walk through the door, he's quiet and hard cleaning up his things and ignoring you, sitting down and just resting there in silence. you don't take it personally though, and wait for him to let you in.

after about half an hour of quiet he shuffles over and offers you his hand, you take it, instantly offering support in whatever way you can, gently rubbing your thumb over the back of his hand.

you sit like that for a long while you playing gently with his hand while he holds onto your tightly, staying in the private bubble of his drivers room, politely declining all of the people who stop by trying to talk to him.

and eventually when its time to go home, he stands in silence, still gripping your hand as if its the only thing tethering him to earth. you walk out of the paddock together ignoring the reporters and cameras shoved in your faces with you leading the way back to your car.

he's silent all the way back home, not saying anything but still holding onto your hand. its the only thing that tells you that he's still here with you- that he still wants you with him.

you walk into the apartment together, dropping your bags on the kitchen counter and watching as he lets go of your hand and makes his way into the bedroom, you hear shuffling for a bit and then the shower starts running.

deciding to keep yourself busy while he's in there you walk over to the couch and flick through some of his favourite shows, settling on one and pressing pause as you wait for him to emerge from the shower.

oscar's soft footsteps announce his arrival and when you look up you can see the last cracks in his amor shatter. he collapses into your arms sobbing violently, his body wracked with tremors as he loses his composure.

your arms instantly come around him wrapping him and a fierce hug and rubbing his back trying to soothe him in anyway you can.

his tears break your heart clean open and he tightly wraps his arms around you, refusing to let go. you gently run your hands through his hand pressing kisses to his head and whispering soft assurances in his ear.

"its my fault," he says through cries. "i fucked over the win."

"shhh," you whisper into his hair. "it's okay, its okay, its okay."

"i could've won. i could've won and i fucked myself over. i'm so worthless, whats the point if i can't even keep myself from spinning out?"

"you listen to me oscar piastri," you say your voice soft but fierce. "you are not worthless, and it was not your fault, it was the weather the track was wet you hit the gravel and you accidentally spun out. you are so talented. you wouldn't be here if you weren't."

"i should've anticipated the wet track though, i should've been better," he says into your lap.

"you forget how amazing you are baby," you say quietly pressing another kiss to his head and playing with his hair, "you are so extremely talented, i wish you could see that."

you fall back into silence after that, the only sound filling the apartment is oscar's quiet sobs and your murmurs as you calm him down.

soon he stops crying his body no longer shaking with sobs and tears no longer falling down his face. he still has a death grip on you and he nestles in closer to you, sighing softly when he registers your hands running though his hair.

you stay together like that for half of the night. and no matter how many nights over time that end up like this - not that you hoped these types of days happened ever again - you would stick by oscar's side.

for all the times he felt crushed, you would be there to build him back up, you would be there for the days he felt like shit, you would be there for all of it.

especially when he won.

because oscar was worth it.

[khaoala]

Lore request number 1847389291 (sorry I've been asking so much lmao new som som trying my best to catch up) what happened at firsts graduation I saw that hug and that kt almost didn't go but no details help? Pls?

anon, first of all, feel free to send fk lore questions whenever you like. i'll try to give as much context as i can, and people also add things in, and it's a blast, i love when these come in.

second of all, i'm so very glad you're making me talk about first's graduation. it's probably one of my favorite firstkhao moments.

first's graduation (he has a bachelor's degree in cyber business management and graduated with honors, he's that guy) happened on december 15, 2021, so two weeks after the announcement of the eclipse during gmmtv 2022. this event is what we (or at least i do) like to call "the event that inspired the plot of our skyy 2 x the eclipse" because it's basically what happened 😏😏

as you can imagine, graduating is a very important moment and in thailand they do this thing a lot of holding fan gatherings when an artist graduates and many of their friends come to congratulate them too (like when earth, firstkhao and arm went to mix's graduation last year).

first had a lot people over to see him. besides his family members, ofc, first's favorite bruda (tay tawan) attended, gawin, ciize, louis, love, nanon and many many others.

but khaotung, being the rascal that he is, told first that something came up and that he wouldn't be able to attend first's graduation which made first properly sulky. i'm not even kidding. they were all using masks ofc because 2021, covid, all that shit, but we know mr. kanaphan to have amazingly expressive eyes and baby boy looked so sad and pouty because his best friend said he wouldn't attend (tumblr doesn't let me post more than one video, but i'll link you to the videos and the graduation tag so you can check out his contained tantrum in the end of this post).

at some point when ciize (who is the founder of this fandom, may i add, since when they were just a ghostship, she was already in the trenches) approached first, and he was talking in the phone with khaotung and first offered her the phone and she asked "what did you do to make him so angry, khaotung?!"

ofc khaotung was just joking and ofc he wouldn't miss his best friend's graduation. he showed up and i kid you not, it was like first's sunny disposition came back to him in a blink. ofc, he was still annoyed bc khaotung fooled him and there were many instances where it looked like he was going to hit khaotung, but khaotung knows his baby bestie and stayed by his side all the time. there were a few moments when first would be talking to other people but his hand would stay around khaotung (there's one particular video of them talking to what i believe is one of the staff, and while first's eyes are on them, he keeps caressing khaotung's back absentmindedly because the next thing we assume happens is that first scolded khaotung - again - for pranking him).

khaotung was having a blast that day playing around with first. and first was also trying to look nonchalant at some point which was so adorable. you know how in the end of our skyy 2, after ayan's surprise to akk and how he says, "i told you i loved seeing you get pranked. when you make an angry face, you look so… (cute)". that is firstkhaotung during first's graduation.

you can search the tag #FirstkpGraduation on twitter where you'll find many more videos and pictures and here's the links to some of my favorite videos since i can't post them here:

[ link one ] [ link two ] [ link three ] [ link four ] [ link five ] [ link six ]

[otomeorangejuice]

The last post I reblogged sent me on a spiral so here's how all the LADS LIs are nerds.

Zayne: He's a surgeon, that went through med school. Next.

Jk. Definitely the kinda guy to tell you random facts about the body, forgetting how gross some of them are and getting really embarrassed when his medical nerd talk puts you off your dinner. Loves explaining things whether it's his job or weird things about the human body. Tbh if he wasn't a doctor he'd probs be a teacher. Also ik it's his job but the lab coat SCREAMS nerd.

Caleb: military pilot with gravity powers, NERD. His fave subjects in school were probably physics and maths. Can name pretty much any aircraft at a glance and will yap to you about physics theories and the inner working of his favourite planes if you let him.

Everybody except those closest to him thinks he's just smart and cool but MC, Zayne and Gideon know that he's a chronic nerd that shows his affection by yapping at you about how cool planes are.

Rafayel: Art nerd. Now I don't think he'd care much about human art history overall, although I do feel he'd have a soft spot for the likes of Impressionism. But he's a nerd about the craft, the materials. He canonically creates his own pigments from seashells and such (which as a fellow art nerd I find so cool) but I personally believe he's probably experimented with trying to get natural pigments from all sorts of things.

This man is a colour theory girlie and he will ramble on to anyone about specific pigments and how he's aiming to achieve them. Thomas can pretty much rattle off the way he works by memory and sometimes finds himself looking at different things and wondering if that will give Rafayel the shade he's looking for. He low-key hates it but he tells himself it's for the good of the exhibitions and the art scene at the end of the day.

Sylus: Now I know we all joke that he's an old man but personally I think he's both a music and tech nerd. Like every person who knows about technology only trusts it so much (Catch him hating how much AI junk is infecting our lives ATM) plus Mephisto exists, like I think his tech parts are Sylus' doing. He's also a nerd about weapons and mostly collects them for fun only having a few that he actually uses for combat while overall preferring to use his fists and his evol.

Now he can't play music to save his life but he has the best audio systems money can buy, he has several record players, some vintage, some modern and he collects all sorts of vintage music paraphernalia. (Catch him having one of Eddie Van Halen's guitars on display). He canonically likes the Beatles (there's a pile of records as a decoration for his room on one of them is labeled Beatles) so I think he'd be a classic rock fan (Fits his vibe) but he still enjoys classical and opera

Xavier: Now Xavier is the only one who I don't think is a nerd. He's worse. This man is a gamer. From old school Nintendo to the newest VR releases he's played a good mix of everything. Personally I feel like he leans towards cozy games, has the cutest animal crossing island and the most impressive farm on stardew valley. Has definitely made himself and MC in the Sims (and then made Charlie and removed the ladder while he was in the pool). But he's also a god at the likes of the Bloodborne series. If he's feeling particularly jealous or pent up a few rounds of bashing bosses on Elden Ring will make him feel better. Also don't try playing a fighting game with him, he'll wreck you at Street Fighter.

And there we are the nerd (and gamer) squad.

[gamesetattach]

On the Record

Jannik Sinner x Reader A well liked personality in the tennis world, reader is one the favored sports commentators. Her interviews always make headlines for all the right reasons—the people love to watch her crack all their favorite players... especially Jannik Sinner because, I mean, the poor boy seems to just shatter. Honestly. Somewhere in time, this was an 800 word blurb... And now it's nearly 8,000. Not sure when that happened. This just became a tennis player personality study at some point, tbh

---

You weren’t just another sports commentator—you’d quickly made a name for yourself in your short career in the tennis world. The networks and the fans loved you, and so did the players. Your approach was the kind where players actually liked talking, one that made post-match interviews feel less like an obligation and more like an easy conversation. You had built a reputation for striking the perfect balance—professional and sharp, but always with just the right amount of humor to put players at ease.

It wasn’t uncommon for your analyses and your interviews to be clipped and spread, tennis fans enjoyed your commentary and admired how effortlessly you got athletes to open up. You asked questions that felt fresh, steering clear of the usual clichés that players had answered a hundred times before. You could tease them just enough to get a smile, knew when to pull back, when to lean in. And many of the players responded more than favorably to that.

---

Ben Shelton was a natural entertainer—electric on the court, brimming with confidence, always ready with a quip. But post-match interviews? Reporters could easily get him ticked off—understandably so. Questions were too often repetitive, formulaic, and sometimes interviews could be straight up disrespectful.

But with you holding the mic, it was never that.

"Ben! Congratulations on the win—another five-setter. You really like giving the crowd a show, huh?" you teased once, microphone in hand as he wiped sweat from his forehead.

Shelton grinned, shaking his head. "Look, I’m just trying to keep ticket sales up. If I finish in straights, what’s the fun in that?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Tell us, do you hold back on that power serve of yours sometimes—just to keep the game going?"

"I don’t know about all that," he replied smoothly, "But I will say, the longer I’m out here, the more entertainment value there is. I’m doing everyone else a favor."

"Selfless. A true man of the people." The crowd laughed, and so did you. “I can see why they like you.”

Ben nodded at you, moving to dap you up as the cameraman dipped the lens for the interview to wrap up. "See, you get it."

The moment was well loved, fans loving the ease of your exchanges. And that was nothing unusual—your interviews often made waves.

---

Your position often called for a sensitive touch, and your intuition meant you navigated that aspect better than most. You were always sure to respect the players’ boundaries.

When Jack Draper won his first top-ten match of the season, it hadn’t been pretty. He had barely scraped through in three sets, visibly struggling throughout, even throwing up courtside between games. It was impressive tennis, but it had been the kind of match that took everything out of both players, winner or not.

Networks had a certain, set agenda, and the players all knew of that obligation. And so some commentators might’ve been waiting, mic in hand—ready to pounce with questions about endurance, fitness, and whether he should’ve retired—without being mindful of the condition he was in. You’d offered Draper’s circumstance more tact and understanding than others would have.

You caught sight of him near the bench, after barely celebrating and stumbling his way to the net to shake hands with his opponent. He was still catching his breath as he toweled off and gathered his things, the sideline cameras were on him as your own crew quickly assembled in the middle of the court. You’d gently approached, mic cast behind your back to prevent any sound from being picked up, crouching slightly so he wouldn’t have to stop his movements to answer you. 

The exhaustion was evident in his features to all who watched, his skin pale beneath the sweat, and you kept your voice soft, careful. "Jack, hey—no pressure. Are you feeling up for the interview? All good if not, I can cover for you."

Jack blinked up at you, sluggish, like it took effort to focus. For a split second, you’d even wondered if you should’ve asked at all—maybe it was better to deflect the crowd and let him slip away. But then recognition clicked in his eyes, and for a moment you thought he might wave you off, but he moved his head just a fraction down in a nod.

With a small, grateful smile at his lips, he said. "Nah, I’m good. Just… maybe we keep it short?"

You nodded immediately. "Of course. I got you."

So you’d kept the interview brief and simple, unprobing. Your voice stayed even, the questions light and general.

"Jack, congratulations. That was an impressive win against an impressive opponent. What are your thoughts coming out of it?" You asked, keeping the question away from his state.

 "Yeah, tough one today, but looking forward to tomorrow." Jack exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Apologizes for the throw up, everyone.”

A soft chuckle rippled through the crowd.

You’d smiled, keeping it easy. "I won’t keep you long, but one thing’s for sure—you showed a lot of fight out there and we’re sure you will tomorrow as well. Anything more you’d like to say to the crowd, along with that?"

Jack turned toward the stands, where the crowd erupted into cheers just at the acknowledgment. "Yeah, just… thanks for sticking it out with me. You all carried me through."

You gave him a nod, and he backed out of the frame with a grateful look as he took your okay to head out. "Alright. Go get some rest, Jack. You’ve earned it."

---

Sometimes, you’d poke fun with the players—though you never crossed the line. And those interviews always showed the strength of your rapport with those on tour.

Carlos Alcaraz was truly sunshine personified. Always wearing that wide smile, he was friendly with everyone. And, with you, he was always outright charmed, knowing the interview would be memorable and fun.

After yet another dramatic comeback win, you stood across from him, shaking your head. "Carlos, you make my job so hard. I try to plan questions, but every time you pack the game with so many good shots I have a hard time choosing which one to talk about."

“Sorry.” He said, grinning and laughing up at the crowd. "You know, maybe I'll make it easy for you next time."

"Now, don’t do that. We love watching you fall into the splits and run all over the place." You both chuckled, and you continued with your questions. “Tell me, today was a spectacular match—now you're moving on to the finals—will you get a tattoo of the match date?”

“We’ll see,” Carlos’s smile had widened at that, if even possible. "If I win, maybe. Let’s see."

“What makes a day great enough to qualify for a tattoo of the date?”

“I always just try and play well, but if there’s something really special—then I like to remember that.” He shifted his weight back and forth between his feet, nodding up at the crowd as they cheered. “Especially with the great fan atmosphere, like here in the tournament.”

"Well Carlos, if you continue playing as well as you did today, I think you may run out of space pretty soon."

He’d grinned, pointing to the tiny text of his newest addition. "I get them small, still have lots of room. On the legs and all—"

You shook your head. "I say, skip the legs—go straight for the forehead."

He threw his head back at that, leaning up and away from the mic for a full-bellied laugh, and the crowd erupted with him. "We’ll see, we’ll see."

"Alright, Carlos! Thank you for your time. Great tennis tonight, we’ll see you again in two nights against Rune!" You easily finished, wrapping up the interview as he waved once more to the crowd.

---

The same often went with Andrey Rublev, a character loved by all. An intense firestorm on the court, but forever soft-spoken off it. He was one that could be reserved and bashful in interviews, even though he often couldn’t help his witty remarks—a large part of why he was so well liked. 

“Andrey, congratulations! You’re having a great year so far—making it to the finals again after just winning a title,” He nodded, taking off his headband as you began the interview. “I was wondering, do you have any new superstitions this season? Or any old ones that have evolved over time?"

“Superstitions… I don’t know...” Rublev exhaled, brushing a hand through his damp hair. His eyes landed on the headband he was spinning on a finger. "Maybe this one—the headband. When I was younger, in juniors or something, I didn't have this long hair, but now before the match I’m tying like this every time."

“Ah yes, I’ve had the privilege of seeing you primp and preen before a match.” You’d teased, laughing lightly. “It’s quite the routine.”

“Yes…” He smiled, looking down a little. “It’s not so easy.”

“I mean, yeah, with that head of hair—I believe it.” You grinned at him. “I know you always looked up to Rafa Nadal growing up, do you feel like it’s kind of an ode to him?”

“Yes, of course. He was always my favorite—I was… when I was little, I was always wearing the same kit as him. Same shorts and shirt, and headband—everything. But, yes, it takes some time in front of the mirror.”

“That it does—you diva.” You laughed, and those in the stands followed suit.

“No… Diva? What is this?” Rublev glanced off camera before looking back at you, perplexed but smiling still.

“Don’t worry about it… They know.” The crowd cheered again.

He shook his head at you, chuckling a little before he gestured to you in confusion at the crowd.

You continued on, still laughing to yourself. “Everyone, Andrey Rublev! Our finalist—thank you Andrey!”

With that, the sound of your mics cut out and the other commentators came back into the audio, but the camera stayed on you and Rublev—panning out a bit. The remainder of your teasing conversation could be seen, with you presumably explaining what you had meant by diva between laughs and him playfully swatting you away immediately after. 

It was a fan favorite moment, one that Rublev couldn’t seem to escape for the rest of the season. He was always sure to give you shit for it whenever he saw you around, but no one—including him—could deny that you always carried out the most entertaining interviews.

Though no interview was watched quite as closely as your ones with Jannik Sinner, however…

---

When it came to Jannik, the lens people would watch your interviews with became something else entirely.

The same reason people loved your interviews still held true—the way you got players to open up, the way you made even the most media-wary athletes feel at ease.

And Jannik wasn’t cold by any means, but he was careful. Composed. Someone who, in most press conferences and interviews, gave measured almost scripted answers, efficient and to the point. He was never rude—just reserved. He’d smile, be polite, but rarely let people in further than he had to.

And yet, every time it was you standing across from him, microphone in hand, his expression changed—softer, just barely perceptible. But people started to catch on… And when they did, they started to look for it as well.

A flicker of something lighter in his eyes, the way his usual, fidgety stance seemed to relax. If fans didn’t know him well, they might’ve missed it. But those who did could always tell that, even if he would never express it outright, he genuinely enjoyed talking to you.

---

One of the first times people noticed it was soon after your promotion, when you conducted one of your earlier on-court interviews.

It was after an iconic, comeback three-set win of Jannik’s. And something about the way he answered your questions—the way he looked at you—set the viewers abuzz. It was like the crowd had faded away for him. He still inserted his usual expressions of gratitude, but it seemed you and your questions were the center of his focus. 

"Jannik, long night for you. With quite an abrupt turnaround," you had started, a smile in your voice as he nodded at your words. "Was there ever a moment where you doubted that you could take back the match? You were down for the first half there."

“No—,” He blinked, a smile slowly growing on his face. "What do you think of me? I try not to doubt… Of course, it’s not so easy but…"

He grinned at you as he trailed off, and you jumped right back in. "Oh, so you always knew you could take the game back is what you’re saying?"

His eyes stayed on you, corners of his lips twitching up again. "No, but—it’s important to stay positive. You know… I just try and play well."

“You just try…” You scoffed and looked at the camera. “You know, I think on most people’s best and most positive days, they probably can't serve so many aces in a row…”

Jannik shrugged, smiling up at the crowd as the crowd laughed at his nonchalant reaction.

It wasn’t necessarily a funny answer, or even a funny question, but Jannik’s cheeky smile and your quiet laughs in response added another layer to the tone of the interview. The audience cheered at his demeanor, a rare display of tasteful gloating from one of the world's best players. 

That interview reemerged pretty consistently, you just brought out a different side of him. Not too many saw it then, but those who did were hooked.

---

The moment people most loved to replay went down after a late-afternoon match, the sun casting long shadows over the court as Jannik walked back on court for the interview, exhausted but victorious against his self-proclaimed rival. When he saw you waiting for him on the service, he didn’t just nod in acknowledgement and snap into his professional, media mode—his face visibly brightened, a slow smile tugging at his lips before he even reached you.

The smile stayed on his face, eyes fixed on you as you gave the cursory congratulations and eased the viewers into the interview while welcoming Jannik to the frame. "—and you had quite a few dives today, are you still in one piece?" You transitioned the introduction into the first question, microphone poised at his mouth after asking.

He nodded, eyes having never left you, but stayed quiet. His mouth opened as if starting to answer, but then he stopped and shook his head, hands on his hips. "... Sorry, can you repeat the question."

He pushed down protruding hairs under the brim of his cap with a sheepish smile as the audience laughed.

“Wow, zoning out already—that was only the first question Jannik.” You shook your head in teasing disapproval at the camera, and the corner of his mouth lifted to widen his smile at your reaction. “That might have been an answer to the question in and of itself—maybe you’re not in one piece… I asked about the dives you took during the match—any scrapes or scratches?”

“Ah, okay,” He nodded in understanding, catching up and smiling when people laughed once more. “No I—I’m okay. It is hard court, yes, but no scrapes so far.”

“Seems like Carlos has that effect on you, doesn’t he? You’re always diving after his balls—” You cut yourself off immediately, hand slapping to cover your mouth when you realized how that last sentence could have been interpreted.

You doubled over in laughter, unable to help yourself, and Jannik joined in when he pieced it together. It took you too long to recover, more time than was professional for sure, but the stadium was laughing along with you. Jannik watched as you tried again and again to compose yourself before you broke back into laughter each time, he chuckled at you while wagging a finger at the camera.

Then he set his palm on top of yours, taking your hand holding the mic to lift it to his mouth. “What kind of interview is this?”

The crowd went wild, pleased to see Jannik play into the humor of the situation. You wiped tears from your eyes and covered your face in embarrassment, his hand still over yours for longer than it needed to be. 

When he returned the mic, and your hand, you gave an exaggerated look of regret towards the camera, breaking the fourth wall in more ways than one. “So sorry if I violated any network guidelines with that one… Did not mean for the interview to take this turn…”

And then the production assistant behind the camera, also in tears from laughter, signaled that time was almost up. Jannik teasingly threw his hands in the air when he saw the count down, poking fun at the fact that you’d derailed the interview and eaten up the screen time.

You lifted the mic and continued, shaking your head at yourself once more while smiling. “Looks like we need to wrap this up… Jannik any final words?”

“Well this is also some of my first words…” He laughed as you mouthed something in response. Don’t remind me, you’d mimed. “But I want to thank everyone here for the good energy and Carlos for another great game… And, of course, thank you for finishing off this day with such a… interesting interview.”

He said the last bit towards you, not missing the opportunity to tease you further—and nobody missed that.

The interview had understandably blown up. It had all the makings of a viral moment. An accidental, suggestive line implicating both Carlos and Jannik was bound to spread like a wildfire. Adding Jannik’s funny reaction on top of that only fueled the fire. People enjoyed seeing the facade of his usual composure break, fans were quick to interact with those rare moments where he revealed more of his charm and humor. 

Though somehow, with all the traction the clip received, the discourse always seemed to land on you. Or rather, how he was with you. After getting past the comedic banter in the video, people started commenting on his behavior. On how he looked at you, how he seemed to miss the first question because he was admiring you. How he took your hand with no hesitation, and how you seemed unfazed by the touch. He was clearly comfortable with you—and you with him, judging by how naturally you took his teasing.

And so, anyone who wasn't already watching the two of you closely certainly started to after that.

---

It wasn’t just post-match interviews people watched. It was media days, press conferences, those brief moments of footage where your paths crossed in hallways.

Fans really started to notice the way his eyes would stay on you, taking just a second longer than necessary before answering the question. The way he always seemed to open up when it was you on the other side of the mic. 

Jannik wasn’t the type to talk much during an interview, he kept his answers concise, but with you, there was always something—an easy joke, a quick remark, sometimes he’d even ramble on in an answer. 

"Try to behave this one," he had joked when you were up to interview him after another game against Carlos, referencing that one, fateful slipup of yours a few months after its debut. You gave him a look, that line was sure to spread everywhere whether or not the rest of the interview was entertaining, and you both knew it. The people present in the stands were already whooping.

"I’ll try my best,” You smirked anyways. “I’ll try my best not to mention how Carlos gets you to fall for him.”

The crowd roared, and he shifted his jaw as he laughed with you. “That’s not how you said this the last time.”

“Well, I made many promises to many important people that I wouldn’t say anything like last time. Ever again.” You winked at the camera. “—Not on TV, at least.”

He inhaled a laugh, “Good. It’s for the best.”

"Okay… Let’s leave that behind us." You raised your brows at him as you offered a hand to shake in truce.

“Okay. Promise.” He took your hand, trying to look serious while fighting back a smile.

“Okay.” You nodded up at him, matching his expression even though your lips pursed with an incoming laugh, hands intertwined.

You both just stood like that for a beat, looking at each other with your hands clasped in a stilled handshake, laughter clearly threatening to take over. He was the first to break the silence.

“Are you going to ask a question, or what?” A smile ripped onto his face, and then your laugh just had to come out. Everyone in the stands had been in pieces since the interview’s start, but the laughter doubled at that.

“Yeah, yeah,” You shook your head. “What am I going to do with you—I’m going to be out of a job.”

“Ah, no. You’re too good for that.” His own laugh had faded into an amused smile. An affectionate one, even.

“Hear that?” You address the camera, deadpanning. “Glad we got that on tape.”

That interview continued on without any inappropriate hitches, though it stayed just as entertaining throughout. 

And it wasn’t just a one-off thing. The more you interviewed him, the more obvious it became—it was a pattern. And the common denominator was you.

Fans were relentless. They clipped every smirk, every subtle glance. Every moment where Jannik let himself react.

He’s always laughing when its her She’s the only one who gets him to act like this. i love how he forgets all his media training when he’s with her Jannik, blink twice if you’re in love There’s no way they’re not a thing. If theyre not, they should be. Like now.

---

The best part? The most implicating part? You never even tried to make those moments with him. It just… happened. It always happened.

Like the time you’d been interviewing another player on court—someone else entirely, an opponent he’d lost to. Jannik could be seen in the back of the frame, still packing up at his bench. You hadn’t given any sign of noticing him, there was no moment of acknowledgement, you were faced away from Jannik as you interviewed the winning player with your usual, unique questions and comfortable professionalism—but the viewers’ eyes were on Jannik in the distance more than the interview itself, because the camera had caught everything. 

It seemed the moment Jannik realized it was you speaking, that it was you on court, his head snapped to your direction. He was slower in gathering his things, looking back at you often. Even when signing things for fans on the sidelines, he’d turn his face to you every time you laughed. When he did finally walk out, his eyes stayed trained on you, turning his neck towards you until you simply had to leave line of sight. 

And, even after the loss, it seemed he had a slight smile playing on his lips when he left. The soft kind, the same one he always seemed to wear when you were around. 

Fans had slowed it down frame by frame, zooming in—and they saw it all.

---

The phenomenon quickly took on a life of its own. People had moved past just noticing, fan just straight up speculated after a while. Even other players and commentators were aware of the trope—it was everywhere online and it was hard to ignore the dynamic between you and him even in person.

It started small. A few viral clips, some curious tweets, the occasional comment under a post-match interview: He never laughs like that with anyone else. But that phase passed quickly. Then the compilation videos came in swarms soon after. The frame-by-frame breakdowns of every interview, every shared glance, every moment where Jannik seemed just a little too engaged, a little too interested.

"It’s the way he looks at her," Coco Guaff even said in a WTA YouTube video, the content being a montage of players’ talking about associations and relationships with umpires and broadcasters. You and Coco had an easy friendship, despite your role usually landing on the ATP side, so it only made sense that she dropped your name… 

But it just so happened that her mention of you very quickly devolved into propaganda supporting those fan speculations of Jannik’s relationship to you.

"I mean, that’s not normal." She continued, shrugging at the camera as she giggled to herself. “The proof is in the footage, I don’t know what to tell you.” 

And that wasn’t the only instance—Coco herself being notorious for backing the allegations.

Once, a post on a tennis podcast’s Instagram had gone doubly viral after she liked it. It was a screenshot of Jannik in mid-interview with you, visibly engaged, stars in his eyes. The text above the image read: Mans has never been happier in his life.

And the comments were rampant.

Need someone to look at me like that Guys, Coco liked?? You’d never know he just won a title, looks like the highlight of his day is just her Si vede che è cotto! Uh, heyy Coco

Another, a comparison of images—A photo of Jannik immediately after a match, visibly drained, side-by-side with another of him only minutes after, beaming down at you. Find someone who looks at you the way Jannik Sinner looks at his favorite commentator.

Forget clostebol, bros drug is just love Si vede che è cotto a puntino if they have no fans, im dead 

Even official tennis accounts and sports networks got in on it, subtly referencing it in posts and during match breakdowns and things of that sort. 

The ATP social team once posted a story of you two laughing behind the scenes on media day. And people immediately jumped on it, the screenshot spreading all over twitter.

Tennis Channel’s table of commentators once referenced you after discussing the tennis rankings and Jannik’s consistent performance.

“How does he do it?” One asked, after running through Jannik’s match statistics and win streak.

“I’m not sure, but I doubt he’d say.”

“We gotta get [Your Name] to ask, then I’m sure he’ll tell all.” Another chimed in.

Everyone at the table laughed, very obviously understanding the context. “It’s true, it’s true.”

And, of course, that clip was everywhere within minutes of it airing, as well.

...But the kick of it all was that neither of you ever seemed to deny the rumors—no matter how many times they were thrown at your face…

It wasn’t like anyone was subtle about it.

---

Once, Frances Tiafoe, never one to pass up the chance for a joke, had been sitting in the player locker lounge when Jannik walked in after a win. 

“The match was tough,” He said as he briefly looked up from his phone to clap Jannik’s hand in congratulations. Then Frances smiled to himself before tacking on a cheeky line for the room to hear. “I’m sure the extra motivation helped… Knowing you’d get your favorite interviewer after, and all that."

Frances immediately seized with laughter, cracking himself up, and others around chuckled with equal enjoyment.

Jannik only shook his head as he made his way to the stationary bikes, smiling at Tiafoe’s antics, but he was mostly unfazed. He didn’t bother to give a response—no denial, not even much overt amusement—just that calm, neutral reaction. Masterfully deflecting without a single word.

It was the response he always gave when people brought it up, behind closed doors or otherwise.

Like when John McEnroe playfully called Jannik out on camera during a post-match interview after a Grand Slams quarterfinals. When Jannik approached the court again after winning, waving at the stands, it was McEnroe waiting to ask questions, mic in hand. 

The crowd still listened and cheered throughout the interview, hanging on to all of Jannik’s words, but it was nothing compared to the reactions your interviews always prompted.

McEnroe decided to bring you up towards the end of his questions, dramatically sighing and shaking his head. "Alright, thanks for humoring me Jannik—Sorry it’s me today and not your favorite commentator."

The audience roared at your mention, but Jannik only exhaled a laugh, catching one of his ankles in his hands to stretch as he simply shook his head. 

And McEnroe took Jannik’s lack of response as an answer. "Won’t even deny it, huh?"

Jannik just smiled, eyes drifting off to his box, and McEnroe took the action as reason to continue. Looking towards the camera in exaggerated belief, he threw his hands up, “And now he’s looking away from me—Wow, I can’t even keep his attention.”

Jannik laughed at that, placing a friendly hand on McEnroe’s shoulder. “No, I just—I saw my team say something so I looked over.”

“Right, right.” McEnroe kept on with his lamenting, teasing at the point further. “I was only the World Number One for a bit, won 70 titles…”

“I think—I think we go back to the questions, maybe.” Jannik said jokingly and McEnroe let out one more incredulous laugh. 

“Okay, I’ll try… but I’m starting to doubt if I’m any good at that now…”

“I have no favorite.” Jannik finally offered, his voice faint as the mic was still pointed away from him.

“Too late, Jannik, it’s too late.” 

The moment was all in jest, and John was sure to relay the interaction back to you later that day, as if you hadn't already watched it unfold live. You only laughed in response, teasingly placating him but never touching on what he’d suggested in the interview. McEnroe was just one of many peers in the sports broadcasting world that would make little comments to you, and you never gave them much of anything.

It was harder when players called you out though—especially when they did it live, in front of thousands of people.

Fresh off a hard-fought win, Matteo was still slightly out of breath when you grinned at him for the interview. "Matteo, great tennis out there today! We’ve been seeing you play at the net a lot more since your return—more confident, more aggressive with those volleys—tell us about that."

"No, no, I think I've always felt comfortable at the net.” He shook his head immediately, ducking his head down to really look at you, teasing glint in his eyes. “Maybe you’re too young to know my earlier game… or maybe you’re getting me confused with someone else."

The crowd already latched on to the reference, a collective ooh passing through the stands, you tried your best to play dumb despite that. You went the first reason he offered,  "I mean I remember watching your games before I got on the job, but if I blocked out memories of volleys like today’s, then no one’s more sorry than I am."

Matteo smirked, looking out toward the crowd, not letting you change the subject or take the easy way out. "I know we’re both Italian, but come on."

You allowed a laugh, but were quick to move on, not lingering on Matteo’s implication very long.

The exchange had made the highlight reels, fans eating up both Matteo’s teasing and your barely-there reaction, and the way you had to abruptly ask the next question to avoid it from dragging on too long.

But the teasing, the compilations, the endless speculation—it was all fun, all harmless. Because as far as anyone knew, it was just a fan theory. Just playful banter and an easy chemistry that everyone got to bear witness to. And, if yours and Jannik’s response to all the teasing was anything to go by, it really was just baseless guess work—after all, neither of you had ever given concrete proof on any of it.

But most continued to entertain it anyways, because if it was true: it was only a matter of time before it came out…

---

The long-awaited proof came after an especially grueling match of Jannik’s.

The game had been absolutely brutal.

It was one of those that felt less like a tennis match and more like a battle of sheer will. Three and a half hours in the sweltering heat, the air thick and unmoving, turning every rally into a war of attrition. Jannik had fought through service games that stretched over ten minutes, through back-to-back tie-breaks where every point had felt like a match in itself. He had been pushed to his limits, his legs leaden, his body aching from the relentless pace. Every time it seemed like he had finally broken free, his opponent clawed back, forcing another hold, another deuce, another impossibly long rally. 

By the final set, even his renowned movements had lost their usual crispness, his footwork a fraction slower, his serves just a little less sharp. But he refused to let up.

So when he finally won—when the last point ended and his opponent’s shot sailed long—it took him a second to process it. It took a second for everyone watching, too.

He barely lifted his arms in victory, letting his head drop as he panted. The stadium erupted around him, the crowd on their feet, but it seemed that all he could think about was how his entire body felt like it had been wrung out. He made his way to the net, movements heavy but thoughtful in his handshake and hug as he offered a good game to the opponent that matched and elevated his level throughout the game. Then trudged toward his bench with a nod to the umpire, shoulders still rising and falling with every exhausted breath.

The play had tested endurance more than anything—nearly four hours under the blazing afternoon sun, and no easy points. He held his face into his towel for a long moment, and then flicked water from his bottle over his face and on the back of his neck, his usual expression one of raw exhaustion. 

He barely had enough left in him to toss a fist into the air when he made his way back onto the court, though the crowd had yet to cease their cheering. And then he all but stumbled his way over to you.

You. Waiting just off the service line, a steady presence in the chaos, a welcome face after the intense match.

And the familiarity of it, of you, cut through his exhaustion. Your expression was still pleasant, but it was different from the smile you usually had during interviews. There was something tight under your professional exterior—concern, maybe subtle, but unmistakable once anyone saw it. It was in the way your eyes flickered over him, assessing, before you even said a word.

And still, as he approached, his gaze softened—as it always did when his eyes landed on you. But his face was flushed from the heat, sweat dampening the curls at the nape of his neck, so as he stepped closer, you instinctively reached out, fingertips brushing against his arm before you pulled back.

Maybe people would pick up the small gesture later, but for now the stadium was still roaring, the energy crackling through the stands. You hadn’t moved to begin the interview yet, your crew still assembling beside you.

He gave you the slightest of nods, eyelids low and heavy. You held his eyes, raising a single brow, before giving the go-ahead to the production assistant. And then the mic was live, and you fell into interview mode.

Or you tried to, as best as you could.

"Jannik—what can I even say? That was a battle out there," you started. "I know you love tennis, but a part of you has to hate it at least a little right now. I mean, congratulations for sure, but are you regretting any life decisions?"

His head was down for most of your intro, chin tucked to his chest as he rolled out his ankles and looked at you through the brim of his cap. He smiled, despite himself—he could always count on you to keep the mood high.

“What do you mean? That was the most fun I’ve had in my life.” His voice was a little labored, but he managed to answer lightly.

“The scary part is, I believe you.” The crowd laughed. “I think we can all agree, watching that match was the most fun any tennis fan could have. Honestly.”

You had to raise your volume towards the end of your praise as the audience joined in to cheer in agreement. It really had been an incredible display of the sport.

The stands then erupted into a joint song, all chanting his name in unison. You dropped the mic as he stepped back to humbly receive the attention, and he looked up at the people while you looked up at him.

You held the mic back to him after the chants subsided, knowing his next move would be to thank the crowd. “Thank you everyone for supporting. It really is an incredible thing to play such tennis with this amazing crowd—it’s very special. Thank you!”

He waved up at everyone for a moment longer before returning his attention back to you. You were waiting patiently, watching him with a tender smile. 

“We should probably be grateful that even such a taxing match could only make you love tennis more.” You restarted, picking back up from your initial question. “I don’t know if the sport could take it if that wasn’t the case—”

“No, I will be honest—” Jannik interjected, and you tilted the mic to him so it could catch his voice properly. “I will be honest. Right now I feel good, tired, but good. But maybe tomorrow, when I wake up, my legs will be sore and this kind of things… and then I might hate tennis—just a little bit. I will still be happy, but…”

“Wow, thank you for the honesty.” You laughed at the confession. “But even then, you say hate but it’s probably just like a ‘minus one’, right?”

“That’s true, 'minus one' on a scale of ten.”

“So where do you usually rank tennis, when you're not terribly sore? On a scale of ten?”

“... At least 11, maybe higher.” He said grinning, proud of the answer.

“So, we’re right back where we started then.” You threw up your hands in fake exasperation. “I’m trying to make you look bad here, at least help me a little.”

He shrugged and continued to smile at you, and you shook your head before moving the interview along. “In two days, hopefully after recovering from any remaining soreness, you’ll face off with De Minaur. He’s been playing really well throughout the tournament, how do you plan to approach that?”

He nodded thoughtfully, as he shifted to stretch his legs. It seemed that his adrenaline had faded again, along with the banter and the peak of the crowd’s celebration. The tension of exhaustion furrowed his eyebrows once more as his smile lessened while he took a moment to deliberate an answer. 

“Alex and I are good friends, we practice together often and he’s a great player. I look forward to playing him in the finals. And hopefully, we can make a good match like today.”

You cast a glance at your production assistant, who signaled that you still had half the allotted session for the interview left, before nodding at Jannik’s answer. You decided to use up the bulk of the remaining time yourself, to help take the weight of Jannik a bit, and so you let your next question have a long and wordy lead up.

“You and Alex go way back. You kind of made your breakthrough a little after his, winning the ATP Next Gen tournament against him soon after he broached the top 20. You’ve kind of revolved near each other since then—you practice together often, like you mentioned—and it seems you and him often make big evolutions for your respective careers in and around the same tournaments.” You droned on, stalling an actual ask of any question, and you hoped no one took notice.

His face was strained, though his eyes were still on you—even though you hoped to cover your intent, it seemed Jannik had caught on to your attempt to alleviate the need for him to use any further brain power. You could tell he’d switched off from listening because of it, now focusing on his body. You continued to string together facts in the background, trying to catalog Jannik’s state as you did. 

Within the minute and half you spoke, it seemed he couldn’t help but fidget in all his fatigue. He flexed his right wrist once. And lifted one heel, and then the other. Rolling his shoulders back four times and then forward three times. He hit the heel of his palm against his quads, once, then once more. And his fingers twitched, rubbing absently at the sorest spots—digging into the tender muscle of his forearm, kneading at the base of his neck. 

Every shift in position came with the faintest grimace, something only you could catch in your proximity to him. In all your closeness to him.

Then Jannik parted his mouth every so slightly, a quiet exhale leaving him as he did. He shifted his jaw side to side in a slow, stiff motion, testing the tension held there before it clicked with a faint pop. And, words still on autopilot, you forgot yourself.

You kept speaking, though the spiel was probably well past erring on excessive, but you unconsciously reached a hand up. Your palm settled on the side of his face, index on the bone behind his ear, thumb on hinge of his jaw. Your fingers nestled under the hair at the nape of his neck as you gently rubbed your thumb back and forth. 

It was a simple, almost thoughtless action. An instinct. An undeniably intimate one. And then, before you could move to pull away, he caught your hand in his.

He lifted it ever so slightly, so your palm rested on his cheek, and he pressed his own hand into yours as he leaned his face into your touch. 

The gesture was effortless, organic, like he had done it a hundred times before. Like he needed it then.

He sighed and his eyes flickered closed. His thumb brushed against the back of your hand, and he didn’t let go immediately. And when he did open his eyes, his expression softened just slightly as he glanced at you, as if all his strain melted away with your warmth.  

The whole display happened within just a handful of seconds, but it was like the stadium fell still. And it might have just been the moment between you, but as you slipped your hand back to your side from underneath his, it really did feel like the entirety of the crowd was holding their breath.

You had trailed off somewhere in your monologue, and you couldn’t be sure of where, but you didn’t dare risk a look at the camera or towards your crew. The audience came alive again, murmurs rippling through the stands.

Jannik ran a hand over his face, taking only a beat to reset and set his attention back to the interview, looking as collected as ever. You tried to follow suit and compose yourself, finally asking the last question. "So, how do you plan to go into the match with Alex?"

You resisted smacking your hand to your face as soon as you said it. That might as well have been the exact question you’d asked earlier—it basically was—and it was far from the natural recovery you’d wanted. But Jannik, to his credit, took the redundant ask in stride and mixed up his response from his last one.

“Alex has kind of this defensive playing style that matches well with mine, and, of course, he’s fast and has the ability to return every ball. I’ve seen him grow and develop into an even better player in the past few years… so, it will be a very tough match—but, we’ll see.”

“Yes, we will!” You tried not to slump in relief when you caught the times-up signal in your periphery, and faked the best, most enthusiastic camera voice you could muster. “Thank you, Jannik, and good luck!”

You avoided his eyes, and the lens of the camera, and he smirked a little at that as he waved once more to the crowd before walking back to his bag. You allowed a single glance at him when he moved to the tunnel after signing some autographs, and he was already looking towards you. His smile was small and teasing, and you could see the mirth in his eyes even from your distance. You shook your head at his expression, just enough for him to see—he should’ve been more scared.

Because you both were in for it.

It was all out now.

---

The internet lost its mind.

For a year—two, even—everyone had speculated. The entirety of the tennis world.

They analyzed every glance, every subtle moment, every clipped interaction, convinced there was something there. And now? There was no denying it.

What you both pulled in that last interview couldn’t be faked, it couldn’t be rationalized. This wasn’t playful banter or a viral compilation of smirks and long-held eye contact. This was something neither of you could explain away. It was intrinsic. Reflexive intimacy, something was too practiced, too familiar.

It was proof.

Slow-motion replays were everywhere even before you ended the interview. The reception flooded all social media platforms.

Okay that wasn’t just chemistry. That was straight-up muscle memory. This whole time??? This WHOLE time?? I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT. Guys we called it

Tennis journalists tried to stay professional, but even the most formal accounts posted some variation of "well, this is interesting… "

And the fan posts were endless. Someone strung together a complete timeline of your relationship, tracing back all the way to when you started your role. Another person edited a fake wedding invite. 

And the players—the players…

When Jannik walked into the gym to cool down, it was like stepping into an ambush. All eyes were on him.

Everyone behind the scenes has stopped in their tracks to watch the legendary game of his that had just gone down. And so, everyone behind the scenes also witnessed your accidental reveal. The confirmation.

Every congratulations he received was immediately followed up with some sort of reference to it.

“Great game,” Alex De Minuar said. “...And, mate… the whole time?

"That game was insane, man…" Ben Shelton patted Jannik on the back as he passed, turning as he added. "And I guess now's as good a time as any… to hard launch I mean."

“No words, no words.” Carlos Alcaraz, from where he was stretching, shook his head up at Jannik in disbelief. “For that match, and for the reveal.”

Jannik chuckled a little with Carlos, shaking his head to himself as he moved deeper into the facility.

“I knew it so—” Coco just watched from a distance, her and Madi Keys stopping mid conversation when Jannik entered. "Like literally the whole time, I believed it."

"Niente da dire?" Nothing to say? Matteo drawled, clapping Jannik on the back with a smirk. "Neanche una spiegazioncine?" Not even a little explanation? 

And, around then, you’d made your way back to the commentary box, bracing yourself. You heard John McEnroe's voice from behind the door before you even entered. You couldn't help but cringe at the volume.

“Where is she?” The sound of a headset being placed down, with significant force. Laughter came from around him. “Where is she at?”

“Here we go.” You whispered to yourself.

---

Okay so, tell me, like for real, were you surprised? Did you know they were together all along, or did I get you? Because, I meant to get you, I did. Tell me where you realized, please please. It's okay if it wasn't a surpise, dw

Okay anyways, this was so fun. Too fun. Got carried away, in a lot of places, but I hope it's a fun read. Did not in fact edit, don't care, too long, didn't read—jk I'll go back in at some point soon. But if you're one of the lucky early few, read with one eye closed, and with the other mostly squinted.

Got almost all my favs in here, not nearly enough of the ladies, but my near-goat Ms. Coco has a cameo and what else really matters. What else really matters? And maybe, while reading, you were wondering: when is Jannik coming in? Does he ever? Well, I was wondering the same, okay...

K , kisses xx

[xuchiya]

Young Gen Love || jeong yunho || 800 follower special

| genre: fluff. slice of life. slow-burn-ish | mentions: nothing much. just a little anxiety but it is more of yunho being a gentleman.

thank you all so much, my loves! My journey here in this platform has been amazing, met a lot and lots of my loves! 🤍🥹

January 16, 2025

It was my first day on my night classes that my mom told me to apply to since it coordinates with my chosen course in college. I walk in the computer classroom, greeting everyone and the professor, I sat at the back and settle my bag down. Night classes always had a different kind of energy—dimly lit hallways, the hum of fluorescent lights, and the quiet murmur of students trying to absorb the lessons after an already long day.

I scanned my surroundings. Most of my classmates were older—some around my parents’ age, others even older. They were here to learn the basics of computers, eager but sometimes struggling with the difference between software and hardware. I admired their determination, but at the same time, a small disappointment settled in my chest.

There was no one my age. And it would be fun having someone close or older or younger than me would be my classmate, I spun on my chair, turning on my designated computer.

Just as I resigned myself to being the odd one out, the door creaked open. A tall figure walked in, gripping the strap of his backpack. Brunette hair slightly tousled, sharp eyes taking in the room, a quiet but undeniable presence. Our professor gestured for him to introduce himself.

"I'm Jeong Yunho, I'm 24 and ..." he said, voice steady, but there was a hint of nervousness underneath. "I’m here to learn more about computers. I only have basic knowledge, so... please take care of me." He bows his head before moving towards his seat which was just on my right side.

My lips quirked up.

He was a few months younger than me—just a small gap—but enough to make me feel relieved. I wasn’t alone anymore.

For two weeks, we didn’t speak. We barely even acknowledged each other kudos to my stuttering and introverted personality, but slowly, the class dynamics shifted. People became more comfortable, more familiar. I started moving around, observing other groups engagin conversatoins with them and having few shared laughters, taking notes on how they configured the computers, absorbing techniques like a sponge.

One night, I found myself hovering near his table. He was struggling on one of the tasks. Yunho was focused, brows furrowed as he listened to our professor’s explanation, his hands hovering uncertainly over the keyboard. He was clearly still learning, still figuring things out, but he was determined.

He always came to face the same error for the past 5 minutes until he sighs, "I have to redo this again ..." I chuckle, pulling a chair beside him, "You just miss one step that's why you were facing this error ... let me help."

He glances at me before nodding. He followed my instructions, even explaining to him why it needs to apply or how it functions when applied. He nods as we finish the task, he sighs in relief, turning to me.

"You're good." Yunho compliments. I chuckle, waving off his compliment but that didn't stop my cheeks from burning.

"No I'm not. I barely started my task." He looks at my open computer then back to me. A playful look on his eyebrows, "Or you're just lying to me right now and finished hours ago."

I chuckle shaking my head, "Believe me, I haven't even open File explorer."

Somehow, without realizing it, we started spending more time together—small moments, like exchanging notes, grabbing snacks during breaks, or sharing casual stories. Weeks passed, turning into months, and something about him pulled me in.

And that's where I started to notice things.

February 13, 2025

The night air was crisp, the streetlights casting a soft yellow glow along the sidewalk. The usual post-class chatter had faded as our classmates rushed off to catch their trains, leaving just the two of us walking down the main road toward my bus stop.

The city was still alive—cars rolling past with their headlights cutting through the night, distant honks echoing, and the occasional murmur of people walking ahead. I pulled my jacket tighter around me, my bag slung over one shoulder, as Yunho walked in step beside me, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.

I didn't think much of it at first, but as we walked, I noticed the way he moved—subtle, instinctive. When I unconsciously veered too close to the curb, he shifted, placing himself between me and the street without a word. I glanced up at him, but his face remained neutral, as if he hadn’t even realized he was doing it.

Curious, I tested it. I deliberately took a step closer to the road, pretending to adjust my bag strap.

Without missing a beat, he adjusted too, his shoulder brushing mine as he once again positioned himself between me and the passing cars.

I bit back a smile. But then I tried to walk in front of him, doing a little skip as I near to the road to see if he’d follow.

And he did.

A hand was suddenly were on my shoulder and pushes me gently back on the sidewalk and position himself beside me. A warmth spread through my chest. It wasn’t exaggerated. It wasn’t done for attention. He simply moved with me, like an unspoken promise to keep me safe.

"You know the rule" I finally murmured, breaking the comfortable silence. He turned his head slightly, looking down at me with mild confusion. "What rule?"

"The sidewalk rule." I lifted a brow, tilting my head toward him. For a moment, he didn’t respond, just kept walking. Then, he let out a small chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck, his ears turning red. "It’s just a habit, I guess."

"A habit?"

"Yeah." His voice was softer now. "I was raised to always walk on the side closest to the street when I’m with someone I—" He paused, clearing his throat, looking away. "—when I’m with someone important."

My breath hitched.

I turned my head away, hoping the cool air would calm the sudden rush of warmth creeping up my neck. My heart pounded so loudly I was certain he could hear it.

We walked in silence for a few more steps until the bus stop came into view. Yunho slowed his pace beside me, as if reluctant to reach it too soon.

And I realized, at that moment, I didn’t want the walk to end either.

February 21, 2025

It was late, the night air cool as our group made their way down the sidewalk towards the train station. Streetlights flickered overhead, their warm glow casting long shadows along the pavement. Conversations were scattered—some laughing, some yawning, everyone eager to get home after another long class.

As we approached my usual bus stop, the others barely slowed, waving quick goodbyes as they hurried off to catch their trains. I watched them disappear down the road, my breath fogging slightly in the chilly air.

All except one.

"You guys go ahead," Yunho’s voice came from beside me. His hands were stuffed into his jacket pockets, his posture relaxed, yet there was an undeniable certainty in his tone. "I'll wait for her til' the bus comes."

I froze.

My heart stuttered so hard I thought for sure he'd hear it. I turned slightly, expecting some kind of teasing grin, but there was none. Just him, standing there as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The others didn’t question it. They just nodded and waved, disappearing into the night. And suddenly, it was just the two of us.

The bus stop felt quieter than usual, the occasional car humming past as we stood beneath the soft glow of the streetlight. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickened. "You really didn’t have to wait, you know," I murmured, glancing up at him.

He shrugged. "It’s fine." Then, a small smirk tugged at his lips. "Can’t have you standing out here all alone, can I?"

I swallowed, warmth creeping up my neck.

For the next few minutes, we talked—about class, about the ridiculous things our professor said that night, about how our classmates were still struggling with the configurations. His voice was smooth, casual, as if this was just another normal moment. But for me?

I was barely keeping it together.

The way he stood close enough that our arms almost brushed. The way his laughter rumbled softly in the quiet night. The way he looked down at me whenever I spoke, his eyes warm and focused, like nothing else existed in that moment but me.

Then, headlights appeared in the distance. My bus.

I felt a strange disappointment settle in my chest. As the bus slowed to a stop, I turned to him, unsure of what to say. "Thanks for waiting with me," I said, my voice softer than intended.

Yunho just smiled, tilting his head slightly. "Of course."

I took a step toward the open doors, but before I could climb in, I felt a gentle tug on my wrist.

I turned, wide-eyed. Yunho’s fingers curled lightly around mine, his grip warm even in the cold air, "Get home safe ... I-" he said, his voice quieter now, more intentional yet cutting himself off which made me curious.

And then, just like that, he let go, stepping back with an easy smile, as if he hadn’t just tilted my entire world.

I somehow managed to get on the bus, my legs feeling suspiciously weak. As the doors closed and the vehicle pulled away, I turned toward the window, watching as he stood there, hands back in his pockets, watching me leave.

He didn’t move until I was completely out of sight.

I barely survived that night without combusting.

February 26, 2025

I was late.

Again.

The clock glared at me with red, unrelenting numbers as I rushed out of my internship office, my heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and urgency. The overtime had stretched longer than expected, eating into my class hours, and by the time I finally made it to the campus, an entire hour had slipped through my fingers.

I hated this. Hated the way I stumbled into the classroom, breathless, trying to make myself as invisible as possible while my professor continued the discussion without sparing me a glance. But I knew he noticed. His sharp, fleeting glance from the corner of his eye said enough.

I barely managed to slide into a chair before the weight of my lateness pressed into my chest like a cinderblock. The screen in front of me was filled with configuration steps and code I had no context for. My classmates were already deep into the task, their fingers flying over keyboards with an ease that only familiarity could bring.

I was lost.

The frustration built in my throat, burning hot and bitter. My fingers hovered uselessly over my touchpad as my eyes flickered between the screen and my classmates' progress. I tried to piece together what I had missed, but the more I stared, the more my thoughts tangled into a suffocating mess.

Then, a voice.

Low, familiar—steady.

"You okay?"

I blinked, snapping out of my panic just enough to register the presence beside me.

Yunho.

When had he moved closer? He had been at one of our classmate's table earlier helping on the task, but now he was right beside me, his presence a quiet force against my frazzled nerves. His scent—rich, chocolate-sweet cologne—wrapped around me, grounding and distracting all at once.

I turned my head slightly, and that’s when I realized just how close he was.

Too close.

He wasn’t even pretending to keep a respectable distance. His shoulder nearly brushed mine, his face mere inches away. The dim glow of the computer monitor cast soft shadows across his features, making the sharp angles of his jawline look impossibly gentle.

I nodded, moving to one of our friend's computer as he navigates the task, I watch the task unfolding, hoping I could catch up but with Yunho's presence really close to me was a challenge I don't think I'll success.

A small smile tugged at his lips, almost amused. "Focus," he murmured, voice dipping lower. "I need you to teach me."

Teach him?

The irony almost made me laugh. I was the one barely keeping my head above water, the one scrambling to understand what I had missed, and yet here he was—acting like I had everything under control.

But there was something in his tone. Something reassuring, something that pulled me away from my spiraling frustration and anchored me to the moment.

To him.

I swallowed, forcing myself to nod. "Right. Okay."

I tried to focus, I really did.

But every time he leaned in to ask our friend what he did, every time his voice brushed against my ear, my brain short-circuited. The deep timbre of his words sent shivers down my spine, making it nearly impossible to concentrate.

At one point, I had been leaning forward too long, my back protesting from the awkward position. I shifted, stretching slightly as I took a small step back—only for my heel to catch against something solid.

A box.

A stupid box filled with unused wires.

I barely had time to gasp before I lost my balance, the world tilting as I braced for impact. But I never hit the ground.

Warm hands caught me. One gripping my waist, firm and steady. The other securing my forearm, his fingers wrapping around my wrist like a lifeline.

My breath hitched.

For a moment, neither of us moved. The air between us was thick, electric, charged with something unspoken. My heart pounded wildly against my ribs as I slowly lifted my gaze, and that’s when I realized—he was staring at me.

Really staring.

His expression had shifted from his usual playful ease to something deeper, something unreadable. His dark eyes searched mine, his grip on me unwavering.

"You okay?" His voice had softened, laced with concern.

I could barely breathe. My entire body was frozen, caught in the intensity of his gaze, in the warmth of his hands still steadying me.

I nodded—too quickly. "Y-Yeah. I just—I should—" I cleared my throat, forcing my voice to sound normal. "I should get back to my seat."

His hands lingered for half a second longer before he finally let go, and I nearly stumbled again—not because of the wires this time, but because my knees felt ridiculously weak.

I didn’t dare look at him as I hurried back to my seat, my heart still hammering, my skin burning where his hands had been.

But minutes later, a chair scraped against the floor, and before I knew it, he was sitting behind me. I inhaled sharply, trying to calm my racing pulse, "Go to the partition first," Yunho instructed, his voice steady, as if nothing had just happened. "You need a drive to place your folder."

I nodded, gripping the mouse, determined to focus. But my fingers didn’t move the pointer to the right place.

He noticed, "There," he pointed, his patience unwavering.

I tried again. Fumbled. And then—his hand covered mine. Large. Warm. Steady. Guiding the mouse effortlessly, his fingers brushed against mine, sending a sharp jolt of electricity up my spine.

My breath hitched. My whole body stiffened. The world outside this moment ceased to exist. The quiet murmurs of our classmates, the soft hum of the computers, the faint tapping of keyboards—it all faded into nothingness.

All I could focus on was him.

His warmth against my skin.

The way his fingers curled slightly over mine, his grip neither forceful nor hesitant, just there—as if this wasn’t something he had to think about, as if guiding my hand was the most natural thing in the world.

Seconds stretched endlessly. I forgot how to breathe, forgot how to think, forgot how to function.

He didn’t move.

Neither did I.

The space between us shrank, charged with something unspoken, something that made the air feel heavier. I could feel his breath ghosting near my temple, slow and steady, in complete contrast to the erratic drumming of my own heartbeat.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry.

I should pull away. I should.

But I didn’t. Because for all the chaos in my head, for all the ways my body betrayed me with its nervous tremors, there was one undeniable truth—

I liked this.

I like him.

March 14, 2025

Guilt settled heavily on my chest as I walked toward campus, my steps slower than usual.

I had clocked out overtime again, staying later than planned at my internship. It was becoming a habit, one that weighed on me more than I cared to admit. The familiar exhaustion clung to my body, but it was nothing compared to the quiet guilt pressing down on me.

By the time I arrived at my night class, the discussion had already been going on for an hour. I barely took a breath before sliding the door open.

The creak of the door was louder than I intended, loud enough to make heads turn. The room fell into momentary silence, the professor pausing mid-sentence.

I bowed my head slightly. "Sorry I’m late."

Keeping my voice steady, I gently closed the door behind me. My friends greeted me with small smiles as I passed, but I barely acknowledged them. My mind was still occupied—by my professor’s earlier warning, by the weight of my internship hours, by the nagging feeling that I was always two steps behind.

I settled into my seat, adjusting my chair as I exhaled quietly. It was only then that I felt it. I didn’t have to look to know whose they were.

Even as I focused on my computer, booting it up, I could feel his gaze lingering on me—not intrusive, just there. A quiet presence, unwavering, as if he had been waiting.

The soft glow of my friend’s screen pulled my attention. They were exchanging files, peer-to-peer, laughing as they successfully transferred them. The energy in the room felt light, carefree—so different from the tightness in my chest.

I sighed, rubbing at my temple before shifting my gaze to the board. The task was written clearly, the instructions laid out in neat bullet points. I had to catch up. Again.

"You'll catch up quickly." His voice cut through my thoughts just as a familiar scent—warm, chocolate-sweet cologne—wrapped around me.

My body instantly relaxed.

I leaned back slightly, eyes flickering to my side, where Yunho sat comfortably beside me. He wasn’t even looking at his own screen—just watching me with a quiet sort of amusement.

I scoffed lightly, turning back to my task. "Barely…"

He noticed something in my tone, something unspoken. His breath came out in a quiet sigh. "You don’t have to worry about being late when you can catch up this fast."

I turned to him, frowning slightly. "If only I wasn’t being called out…"

Before he could respond, one of our classmates announced that we could take a break. I grabbed my snacks and drink, slipping out of the room before the air inside became too suffocating.

The campus at night was quiet, peaceful.

Most of the buildings were dark, the hallways emptied out as students took their breaks in small groups. I walked up a few steps, my feet leading me instinctively to the open soccer field. It wasn’t particularly grand—just an expanse of grass surrounded by empty bleachers—but the sky above it made all the difference.

Stars.

They scattered across the vast darkness, twinkling softly, stretching endlessly beyond my reach. The sight alone eased some of the tightness in my chest, the weight of the day slowly lifting.

I sat on the benches, nibbling on a cookie from my container, my gaze locked onto the sky. The quiet, the solitude—it was exactly what I needed.

Until I felt presence sat beside me, his usual cologne had been my cravings ever since and I didn’t need to look to know who it was. He didn’t say anything at first, simply making himself comfortable next to me.

"Stars make you calm."

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. A fact. A truth only he seemed to know.

I glanced at him, but he was already looking at the sky, his features relaxed in the dim glow of the field lights. Something about the way he sat beside me—so effortlessly, as if he belonged there—made my chest ache in a way I couldn’t quite name.

Without thinking, I tilted my cookie container toward him in silent offering. He glanced down, a small smile playing on his lips before he shook his head. "I’m good."

I shrugged, taking another bite, savoring the sweetness on my tongue as the night stretched around us. The air was cool, tinged with the distant scent of damp grass, and the silence between us was easy—comfortable in a way that made my heart ache.

Then I noticed an arm—his arm—outstretched just behind me.

Not quite touching. Not quite reaching. Just there.

I glanced down, my breath catching slightly when I saw his hand resting flat on the seat, fingers lightly curled against the worn wood, mere inches from where I sat. Close enough that if I leaned back even slightly, I would feel the warmth of him.

For a moment, my mind raced. Had he meant to do that? Or was it just a natural movement? But then I realized—this bench had no backrest. And his arm wasn’t just there.

It was there for me.

A quiet, unspoken shield. A presence that kept me from leaning too far back, from losing balance on the edge of the bench. A silent protection. My throat tightened, a warmth blooming in my chest that had nothing to do with the night air.

I swallowed hard, staring back up at the stars as if I hadn’t noticed. But I had. And from the way Yunho sat, his posture relaxed yet deliberate, I knew he had too.

Class had ended, but I wasn’t free just yet. I lingered in the quiet classroom, shifting my weight from foot to foot as my professor gave me a patient but pointed look.

"I know your internship keeps you busy," he said, his voice gentle yet firm. "But you’re missing too much of the discussion. Try to balance it better, alright?"

Guilt pricked at my chest. I nodded, murmuring an apology, though my mind was already running through the hours I had spent at my internship today. The exhaustion from overtime clung to me like a second skin, pressing into my shoulders, but I couldn’t let it show.

As I stepped out of the classroom, the hallway stretched before me, eerily empty. The faint hum of a vending machine buzzed from the corner, the overhead fluorescent lights flickering slightly, casting soft shadows on the polished tiles.

A heavy sigh escaped my lips. I adjusted the strap of my bag and headed for the exit. A shadow shifted near the corner of the hallway, just beyond the reach of the dim light. My breath hitched, my pulse jumping in surprise.

"Ah!—" I barely had time to react before a familiar chuckle cut through the silence.

"Did I scare you?" He stepped forward, emerging from the dim glow like a scene straight out of a dream. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his dark jacket, the fabric slightly wrinkled from the way he had been leaning against the wall. His hair was tousled, the strands catching the light in a way that made my heart stutter.

My shoulders relaxed, but my pulse refused to slow down. "Argh! Yunho!" He chuckles as we walk down the hallway, I turn to him frowning, "What are you doing here? I thought you left with the others."

He shrugged, falling into step beside me as we exited the building. "I figured you’d be held back."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "You figured?" He turned his head slightly, giving me a look that made my stomach flip. "You were late today, figured Sir Coups will speak to you. Again."

Heat crept up my neck. I tried to look indifferent, but the knowing glint in his eyes told me he had already seen through me. Before I could defend myself, he nudged my arm lightly.

I blinked up at him. "What?"

"Smile… You look pretty." he murmured, his voice carried something unspoken. I shake my head but my lips still curled up into a small smile.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it was charged—thick with something lingering between us, something neither of us had yet put into words. The air felt heavier, warmer, despite the cool night breeze brushing against my skin.

We reached the front gate, and I instinctively slowed my steps, scanning the road for any sign of my bus. But there was nothing. No buses, no jeepneys, no taxis—just the dimly lit street stretching into the distance, eerily quiet. I was hoping a bus or anything will pass by so I could climb in as soon as possible.

But looks like fate has different plans.

With a resigned sigh, I started walking toward the next stop, and as expected, Yunho followed without hesitation.

The streetlights cast long shadows as we walked, the soft glow bouncing off the pavement. The only sounds were the distant hum of traffic and the rhythmic steps of our shoes against the sidewalk.

I hesitated before speaking. "Won’t your parents worry about you getting home this late?" He exhaled a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "No, they don’t mind… as long as they know I get you home safely."

I stopped mid-step.

For a moment, everything around me faded—the city lights, the distant sounds of passing cars, even the cool breeze nipping at my skin. My heart thudded violently in my chest, so loud I was sure he could hear it.

My smartwatch vibrated against my wrist. Abnormal pulse detected.

Of course. Of course, it did. Not with him for always making my heart abnormally fast!

I swallowed thickly, my face burning. Get me home safely? Had he really just said that? So casually, as if it was the most natural thing in the world? Before I could fully recover, Yunho turned slightly, his expression amused. "You okay? You look a little—"

"I’m fine!" I blurted out, shoving his arm lightly as I marched ahead, desperate to escape the warmth blooming across my face. He let out a soft laugh, the sound deep and rich, but he didn’t push me further. Instead, he fell back into step beside me, hands still tucked in his pockets.

A few more minutes passed before my bus finally appeared in the distance, its headlights cutting through the dim glow of the streetlamps. I exhaled in relief, stepping forward as it slowed to a stop.

But just as I reached for the handrails, something warm wrapped around my wrist.

I turned—and everything stopped.

Yunho’s fingers curled gently around mine, his grip neither loose nor forceful. Just enough to hold me there. Just enough to make my breath hitch.

The warmth of his touch seeped into my skin, spreading like wildfire through my veins. I looked up, wide-eyed, and he only smiled—a soft, knowing smile that made my stomach twist in the most unbearable way.

"Get home safe," he murmured, his voice quieter now, deeper, as if he were speaking directly into my soul. And there was no longer hesitation in his eyes. "I still need to take you out on a date."

My brain short-circuited.

A date?

Before I could even process it, before I could react, before I could breathe—

He lifted my hand and pressed a soft, feather-light kiss against the back of it.

The world blurred.

The sounds of the city dulled into silence.

Even my own heartbeat seemed to pause, as if it couldn’t decide whether to stop completely or speed up until it burst. His lips barely lingered for a second, but the warmth of his touch burned into my skin, leaving behind something I knew I’d never forget.

The bus doors hissed open behind me, but my feet refused to move. I stared at him, my mind racing, my heart a mess of erratic beats.

Yunho pulled away, his eyes never leaving mine. His fingers slowly slipped from my wrist, the absence of his touch leaving a void I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

The driver cleared his throat, snapping me out of my trance. Dazed, I stepped onto the bus, my legs trembling beneath me.

The doors slid shut. The bus rolled forward.

Through the glass window, I saw him—standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, watching with a smile on his lips until I was gone. A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding escaped my lips.

The bus driver chuckled, shaking his head as he glanced at me through the rearview mirror, "Young love," he mused, his voice tinged with amusement.

I swallowed, my fingers grazing the spot where Yunho’s lips had touched. A slow, giddy smile spread across my face.

[beforetimes]

Hello! I was catching up on your Shizun Luo Binghe/demon disciple Shen Yuan and I had a question about the second post.

How did Jin Lan City plague occur without svsss Shen Yuan saving Zhuzhi-lang while retrieving the mushroom seeds?

Shen Yuan was in the abyss during that time and wouldn’t have been there. If he’d gone before while he was still a disciple, Jin Lan City would have happened sooner. So did Shen Yuan just speed run the abyss with his meta knowledge faster then svsss Luo Binghe?

Or is there some other factor that caused Luo Binghe to somehow save Zhuzhi-lang while Shen Yuan was in the abyss?

Because Jin Lan City plague wouldn’t have happened if Zhuzhi-lang hadn’t been trying to pay Shen Qingqiu “back” (in his warped sense of repayment) for saving his life so he could hide him from humanity and require him away in the demon realm. That’s why it caught Shen Qingqiu off guard in canon.

So if Luo Binghe saved Zhuzhi-lang somehow (maybe he was out with Liu Qingge who was trying to distract his friend from his grief and himself from his own and ran into Zhuzhi-lang and saved him because all he could see when he saw a demon was the expression on Shen Yuan’s face as he pleaded before he died), it would make sense that Zhuzhi-lang to fixate on Luo Binghe (a human in this) and still need to go through the attempt to separate someone from the human realm.

Obviously, this would play out differently than Shen Qingqiu’s version. Luo Binghe wouldn’t be going on trial at Huan Hua probably (unless HHPM still had a thing for LBH’s mom and was trying to creepily come up with a reason to lock him up in HHP for creepy reasons??) and I can’t think of a reason Luo Binghe would have been after the mushroom to have gotten it for Zhuzhi-lang— AND ACTUALLY I HAVE A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT TANGENTIALLY RELATED QUESTION!!

Okay so if Luo Binghe is 100% human does that mean he’s not the son of Tianlang-Jun in this. Or is Tianlang-Jun human in this?? And where would that place Zhuzhi-lang??

Either Zhuzhi lang is a human and then we have a hole to fill of why sowers went to Jin Lan City. Or he’s a demon and we have a different hole to fill of who he’s obsessively devoted to and trying to save. Would there even be anyone to save?? If Tianlang-Jun is human, who was sealed under Bailu Mountain?? Was anyone sealed??

…okay I’ll stop spiraling.. I could spiral on this for hours but this is already long and I need to go to sleep 😅

going to be so honest with you because this blog is a place where we don't lie in hindsight but like. i saw the prompt in my inbox at around three in the morning and thought wow! that's so fun and angsty! and wrote the blurb out at four in the morning in my notes app while actively drifting in and out of sleep before turning in. so like. i didn't even consider 2% of this when writing that out. lmfao.

but! on that note i loveeee the ideas here so much... especially with zhuzhi lang! the idea of luo binghe learning to empathize with demons in a way he never has before because seeing shen yuan die thinking he was hated traumatizing him so much > > > actually peak. i think in this scenario, because i imagine tianlang-jun is a human and no one is really. sealed under the mountain. since i imagine that shen yuan would be the first humanoid demonic big bad of the cultivation world rather than tianlang-jun. and if luo binghe did help zhuzhi lang it would be trying to help him get his human body back or something along those lines, while luo binghe was looking for the sun and moon dew mushrooms [or whatever they're called] in some half-hearted last ditch event to somehow prove his disciple was alive.

honestly a lot of these could have much more interesting explanations / ways to tackle them i just am not built to figure it out lmfaoooo. i think my issue is that i like character-focused stories so much more than heavily indulging specific plot points. so in my head i'm like it would be so fun to break down this toxic relationship between shen yuan and luo binghe if it was the other way around while all these details about the sowers and zhuzhi lang etc etc etc get lost.

though i ALSO!!! really like the idea that the huan hua palace master was trying to lure luo binghe to the water prison because of his hang ups with his mother. because i feel that makes a tad more sense than the random-ish 'shen qingqiu is a bad person so we should lock him up' i vaguely remember from canon (says girl who hasn't read these books in years. do not quiz me please)

many fun things to think about. thank you for reminding me all these things happened LOL

[cozycryptidcorner]

post apocalyptic vampire/reader, pt 1

OLD PATREON STORY I FOUND WHILE DIGGING AROUND!!

“You’re holding her wrong.”

It’s all you can force your closing throat to say, the scent of blood and filth putrid in your nostrils. You can’t breathe, nor do you want to, if that somehow disturbs the creature clutching your infant daughter in its hands.

It looks up, ruby-red eyes narrow, like it cannot believe the fucking gall you have to interrupt such an intimate moment.

“You need to support her head.”

A silent, still moment passes, one where you urge your body not to move, every cell beneath your skin and teeth holding still at attention.

Then, like a prayer answered from god himself, the creature slowly shifts, moving his fingers up until the head of your baby is supported, easing the tension away from her airway and spine. You breathe a sigh of relief, and she sneezes, still asleep, not at all aware of the danger she is cradled in. Her lip puckers as her arms flail, only briefly, as though she could gain any sort of security in this current position.

The creature licks his teeth, all sharp and predatory, eyes downcast as he observes every little contour that your child takes up, from the dark hair upon her head to the swaddled feet that tend to kick away her blankets. One of your bunker neighbors whimpers, suddenly realizing that some of their limbs no longer belong to the rest of their body, but your eyes focus on the movement of this monster’s fingers.

After a period of reflection overstays its welcome, the creature finally says something. “Why did you run?”

You swallow thickly, palms against rusting metal. “Would you have believed me?”

No, the unspoken answer hangs heavy in the air. No, he would have ripped your throat out and drank from your arteries, drowning your unborn child, still so small, in your womb.

“You should have tried-”

“And risk everything?” You’re getting brave, an emotion almost beaten out of you as a teen. “Are you saying you would have waited until she was born to make the judgement?”

No, this monster has a temper. You don’t doubt it would have clutched your neck in its claws, angry tears running down its face, accusing you of crimes you never committed. You needed to run, so you did.

You don’t regret the six months away from the blood-bank camps.

He somehow understands this, so much better than you thought he would, rocking your baby back and forth. HIs baby, too, the monstrous voice in your head reminds your conscious, the miracle child of a living human and corpse.

“Julian,” you whisper, one last-ditch effort to plead your case. “There never was anyone else.”

The creature looks up, almost shocked, like he’s seeing you for the first time. Then, again, down at the little half-living baby in his embrace. You know he must sense something different with her, otherwise, he would have snapped her frail little neck in two the moment he laid hands on her. She’s alive because he can sense it, somehow, through scent or through sight. That’s… your only hope, your only reassurance that he will let you both live.

“Has it received a name, yet?” His voice is gruff, clogged, the most unsure of himself that you’ve heard.

“No.” She’s been out of you and breathing on her own for awhile, now, but you haven’t managed to narrow a name down.

He looks at her again, running his thumbs over her face. Her eyes open, her thickly disproportionate fingers reaching for his face.

“Julian,” you’re pleading now, and you don’t like that, not even for this situation, “the hunting party will be back soon. If they catch you here…”

“I’ll kill them,” he says, so very easily.

“And what of our child?” You prod, keeping your arms crossed around your wrists. “Can you fight a dozen soldiers and keep her safe without practice?”

That causes him to pause and think, brow furrowed, ruby-red eyes looking you up and down as though trying to figure out a threat level. But while his kind might be filled only with lust, anger, and violence, you’ve always found him… remarkably logical, even alongside those vices.

Best yet, he listens when wrong.

“Was there really no one else?” He asks, like he’s nothing more than a human boy, prodding for reassurance. As though he doesn’t have leagues of abominations at his beck and call.

You want to throttle him, but you tamper down the desire. Swallowing thickly, you hold your arms open, trying to appear as vulnerable as possible. “You can sense it, can’t you? This child is barely on the brink of living, like a piece of her calls from hell.”

He pauses for a moment before he stands, tall and dangerous, holding your baby out for you to take. Of course he can tell, why else would he spare her life? Trying not to seem too eager or concerned, you step over the pool of blood that separates you from him, clutching your baby close to your chest. After a moment with his head cocked to his side, he simply walks out of your provided bunker compartment, merely mumbling come, as some sort of order.

“Collect your things,” he says, almost generously. Like you have reason to thank him for granted you the permission necessary to collect your daughter’s clothes and diapers.

The carnage he left in his wake… it sickens you, but you try not to allow your eyes to dwell on a body for too long. This wasn’t the first human sanctuary you’ve sheltered with, nor do you think it will be your last, but you feel awful for the people to fall first to his wrath.

The air is thick with humidity, sharp and cold with a winter that has lasted for years. The sun barely pierces down from a thick haze of volcanic ash, so diluted that the father of your child prances about like his kind is the next to inherit the earth,

Carefully, as snow crunches beneath your boots, you wrap your baby in the scarf around your neck. The forest seems to swallow the shelter as you follow your beast into the forest, with only stripped, bare trees to witness your devotion.

For her.

[starset21]

I Know Love Pt. 3

Pairing: Lando Norris x Piastri!sister reader

Summery: She spends race day convincing herself that Lando isn’t serious, that he’s off-limits, and that Oscar was right about everything. She buries herself in work, keeping emotions at bay, but when Lando wins, she avoids the celebration, telling herself it’s for the best. Lando shows up again—this time, knocking on her door.

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships.

Looking for more? I know Love Masterlist 

She tells herself she’s fine. She tells herself this as she moves through the paddock on race day, keeping busy, keeping her head down, pretending like last night never happened. Pretending like Oscar’s words didn’t burrow into her skull. Because Oscar was right, wasn’t he? Lando doesn’t do anything serious. Lando doesn’t do commitment. Lando is her brother’s teammate. Lando is off-limits.

She repeats these things over and over in her head as the race unfolds. She watches as Lando makes a great start with Oscar right behind him. She studies data, the radar, tracks strategies, keeps her headset on and her emotions off, though she knew the camera cut to her reaction when Oscar spun in the grass. By the time Lando crosses the finish line in first place, she’s convinced herself that’s the only thing that matters—the race, the job, the reason she’s here in the first place.

So she doesn’t go to the celebration. She takes the team photo and then tells Oscar and the family that she’s tired, that she needs to finish reports, that she’ll catch up later. He doesn’t question it, just gives her a small nod before disappearing into the crowd. And when she slips away from the garage, away from the flashing lights and champagne showers, she feels relief. At least, until she hears footsteps behind her. “You’re leaving?” Lando’s voice is quiet, but there’s something beneath it—something she doesn’t know how to handle.

She turns slowly, finding him standing a few feet away. He’s still in his race suit, the top half unzipped and tied around his waist, his fireproofs clinging to his frame. His hair is damp, curls sticking to his forehead, and there’s a trace of champagne on his skin. She crosses her arms, trying to steel herself. “I have work to do.” His lips twitch, but it’s not in amusement. “Right. So you just happened to leave before the party started? Before I could find you?” he asks. “You’re celebrating, Lando,” she says, forcing herself to sound detached. “You should be with your team. With the people who actually matter.” His jaw tightens. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you don’t matter.” Her breath catches, but she forces herself to keep her voice steady. “Lando—”

“No.” He steps closer, eyes locked onto hers. “You don’t get to shut me out just because Oscar thinks he knows how this ends.” Her stomach twists. “It’s not about Oscar.” His brows lift, unconvinced. “Isn’t it?” She swallows hard. “It’s about me not being stupid enough to believe that this—” she gestures vaguely between them “—is anything more than a game to you.” Something flickers in his expression. Not anger. Not frustration. But something deeper. Something that makes her pulse stutter. “You think I’m playing?” His voice is quieter now, rough around the edges. She doesn’t answer.

Lando exhales, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head, like he can’t believe they’re even having this conversation. “I don’t know what this is,” he admits, voice raw. “But I know I don’t want to lose it.” Her chest tightens. She doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to process the way he’s looking at her, the way his words settle into her bones, permanent and unshakable. So she does the only thing she can. She steps back. “We work together, Lando.” Her voice is quieter now, but still firm. “You’re my brother’s teammate.” His jaw clenches. “And?”

“And,” she exhales, “this is dangerous.” Lando scoffs, shaking his head. “Dangerous? It’s not like we’re plotting a crime.” She glares. “Don’t be an idiot.” 

“I’m not.” His voice is sharper now, more frustrated. “I just don’t get why you’re running from this like it’s some massive fucking mistake.”

“Because it is.” She forces the words out, even though they don’t sit right on her tongue. “Because if this goes wrong, it’s not just my mess. It’s Oscar’s. It’s the team’s. It’s yours.”

Lando exhales harshly, dragging a hand down his face. “Why does everything have to go wrong? Why can’t you just—” He stops himself, like he doesn’t know what he’s trying to say. Like he’s afraid of what he’s trying to say. She shakes her head, wrapping her arms around herself like it’ll hold everything in place. “This isn’t just about us.” He stares at her for a long moment. “Isn’t it?” he asks quietly.

She doesn’t answer. Because she doesn’t know anymore. Lando watches her for a beat longer, then exhales, stepping back, like he’s giving her space even though it’s the last thing he wants to do. “I meant what I said.” His voice is steady now, sure. “I don’t know what this is. But I know I don’t want to lose it.”

She stands there, frozen, as his words settle in the air between them. It would be easier if he were dismissive. If he laughed it off like it didn’t matter, like she didn’t matter. But he doesn’t. He just looks at her, waiting, like he’s willing to give her all the time in the world to come up with a response—even though they both know she won’t.

Because if she says something, if she lets herself acknowledge that this is real, then she has to face the truth: she wants this just as much as he does. And that? That’s terrifying. So she does what she always does—she pushes forward, past him, toward the paddock exit. “You should go back,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “This is your night.” She doesn’t wait for his reply. She doesn’t turn around to see if he follows. She just walks, keeping her head down, focusing on the rhythm of her footsteps instead of the ache in her chest. She tells herself she’s fine. She tells herself this as she slips into the quiet of the team motorhome, as she drops into a chair and stares blankly at the laptop screen in front of her.

She stares at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, but the words don’t come. The numbers, the data, the post-race reports—none of it registers. All she can hear is his voice. I don’t know what this is, but I know I don’t want to lose it. Her chest tightens as she forces herself to focus. This is what she does. She buries herself in work, in logic, in things that make sense. She doesn’t have the luxury of distractions. Not here. Not now. And certainly not with Lando. But her hands are shaking, and the screen is blurry, and the weight of everything is pressing down on her so hard she can barely breathe. She squeezes her eyes shut, inhaling deeply. She needs to pull it together. Needs to push him out of her head. Needs to remind herself of all the reasons this can’t happen. Because it can’t. She repeats that to herself like a mantra, over and over, like if she says it enough times, she’ll believe it.

But then there’s a knock at the door. She knows who it is before she even looks up. Lando. She should tell him to leave. Should ignore him, pretend she didn’t hear it, pretend she’s already left for the night. But she doesn’t. Instead, she just sits there, staring at the door, waiting for him to go away. The second knock is softer. More hesitant. And then— “I know you’re in there.” She exhales sharply, pressing her hands to her face. He sounds tired. Frustrated. But there’s something else in his voice, too. Something quieter. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t respond. A beat of silence. Then— “I’m not here to fight.” That’s the problem. If he were here to fight, if he were angry, it would be easier. But he’s not. He’s just him. And that’s what makes this so damn hard. Her fingers tighten into fists against her lap. “Lando—”

“Just open the door,” he says, softer this time. “Please.” She hesitates. She shouldn’t. She knows she shouldn’t. But she does. Slowly, she stands, crossing the small room, pausing with her hand on the handle. One last chance to stop this. One last chance to walk away before she does something reckless. Then, before she can talk herself out of it, she pulls the door open. Lando is standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, damp curls falling into his eyes. He looks at her, really looks at her, and she feels herself unraveling at the edges. For a long moment, neither of them speaks. Then— “You didn’t even stay for the podium.” His voice isn’t accusing. It’s just…quiet. She crosses her arms over her chest. “I told you. I had work.” He exhales, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

Her jaw tightens. “Lando—”

“No.” He takes a step closer, not enough to crowd her, but enough that she feels the warmth of him, enough that she has to fight the urge to reach for him. “You’re scared.” She stiffens. “That’s not—”

“You are.” His eyes search hers, unwavering. “And I don’t blame you. But don’t lie to me. Not about this.” Her breath catches. She wants to deny it. Wants to push him away. Wants to tell him he’s wrong, that she’s fine, that this isn’t real.

But she can’t. Because he’s right. And that terrifies her more than anything. She swallows hard, trying to find something—anything—to say. But Lando beats her to it. “I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to lose this. And I don’t think you do either.” She looks away, staring at the floor, at the way his fingers curl into fists like he’s holding himself back. “Tell me I’m wrong,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. She opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. Because she can’t tell him that. Because she is scared. Because the truth is sitting in her throat, thick and heavy, and no matter how hard she tries, she can’t force herself to say the words that will make him walk away. Lando watches her for a moment longer, then nods—just once—like he understands. Like he already knows her answer, even if she can’t say it out loud. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly. And just like that, he’s gone. She stands there long after he’s disappeared down the hall, staring at the empty space where he stood, heart pounding, head spinning.

[reidslogy]

Let it go S.R

Summary : As we all know Spencer can find it hard to letting things go . And to be honest so did you , but he thought you had feelings for Hotch in he knew if you did he didn’t stand a chance. But can he let it go to notice your into him and not Hotch .

Paring: Sweet!fem!reader x Spencer Reid ( Jealous Reid )

Warnings : Pre-relationship pining for each other Spencer thinks Reader is into Boss man but clearly she’s not she’s into him . Cuteness

Content : fluff

WC 400

Haven’t posted in few days so here short sweet one for you .

You were reading one of the books Spencer had lent you when he walked past. He paused, then turned to face you. "So, how do you like it so far?" he asked, his voice soft but genuine, a slight tilt to his head as he waited for your response. His curiosity was always so earnest, like everything he shared with you mattered, and he was eager to know your thoughts.

Hotch walked in, his eyes briefly glancing at you before settling on Spencer. "Good morning," he said with a smile.

"Morning," you replied softly, offering a gentle smile in return. You noticed that Spencer had already become absorbed in whatever he was working on. Huh, you thought to yourself.

"Spence," you said, trying to catch his attention.

"I'm busy," he muttered, not even looking up.

"But I thought—" you began, confused.

"What?" Spencer asked, still not meeting your gaze.

"I thought you wanted to know my thoughts on the book so far," you explained, your voice a little hesitant, unsure if you'd interrupted him.

He finally looked up at you, his expression softening slightly. "It's fine. Don't worry about it."

You bit your lip, feeling a twinge of guilt. "I'm sorry," you said quietly, your voice filled with uncertainty.

You walked up to him, your voice soft but firm. "I don't want you to shut me out, please."

"I'm not," he said quietly, still not looking at you.

"You are," you replied, the frustration in your voice betraying the vulnerability you felt.

You were standing at the bullpen near Reid’s desk when Hotch called out, "Five minutes."

You frowned, frustration creeping in. "You are."

You gently grabbed Reid’s arm, your touch soft but insistent. "Can you… wait?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hotch crossed his arms, his gaze shifting between the two of you. There was a brief moment of tension before he walked toward the conference room without another word.

Spencer looked down at your hand on his arm, then slowly met your eyes. His expression was unreadable, but you could see a flicker of hesitation before he nodded slightly. "I don’t have time," he said quietly.

"Just… five minutes," you urged, trying to bridge the gap between you both.

He sighed, then put his notes down. His eyes flickered to yours. "I mean, that’s all we have anyway," he said, the words soft but carrying a weight of something deeper.

As if on cue, JJ and Emily walked past, heading in the opposite direction toward the conference room. "We’ll be there in a few minutes," Reid called after them.

Your hand was still on his arm, a subtle reminder of the closeness between you. "Reid," you said gently, your voice a little softer. "The book... I love it. Thank you for lending it to me."

He gave a small, almost reluctant smile, but the tension between you two still lingered. You could feel it in the air. You took a deep breath before adding, "But I don’t want you to shut me out, please."

He met your eyes, his expression softening slightly. "I’m not trying to," he said quietly, but there was still a trace of uncertainty in his voice.

You paused for a moment, and then, with a slight shift in tone, Spencer added, "But if you're into Hotch, I have no chance."

You giggled, shaking your head. "You think I'm into boss man?" you asked, amused by the idea.

He hesitated for a moment, then muttered, "I know."

You smiled at him gently, the playful tone now replaced with something more sincere. "I’m not into him, Spence," you said softly. "Please… you have to believe me."

Spencer looked at you, the uncertainty still lingering in his eyes, but he seemed to soften at your words.

A small, hopeful smile crept onto your face. "You definitely have a chance."

[gyupappi]

genre - post breakup au

pairing - mingyu x reader

warning - heartbreak

(a/n - inspired by i miss you by clean bandid)

(a/n - words in italics are song lyrics)

(a/n - I NEED TRAUMA)

"Just to Remind Myself"

It’s been a month since Mingyu left. A month since he walked away with those words stuck in his chest, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. The memory of his hands brushing yours, the warmth of his touch still lingers in the corners of your mind, but reality — that unforgiving force — keeps pulling you back into the present.

You weren’t supposed to talk anymore. That was the rule. The one you both made, just before everything started falling apart. Yet, here you are, staring at the screen of your phone, running your fingers over the old messages. Every word, every letter, feels like an echo from a life you can’t seem to move past.

I miss you, yeah I miss you.

His words from months ago replay in your mind, reminding you of the way he smiled at you that last night you spent together. The smile that made everything feel okay, even when it was all falling apart. You never thought you would end up like this—so distant, so far apart.

But here you are, still living in the fragments of your past with Mingyu, holding onto memories that, in hindsight, feel like everything was perfect. Yet you both couldn’t make it work. You couldn’t stay. You tried, really tried, to keep everything together, but somewhere along the way, the distance grew. The conversations turned shorter, the glances colder. And now, you’re left holding onto texts that never felt like enough.

You sit on your bed, surrounded by the weight of your thoughts, phone clutched tightly in your hands as you scroll through old texts. There were days you wished you could erase everything, start fresh. But the words linger, reminding you that once, you had something real.

I saved all the texts, all of the best over the years...

The ones where he made you laugh uncontrollably, the ones where he promised he would always be there. Even the quiet moments where you both exchanged simple “good morning” texts, letting each other know you were thinking about the other.

But it wasn’t just about saving the happy memories. You saved the ones that hurt too, the ones that showed how you both tried to make it work, despite the pain and fear that were buried underneath the surface.

Minus the tears.

There’s a text from him, a voice message from months ago. You hesitate for a moment before pressing play.

“I miss you.”

His voice cracks on the words. It’s so raw, so vulnerable. You let the message play over and over again in your mind. For the briefest second, it feels like he’s still here with you, in the room. But you know it’s just a memory now. The kind that can never come back, no matter how much you want it to.

You don’t know what went wrong. Or maybe you do, but admitting it is harder than anything else. The doubt creeps in, just like it always has. Did he stop loving you? Was it your fault? Were you not enough? You’ve asked yourself these questions a million times, but you never get any answers.

Suddenly, your phone vibrates. You glance down, heart skipping a beat. It’s a message from an unknown number.

You hesitate before opening it.

“I’m sorry, I know we agreed not to talk, but I need to know how you’re doing. I miss you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s him.

You stare at the message for what feels like an eternity, torn between wanting to reach out and feeling like you’ve finally put the pieces back together, even if it’s not perfect. You close your eyes, fighting the urge to hit reply. You wanted to move on, you were trying to, but part of you still aches for the connection you once had.

Instead of replying, you press on the little trash can icon next to his text. You delete it, just like the countless messages before it. It’s what you need to do, you remind yourself. You’ll be okay without him. You’ll find a way to heal.

But as you do, another message appears, this one from him, again.

“I saved all of our texts too. I just... I just want you to know I’ll never forget how good we had it. I’ll never forget you.”

The words hit you harder than anything. You clutch your phone to your chest, eyes closing as tears threaten to fall.

I miss you, yeah I miss you...

You miss him too. But you have to let go. You can’t keep living in the past. He’s a memory now, a beautiful chapter in your story, but one that has come to an end. The hardest part is knowing when to walk away.

You sigh, finally closing your phone and setting it aside. You look out the window at the setting sun, knowing the night will bring its own set of challenges. But for now, you’ll hold onto the good parts of your memories.

And maybe, that will be enough.

[the-mpreg-guy]

always thinking about how castiel probably had friends before, and definitely went against heaven before, but when he said "dean we will all be hunted" dean says "it's worth it" and when castiel comes back after being exploded dean keeps him updated throughout the entirety of season 5 (except for point of no return but. like. that's the point of the episode that dean is rejecting everyone in his life). dean said "if you fall, i'll be there with you" and castiel went unlobotomized for several seasons. dean said "you fall, i'll be there to help catch you" and castiel went. i think i can try and rebel knowing that. NOT KNOWING... THAT DEAN HAS PLACED HIM ON A PATH TO FINALLY ESCAPE HEAVEN'S LEASH BY SEASON 8. AFTER THAT HE'S FREE!!! AND HE DOESNT KNOW THAT TRUSTING THIS ONE HUMAN WILL SAVE HIM. AAAAAAAAAAAAUGH

CASTIEL HAS REBELLED MANY TIMES, BUT HAD BEEN ALONE EACH TIME (that we know of) AND THIS TIME SOMEONE SAID "I'LL BE WITH YOU" AND HE FINALLY FREED HIMSELF.

You're tapping into something that I wanted to talk about here a few days ago, so forgive me for rambling incoherently about this.

I feel like there's two different ways that people misunderstand Cas's defection from Heaven; people either tend to discredit Cas's choice of free will and chalk the entirety of his character development up to Dean's influence only, or they completely disregard the fact that Cas couldn't/wouldn't have defected if Dean hadn't been there to facilitate it.

Cas's friendships with other angels are born out of comradery in a "we're all soldiers on the same battlefield" way. We see in later seasons that Cas still refers to his "brothers and sisters" as soldiers. I think the only time we see Cas have an angel friendship that breaks that specific mold is between him and Hannah (and maybe Uriel), but that's another post I don't care to make.

Dean is a unique friendship because Dean is supposed to be one of the soldiers in the war, but Dean says fuck the war, if we're going to fight we're going to do it on the side of humans. He is a confident for Cas who is actually a confident. I think about Cas asking Dean if he can tell him something if he promises to never tell anyone else. Cas knew that his superiors wouldn't have liked to hear that and he knew that he would have been in trouble for saying it. Dean is a safe person for him to go to with his doubts and fears.

And Dean is the person who facilitates Cas's rebellion! He's the secret third option! He thought it was either obey or fall, but Dean said hey actually you can be something else! You don't have to pick between Heaven and Hell, you can pick what's right, which is what Cas had been trying to pick the entire time, but had no one helping him.

My favorite thing about Cas saying "good things do happen, Dean" is that Cas is the good thing that happened to Dean, but Dean is also the good thing that happened to Cas.

[sleepsucks]

[nunkisketches]

They can get cute sometimes🧡💚

[daydream-draws]

some of my faves,,,,,

(click for better quality)

[xxplastic-cubexx]

Can we talk about how fcked up Charles can be sometimes? Can we talk about how Charles can sometimes be actually scary as a person? Like he can legit be nefarious sometimes, but those moments are not as talked about as Erik's warcrimes (aside from the holocaust visions from TAS)

girlfriend i promise we're all very aware about how wack charles xavier can be and i assure you his nefarious moments are talked plenty from what i run into. like outside of this inbox most times you breathe charles' name to someone they'll be prepared to start swinging

[theymightbedog]

Oh maybe there is something wrong with me