#the mistake has been there for years and all the applicants are right but the system says it's wrong

[imaginary-wanderer]

Or when you correct a French language question in the application test of your company...

[daechwitatamic]

cherrybomb || csc

(banner by @sailorrhansol)

cherrybomb seungcheol x afab reader || angst smut fluff || exes2lovers, pacific rim universe NSFW - minors DNI

Summary: Piloting a jaeger requires a rare ability called drifting - a neural connection with your co-pilot. You and Seungcheol are masters of the drift... until you have something in your head that you don't want him to see.

wc: 19.5k

warnings: language, heavy angst with happy ending, fight scenes, fight scenes written by an author with zero fighting or martial arts knowledge lmfao thus they are vague as possible, feelings heavy plot light and smut light, kissing and pretty generic (and brief) p in v smut

Author's note: thank you for @sailorrhansol for 1) accidentally sparking this idea, 2) agreeing to collab with me, 3) reading this along the way and hyping me up, and 4) beta-ing my mistakes, a million smooches for you ily

This fic takes place in the Pacific Rim universe but I honestly don't think you need to know the lore, everything you need to know should be explained. If you think something is unclear without prior pacific rim knowledge, shoot me a message privately and I'll make some edits and credit you for the insight!

Also in this universe: storm breaker by @/sailorhansol

Teaser:

“Marshall, with all due respect, I don’t know why you’re calling me,” you admit. “You were there. You saw what happened. Seungcheol and I can’t drift anymore.”

“You couldn’t then,” he points out. “That was three years ago. Things that were once too painful to carry into the drift… they’ve had time to mellow.”

He’s wrong, and you want to tell him so. Nothing has mellowed. You love Seungcheol just as much today as you did then.

“Have you talked to him about this?” You’re afraid of the answer. 

The Marshall’s voice hardens, and you can just picture his eyes narrowing. “Mr. Choi will follow orders,” he says evenly, “and so will you. Asking is really just a courtesy.”

“You can’t order us into being able to drift again,” you snap, pulse suddenly pounding in your arms, your hands, your face, your chest. 

“No,” the Marshall says, and any previous friendliness is gone from his voice now, “but I can - and will - order you to try.”

Playlist: you're the smoke in my gun, blowin' like cherry bombs...

The first time you ever saw Choi Seungcheol, he was flipping a man four years his senior over his shoulder and slamming him into the ground. Satisfied, he staggered backwards, chest heaving from exertion, eyes narrowed in preparation for the next move.

That’s what Seungcheol did - he leveled whatever was in front of him, and he started watching for what was coming next before the body could even hit the ground.

That’s what made him a great jaeger pilot. Not the brute strength - strong men are dime a dozen, always have been - but the watching.

You’d marked him as your first choice.

You were both nineteen. You’d grown up in the Shatterdome, the only child to a couple who piloted a neon green jaeger named Charron’s Revenge. You knew everything about how jaegers and their teams worked by the time you were nine. You started training to fight years before that. There was never a question that you would follow in your parents’ giant, mechanical footsteps one day. You just needed the right partner.

You needed Seungcheol.

The jaeger program didn’t turn away recruits - everyone could do something - but there was an organized process to match up compatible pilots. Applying recruits would fight before an audience of previously-accepted but currently-unmatched potential pilots. The pilots would rank the fighters, choosing their top five based on perceived potential for compatibility.

Then, the roles would switch. The applicants became the audience. The audience became the show.

When it was your turn to fight, you silently pleaded with the universe that Seungcheol would mark you high as well. This was the only guarantee that you’d get a chance to spar with him, to test it out before the Marshall, who would make the final call.

Let him see, you begged. Let him see how perfectly we’d work together.

And, by some miracle, he did. In fact, he rated you first, as well.

Your sparring match went exactly how you expected - he barreled at you, and you dodged every move. He could easily take you out with a single blow, but he couldn’t get his hands on you, not when you used his own inertia against him at every turn. What you didn’t expect was your own inability to land a shot. For the whole fight, you were unable to move out of the defensive - keeping out of his reach took all of your effort.

It was a draw - the first sign of strong compatibility.

You didn’t talk after the match - your father whisked you away to recover before your second-rated match, and you didn’t see Seungcheol for the rest of the day.

The second-rated match was a dud. But you already knew, even then, that it didn’t matter.

You’d met your co-pilot. You’d found your partner.

—

He found you in the mess hall that night, dropping into an empty spot on the other side of the table, his tray in his hands. His black hair was loose and wavy, and his right arm sported a sizeable bruise that he definitely didn’t get from you.

“I know who you are,” he said by way of greeting. You raised a brow at him, waiting. “Your parents piloted Charron’s Revenge.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “That better not be why you picked me.”

He gave his head an annoyed little flick. “Of course not. I picked you because you’re fluid - and I’m not.”

Appeased, you felt your hackles settle back down. “That’s true,” you allowed. “You’re not fluid. But you’re purposeful, and-”

You were interrupted when Yoon Jeonghan dropped into the seat to your left, chuckling under his breath as he fixed his long, dark hair into a spiky ponytail at the back of his head.

“Cherry, did you hear?” he asked you, ignoring the new-comer. “The crew for Fatal Rapids got called back in for misconduct.”

“Choi Seungcheol, Yoon Jeonghan,” you said, introducing the two young men. “Hannie does more than gossip, I promise. He’s one of the pilots for Devil’s Advocates. Their drop stats are insane.”

“In practice only,” Jeonghan demurred. “For now.”

“Cherry?” Seungcheol parroted, raising a dark brow. “That’s not what I wrote on my paper earlier.”

“Just a nickname,” you explained. When you were very small, you’d struggled with the name of your parents’ jaeger, calling it Cherry’s Revenge instead of Charron’s, and the crew - who doted on you like their own - started the habit of calling you Cherry. Somehow, it had spread, and stuck. “Only my parents use my real name. But you can call me whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“No,” he said, frowning as if deeply considering his options. “I like it.”

You folded your arms on the table, leaning in to peer at Seungcheol. “So, what’s your story? You’ve heard of me. I haven’t heard of you.”

He shrugged, glanced around, then decided he could talk freely. There’s something about being in a room that’s positively teeming with people and conversation - it gives you privacy without feeling too intimate. You’re not alone.

“Not much of a story, not like you,” he admitted. “I grew up thinking I’d take over my dad’s business. We lost my dad… then, we lost the business. I have no marketable skillset, and university was out of the question. But…” He trailed off, then met your gaze firmly. Something in his look demanded you forgo any pity or sympathy, demanded you take him seriously. “I’m strong. So I came here. I came to fight.”

You sidestepped the bruises he’d bared. “Not like me,” you repeated with a bit of a scoff. “I hate to disappoint you, but my parents are the pilots - the story is theirs. I don’t have one, not yet.”

Something playful glinted in his eyes, the first true sign of personality you’d seen. “So all the rumors about the Princess of the Shatterdome aren’t true?”

Your jaw dropped. You’d heard the nickname before - it was never meant nicely. You tried to ignore it as best you could - people could think what they wanted. When you had a crew, when you had a jaeger, you’d be able to prove them wrong. “What rumors?”

“You’re spoiled,” Jeonghan supplied, having decided he was part of the conversation after all. “Entitled.”

You spluttered as Jeonghan stood, giving you a cheerful pat on the shoulder. “And bitchy! That’s just what I’ve heard. Of course I know better. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Love ya!”

You stared incredulously after him as he disappeared, your face burning with embarrassment and your heart hammering with adrenaline. Fight, your systems told you.

If only you could.

Seungcheol bit back a smile, reaching out to pat your arm placatingly.

“I don’t…” you started to say, but your voice caught in your throat. You cleared it, tried again. “I don’t think I really deserve all that.”

He nodded, lips pushed into a semblance of a thoughtful pout. “What I’d heard,” he said calmly, “is that you’re a hell of a fighter, scary smart, and that you take no shit. Unless it’s from your friends, apparently.”

This made a bitter little laugh bubble from you. You still simmered with humiliation, feared that maybe he’d decide he didn’t want to co-pilot with you after all.

“I think it’s up to you which story gets told,” he said finally.

“Yeah,” you said, nodding. “That’s what I always said. So… let’s get started.”

—

You and Seungcheol lucked out - the team that had been recalled for misconduct were terminated from their posts in the weeks following the sparring trials, and their jaeger Fatal Rapids had been disassembled, the parts up for grabs.

You and Seungcheol repurposed Rapids’s main frame, your crew working to individualize the bot to your needs as best they could. You splurged on quad-processors for her legs to allow your jaeger to keep up with how you move - quick and lithe. Seungcheol lobbied for (and won) some extra power in the top half, and you compromised and chose a mix of red and blue sections for her paintjob.

Duellona Fury, you named her. Duellona for you, the destroyer. Fury for Seungcheol, because that was where his fight came from.

You got to know Seungcheol’s fury very well. Especially when you started trying to drift.

None of it happened fast - not the building of your machine, nor your neural handshake. In fact, you didn’t pilot Duellona Fury together for a whole calendar year.

You started with physical compatibility - you sparred almost all day, every day. You fought - with each other and against each other - until all you could do was lay on the ground and pant, blinking to make the ceiling stay in focus.

Seungcheol may not have grown up training in the Shatterdome the way you did, but he kept up without complaint. You learned his way - force and strength - and he learned the way you favored - to weave and dodge.

The fighting was the easy part.

You had never drifted with someone you had true drift compatibility with. Seungcheol had never drifted at all. The Marshall wouldn’t even consider hooking the two of you up to the machine until you went through the proper training.

On the day you and Seungcheol were officially declared as co-pilots-in-training, you both stood below the half-built shell of your towering jaeger, sparks flying and drills screaming as the crew worked on her.

Your Marshall looked seriously at his new team-in-training. “Starting tomorrow, you’ll meditate together. Talk to each other. Get deep about it. If you’ve talked about it out here-” he swept an arm across the deck, “-it won’t take hold so strongly in there.” He’d jabbed a finger in the upward direction of Duellona Fury.

Seungcheol didn’t look at you, nor the Marshall. Instead, he kept his eyes on Duellona's unfinished frame, stories above you. “Yes, Sir,” he said steadily.

Your parents weren’t technically retired yet, the year you and Seungcheol started training together. Charron’s Revenge still sat in the well below the Shatterdome. They still lived on the base, still took part in daily training. They hadn’t been called into a fight in years, though; the assignments went to the younger crews.

You took dinner in their quarters instead of the mess hall, that night.

“Congratulations,” your father said warmly from across the table. “You worked hard to get here.”

“Thank you,” you said, feeling shy beneath the praise. “I hope the drift will work for me and Choi Seungcheol.”

“What do you think of him?” your mother had asked, her sharp eyes honing in on you, watching your reactions.

“I think he’s a great fighter,” you said. “The rest… I guess I’ll have to learn.”

“Do you trust him? Can you trust him out there, when the sea and the wind are trying to knock you down, and hell itself rises up from the depths?”

You swallowed. She’s right for her intensity - they will be putting their daughter’s life in her co-pilot’s hands, every time there’s a fight. You knew firsthand how terrifying it was to stand in the tech bay and wait, not knowing if your loved ones will make it back.

You thought about how you and Seungcheol fight together in the sparring rooms. You thought about how you weaved and your opponent followed your movement, only to be knocked sideways. You thought of how Seungcheol followed your motion backwards, ducked in tandem with you to avoid a hit, and how you followed his momentum forward and up to attack. Your bodies followed each other like they were magnetized. And Seungcheol was always watching for the next hit.

“Yes,” you said, so quietly that you cleared your throat and said it again. “Yes, I trust him.”

“Then we wish you luck,” your father said, and raised his glass. “To Duellona Fury.”

“To Duellona Fury,” you echoed.

On your way out of the quarters, later, you slowed as you passed the wall where they hung their accolades and awards, the newspaper clippings, photos, and medals. Before your eyes they aged - the photographs changing through the years, no longer showing a bright, fiery couple, instead displaying proof of passing time: a baby bump, then a toddler, then a child beaming alongside them as if she’d done what they had done; greying hairs, softening bodies, deepening of wrinkles. Then the pictures stopped.

You never asked them if they missed it.

—

You and Seungcheol started meditating together the next morning; it seemed logical to begin at the easiest step. In an empty sparring room, you sat facing each other, knees touching.

“Have you done this before?” you asked, as you both settled in, shifting weight and adjusting ankles.

“Not with someone else,” he admitted, lips protruding in a bit of a pout. “Only alone.”

You nodded. You’d grown up learning all of this - the right way to fight as a team member, how to be in tune for a neural connection. It led to you teaching Seungcheol often - yet when you fought together, any leadership fell away.

“Normally,” you explained, “you focus on your breath, keeping your mind clear. But for our practice, you want to focus on our breath. We breathe together. And when your mind wanders, your awareness should be coming to peace with my presence there. Like, making a path for the neural connection - for later. So there’s no resistance.”

“Have you done this before?” Seungcheol asked.

You wobbled your head around - not yes, but not no. “I’ve practiced it - I’ve done the meditation with partners. But I’ve never moved forward to an actual drift with anyone.”

This seemed to appease him, and he settled his weight backwards, letting his hands rest near his knees.

You let your eyes float closed and inhaled, listening and feeling for Seungcheol’s inhale to end, letting your breath out when he did. It took no time to match your breaths, to let your mind go blissfully quiet. You focused on feeling open, readable - any thought that floated through your mind, you pretended he could hear, too. You tried to feel and release any defensiveness, any urge to close off.

When the timer went off, it surprised you. You opened your eyes, and the feeling that struck you was this -

It was surprising to see Seungcheol before you. It hadn’t felt like he was beside you. It had felt like he was you.

You meditated, you fought, and finally, you talked.

Laying on the sparring room floor, your head somewhere near Seungcheol’s shins, he asked you, “Where do you wish you were right now? If you weren’t here.”

You laughed at yourself before answering, knowing how silly you would sound. “In a tree.”

A disbelieving smile played on his lips, almost as if he wasn’t sure you weren’t making fun of him somehow. “A tree?”

“No, really,” you insisted, still smiling a little. “There’s not a lot of nature here, in case you didn’t notice. I grew up in the Dome - never got to leave, much.”

Seungcheol didn’t respond to this, just nodded like he understood, his small smile going a bit tight around the edges.

You frowned, reading him exactly. “You think I’m sheltered,” you observed. It wasn’t a question. He couldn’t say no.

He looked at you, then. “You were sheltered,” he said, voice low. “But when I say it, I don’t mean naive. I just think… there’s a lot of world out there. A lot of things to see. You won’t see any of it if you spend your entire life under the Dome.”

You nod, accepting this. “I won’t see any of it if it gets destroyed, either. There’s a lot of world out there - that we’re trying to keep safe.”

Seungcheol watched you intently for a moment, lips downturned and gaze heavy. Then, he asked, “Have you ever seen a kaiju? I mean - in person?”

“Sort of,” you mumbled.

He’d rolled from his back to his front, closer to you, putting you shoulder to shoulder. “Kind of seems like a yes-or-no question.”

Your lips twisted. “Then, no. But I’ve stood in the bay and listened to Mission Control talk my mom and dad through a fight dozens of times, watched Charron’s Revenge on the screens and prayed I wouldn’t see her get sawed in half.”

You stopped, trailed a finger through the thin layer of dirt on the floor. “I know it’s not the same as looking one in the face myself,” you whispered. “But the fear… shouldn’t that fear count, shouldn’t it feel the same?”

Seungcheol swallowed, trailed his own finger through the dirt until his fingertip just barely touched yours. It felt like energy sizzled in the centimeter between your pointer and his.

“When Menaceclaw attacked,” he said, “he missed my home by one block. We watched him go by from the sidewalk. I wasn’t even as tall as his foot. But even with him towering over the buildings, taking them down without even trying, I don’t think what I felt was afraid. I think I just felt resigned. Like I knew, at seven, that even though we survived this one… nothing was going to be… the same, or okay. I don’t know.”

“You knew what you lost,” you said quietly. “Part of you did.”

He looked up at you, nudged his finger into yours. “You never knew anything different. It wasn’t a loss. The fear was just always part of the deal.”

You rolled sideways, laying your head on your bicep for a pillow, regarding the dark-eyed, dark-haired young man across from you. His face scrunched in a laugh, brows furrowing and lips pouting.

“What?” he asked through the quiet laugh. “Why are you looking at me?”

“What else?” you mused. “What else am I going to find when we go tiptoeing through your memories?”

He smiled faintly and then mirrored you, laying his head on his arm, his eyes swimming as he thought.

“A lot of my family, probably,” he said. “A lot of fighting. Menaceclaw. Probably some very mid sex.”

You laughed without meaning to. “My condolences?”

He grinned at you, pleased. “Eh, what can you do? I try to treat everything like a learning experience.”

You laughed again, and his smile grew, gums showing. “What about you?” he asked off-handedly.

“Mid sex?” you asked, eyebrows raising. “I hate to inform you, Choi Seungcheol, but I don’t do anything mid.”

“No,” he protested, laughing, reaching out to gently shake your shoulder. “I meant - what will we see when it’s your turn?”

“The Dome,” you said, half-joking - but it was true. “Training. My parents. Their fights, their accomplishments.”

And, as a true drift partner should, he understood what you weren’t saying.

“We’ll have our turn,” he promised, pushing himself to sit up, then stand, reaching down to help you up. “We’re gonna be fucking unstoppable. Let’s go again.”

Fire sparking behind your ribs, you nodded seriously, then reached up to take his hand.

—

Weeks of sparring melded into months of meditation and talking. The next phase of training co-pilots was learning to drift in one of the simulators - but not in a jaeger. Not yet.

You and Seungcheol finished training in one of the sparring rooms shortly before dinner would be served in the mess hall.

“Meet you there?” you asked, still half-breathless, your body starting to ache as the adrenaline from a fight melted away.

“Sure,” he agreed, and you disappeared into the changing rooms, scrubbing the sweat and dirt away as quickly as you could. You changed into something clean and made your way to the mess hall.

You scanned for familiar faces, frowning when your normal table seemed to be occupied by a team of new recruits that you didn’t know.

Seungcheol appeared at your elbow, frowning dramatically. “Our table,” he whined.

“There’s Chan and Wylie,” you said, nodding to another corner where your friends sat practically on top of each other. Chan and Wylie had never understood personal space, not when it came to one another. They barely noticed when you and Seungcheol plopped onto the benches next to them, but Seungkwan did.

“You’re bleeding, Cherry,” he said, before inhaling an entire mouthful of rice.

You started to scan your arms - you didn’t feel pain anywhere - but Seungcheol found it first, gingerly swiping his thumb along your cheekbone.

“Sorry, Cherry,” he murmured. “I should’ve pulled that punch.”

“No you shouldn’t have,” you grumbled, swatting at his hand and wiping roughly at the spot, your hand coming away with a small smear of red - nothing to be alarmed about. It would stop on its own. “You pull shots in practice, you’ll hesitate in the field.”

“She’s right,” Chan said from his physical tangle with Wylie. “What you practice will show up in your muscle memory. You’ve got to mean it, every time.”

Wylie reached across his arms and took a bite from his plate, then asked, “Did you guys see the new jaeger?”

“I did,” Seungkwan said eagerly. “Chaser Supernova, or something like that? She’s smaller, but she’s supposed to be fast.”

“Is that her team at our normal table?” you asked dryly, shooting the rookies a dark look over your shoulder. Seungcheol jostled you playfully, sending you a smile that brought you back.

The bench dipped to your left, and you turned to see Soonyoung - one of Seungkwan’s two co-pilots - settle in.

“Talking about Supernova?” he asked, hands busy opening his drink. “They seem okay - they’re a trio, like us.”

“Where is Seokmin?” Seungkwan asked, scanning the room. “I haven’t seen him in like two hours.”

“Talking to Jihoon, I think,” Soonyoung answered absently, focused on his meal. “He lost another co-pilot today.”

“Not again,” you and Seungcheol both blurted, matching levels of exasperation.

“That was freaky,” Wylie said, just as Chan told you, “You two are acting like us, now.”

“We do not need another Chan-and-Wylie,” Seungkwan said seriously, shaking his head.

Seungcheol sent you a sideways, sheepish grin.

“We won’t be,” he promised the group, but his eyes were still on you.

—

The simulators were built to be exact replicas of the conn-pod, so that trainees could get used to the feeling of being strapped in, of moving with the gear. But the real purpose was to practice the neural handshake without risking damage - to the jaeger, to the tech bay, to each other.

“Don’t be nervous,” you told Seungcheol as the tech team worked around you both like a choreographed dance.

“I’m never nervous,” he said, suddenly cocky.

If you could reach his hand from where you were strapped in, you would have. If you understood anything about Seungcheol - if any part of him mirrored you - it was the way he showcased bravado, the way he used it as his most-familiar mask.

“It’s only practice,” you reminded him. “And it’s only me.”

He licked his lips quickly, eyes darting to the side and then back to you. Then, he gave you a small nod.

“Normally,” your chief tech - a beautiful woman with jet-black hair named Nainsi - told you, “right now, you would be ready for the drop. In the simulator, we skip that step because we aren’t dropping onto a jaeger. Instead, we’ll engage the pilot to pilot connection protocol sequence.”

You and Seungcheol nod in tandem.

“You’re all good?” Nainsi checks. “Then I’m going back into the tech bay - you’ll hear me through the intercom.”

Alone in the simulator, you met Seungcheol’s gaze and couldn’t help the excited grin that spread across your face. Finally, finally you were here. Once you could do this successfully, the next step was to fight in your own jaeger - to drop into Duellona Fury and walk into the sea.

He didn’t return your smile, instead giving you a tight nod, expression serious.

Over the intercom, you said clearly, “Ready and aligned.”

Nainsi answered, “Prepare for neural handshake.”

You took a deep breath and steeled yourself as the artificial voice of the simulator’s tech system spoke around you, 3… 2… 1… neural handshake initiating…

At first, you thought something went wrong. Everything went red behind your eyelids, and you blinked, instinctively trying to clear it away.

The red faded, and you found yourself in Seungcheol’s childhood home. You didn’t know how you knew that - you just knew. It was as familiar to you, inside the drift, as your own. You knew that to your left was a small kitchen with two broken floor tiles; you knew - without having ever seen it - that to your right was a narrow hallway that led to a bathroom and two small bedrooms.

Two small boys played on the carpet; rather, the smaller one played with some toy cars while the other watched the television with rapture. Behind them, at the kitchen table, a woman typed busily on an outdated laptop, bags heavy under her eyes.

Somewhere around you, a voice floated by, telling you, neural handshake strong and holding.

You could see Seungcheol in your periphery - the adult Seungcheol, the Seungcheol of now - as he looked at his mother, his brother, himself.

“It’s not real,” you reminded him gently. “It’s just a memory.”

“I know,” he said back, voice hushed, as if he might scare them away. “It’s just… good to see them.”

The house evaporated as gently as morning dew under a mid-morning sun; you stood in a schoolyard. Seungcheol, the small one, had a bloody lip and a mean swing.

You felt a rush of affection for him - him, the child, face contorting with misplaced anger, using strength as a bandage. You wanted to stand in front of him, between him and the anger, him and the other kids, and let him take a breath. You wanted to tell him to step with his punch to get more power. You wanted to put a hand on his shoulder and tell him, you’re going to be fine.

And he knew all of it, because he was in your mind.

Seungcheol - your Seungcheol - walked away from the swarm of children egging on the fight and opened a door. You followed.

Inside was not the school, but a hospital room. Your body jolted forward, distracting and alarming. You heard, faintly, a series of beeps, that robotic voice needling in your ears, saying, calibration failure… recalibrating in 3… 2… 1…

“It’s only a memory,” you said again, but the warning beeps were coming stronger, louder, more clearly. The hospital room looked opaque, and Seungcheol walked backwards towards you, away from it, herding you both out of the room. The room - a bed, a pulled curtain, a lot of white - flickered, like a glitch, and then vanished, leaving you standing in the simulator.

Neural handshake disengaged…

“Seungcheol!” you yelled, pulling your helmet off and wheeling on him as best you could with most of your body still strapped in. “What the hell was that? You pushed me out!”

He was breathing hard, eyes a little wild. “Not that,” he said, a little ragged. “I’ll let you in but - not that.”

“You don’t get to choose!” you snapped. Part of you knew this was just growing pains, he’d never drifted before, he was learning. But the rest of you smarted and stung - both from his rejection and from your failure to train, to succeed, to check off this final step before you could get inside your jaeger. “It’s kind of an all-or-nothing thing!”

He let out a billow of air, reaching a hand up to rub at his face. “Sorry. I’ll… let’s try again.”

You didn’t answer, fuming silently instead.

“I’m sorry, Cherry,” he said. “The stuff with my dad…”

“You can’t cherry-pick what we see and what we don’t,” you fired back. His eyes shot to yours and his mouth quirked and you read the joke all over his face. “Don’t you laugh, Seungcheol, it’s not funny!”

But you were laughing through the scolding.

“Stop,” you whined.

Your anger defused, he looked at you again, taking a bracing breath. “It’s not about you,” he tried to explain. “I’m not keeping you out. I’m keeping me out.”

“Don’t chase the rabbit,” you told him, shaking your head. “See what it wants you to see and move on. Find the next door. If you stand there and let your hurt - or your, I don’t know… grief - rise up… that’s when we’re going to have trouble.”

“Find the next door,” he repeated, eyes on the floor. “Got it.”

“You can’t push it away,” you reminded him, “but you don’t have to stay in it, either.”

He nodded, eyes already lighting up, ready to go again.

The second time, you saw him steel himself before opening that same door, watching carefully as he shuffled inside, only looking sideways at the hospital room that materialized around you.

“Seungcheol.”

He turned to look at you, wide-eyed, but you hadn’t called him. The voice, weak and hoarse, had come from the other side of the fluttering curtain.

The glitching started almost immediately - the image around you flickering like a bad wall projection. Something rocked beneath your feet, an earthquake only inside your minds.

You opened your mouth, started to tell him, you don’t have to stay, to remind him that he could move forward. Instead, you heard yourself say, “I’m here.”

The tremors under your feet quivered to a stop. You watched with trepidation and Seungcheol closed his eyes and took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. Then, he held his hand out, waiting.

You slipped your hand into his, and then he turned and continued walking, ignoring his father’s memory calling out to him. The flickering stopped, the picture you were part of brightening again as you found the next door, stepped through, left his pain behind.

—

It got easier quickly. Seungcheol’s ability to press on, to maintain focus, strengthened.

The strolls through your mind went easier - you’d had years to practice maintaining focus, waiting until after to let the emotions hit you.

Seungcheol learned to be ready for you, after. He’d sit with you, silent, and breathe in tandem as you worked to let go, to release the images of Charron’s Revenge on the tech bay screen, the sounds of your parents’ frantic communication as they fought together, the fear crawling its way up your legs every time until someone in the bay said, “Charron’s Revenge, cleared to return.” The loneliness of being the only kid in the Dome, having no outlet except fighting. Everything that threatened your mind while you piloted, everything that you had to save for later - save for him.

You were both freshly turned twenty when you got green-lit to drive.

“Seungcheol!” you called across the mess hall, practically racing to your table. He turned, eyebrows raised, as you crossed the large room.

“We’re approved to drop!” you told him excitedly. It churned in you - finally, finally you could fight, you could prove what you could do, you could help. “We’re on the drop schedule for tomorrow!”

His grin was unfettered, unfiltered, just for you. He reached up a fist and you bumped it enthusiastically. You were too excited to eat, too excited to sleep. You tossed and turned, imagining experiencing a drop for the first time, imagining striding through the mighty sea like it was nothing, imagining staring down hell itself and bringing it to its knees.

You were still awake when you heard the alarms down the hall. Yours didn’t go off, because you weren’t on duty, weren’t approved to fight.

Down the hall, there was a flurry of commotion - shouting, rushing, people pushing past you as they pulled on boots and jackets.

“Cat-3 in the west bay,” someone shouted.

“Deploying Devil’s Advocate!”

You reached the tech bay, trying to stay out of the way but not unseen. When the Marshall strode by, you stepped sideways.

“Let us drop,” you said quickly, knowing time was precious. “It’ll be like practice. We can be back-up. We’ll hang back.”

“Absolutely not,” the Marshall said, already moving to work past you. “You’re not approved yet. We don’t need a liability right now.”

“We’re scheduled for tomorrow!” you protested, and then you felt a hand on your shoulder.

“We’ll get our turn,” Seungcheol told you quietly. Of course he’d come out, of course he found you.

You deflated. “It could have been us. We are hours from approval.”

He gave your shoulder a tiny shake. “We’ll get our turn,” he repeated. “Don’t make trouble.”

You glowered, but you knew he was right. “Fine,” you grumbled as Joshua and Jeonghan slinked past you in matching jackets and matching shit-eating grins. You stayed out of the way as they prepared to drop.

You stayed through the fight, listened to the control room buzz and chatter, until you heard, “Devil’s Advocate, cleared to return.”

Only then did you try to go back to sleep. Seungcheol gave your shoulder one more squeeze.

“Tomorrow,” he promised.

“Tomorrow,” you repeated.

—

Some people feel God at church. The history of tradition and the sanctity of ritual speak to them, help them feel part of something, help them feel that unnameable swell of something spiritual.

Some people feel God in nature. The patterns of the universe, the way math exists without human touch, the harmonies and patterns that seem too intricate for coincidence help them believe in a planner’s touch. The beauty of the outdoors allows them to wonder, to feel like they belong as a piece of this clockwork.

But you - you felt God when you stood before your jaeger, marveling at the power, the beauty, how it feels like yours, how it feels like Seungcheol before you’re even inside it. Duellona Fury promises you power, promises you purpose.

That hand was on your shoulder again, and it slid down to the center of your back before removing itself.

Beside you, Seungcheol stared up at your glorious machine.

“She looks sick,” he said, the grin taking over his face.

“I can’t wait to fuck shit up,” you murmured, your reverent tone at odds with the flippancy of your words.

“Ready?” the Marshall asked you, coming up to your left. “We’ll get you calibrated and dropped, and then you’ll do a lap of the bay. We’re sending out Pretty Savage just in case you run into trouble.”

The defensiveness rose in you quick, like a snakebite.

“We don’t need a babysitter,” Seungcheol said, voice hard. You reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze - a reminder to watch it, just as his hand on your shoulder frequently did for you.

“It’s just safety protocol.” The Marshall was unphased by the outburst. “Have fun, you two. Enjoy your first joy-ride.”

You screamed when you dropped, the exhilaration rushing out of you as Duellona Fury fell story after story before slowing and attaching to your jaeger’s mainframe.

Goosebumps raised along your arms when the Shatterdome’s sea-doors slid open, shudders traveling your body as you and Seungcheol stepped together, Duellona Fury stepping with you, her gigantic, metal form following every movement.

For the first time in your whole, careful life, you felt powerful. Your jaeger cut through the ocean waves like they were nothing, making an easy perimeter of the bay. In your head, you could somehow both hear and feel Seungcheol’s delight, his low-simmering desire to fight, to do something a perfect mirror of your own.

“How is it?” Soonyoung’s voice crackled in your ears, reminding you that Pretty Savage wasn’t far behind you.

“Incredible,” Seungcheol answered him, at the same time that you said, “It’s everything.”

It didn’t matter that you came from a family of pilots. It didn’t matter that you were raised in the Dome, training since you were young. None of that mattered. You were born for this - born to fight for your planet, born for Duellona Fury, born for Choi Seungcheol.

—

The west bay became Duellona’s playground; you and Seungcheol were often assigned to patrol there.

It was only a few months in that you faced a kaiju for the first time.

“Come in, Duellona Fury,” Nainsi’s voice came through. “We have a reading just a few miles north of you. Cat-2. Approaching at -”

Duellona Fury was turning due north before the command was even given.

“Are you ready for this?” you shouted to Seungcheol as Duellona slid through the water, the adrenaline singing in your system already.

“You know I am,” he answered, something hard in it, and the thrill in your stomach sparked.

When the sea split in half, the kaiju rising from the depths with an unearthly roar, you sank into a defensive stance, feeling Seungcheol move beside you, doing the same.

“Let’s fucking go,” Seungcheol said darkly, and launched forward, your arms rearing back for momentum before the first swing. The punch landed solidly, your whole body shaking once as the kaiju faltered backwards a few steps.

It opened its mouth and you glimpsed three rows of teeth bigger than a cow before it was lunging at you; Duellona Fury lurched. You tried to duck sideways as Seungcheol tried to move towards your opponent.

The moment of indecision cost you - the kaiju got its teeth on Duellona’s shoulder, knocking you back several steps. Beside you, Seungcheol roared as sparks flew near the bite.

“Are we breached?” you yelled, trying to steady your balance again.

“Not yet!” he yelled back, and you swung again, a hit landing hard enough to knock the kaiju loose, spitting it back into the sea.

You tried to move into a defensive crouch again; again, the jaeger faltered.

“Cherry!” Seungcheol yelled, desperation laced in his voice. “Cherry, don’t fight me!”

“Move with me!” you answered, and he did, miraculously, Duellona dodging left before an incoming attack.

Don’t fight me.

You rocked forward with Seungcheol as soon as you were clear of the kaiju’s trajectory, just as you’d done in practice thousands of times. Back in sync, Duellona Fury landed a kick to the kaiju’s middle that sent it stumbling.

“We’ve got him,” you said, feeling a win.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Seungcheol warned you. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the kaiju exploded from the dark ocean, limbs flailing as it flew towards you.

Duellona’s arms came up and locked it in battle, the impact shaking you so hard that your teeth chattered against each other. You groaned with exertion as you tried to match its strength.

“I don’t think we can hold it,” you managed through grit teeth.

“We’ve got this,” your partner promised, and with a mighty shove, you managed to flip the beast over your shoulder and beneath the waves.

“Drop the bombs and head for the east side,” you said quickly, already moving. Duellona Fury followed your command, turning and starting an easy run through the bay’s churning waters, away from where the kaiju was struggling to its feet, furious and vengeful. As she ran, she dropped three small explosives, about sixty feet apart. The explosives slipped into the ocean depths.

“Ready?” Seungcheol asked, a little breathless. “Are we far enough away?”

“Light him up,” you replied. Seungcheol reached up and tapped the button; somewhere behind you, the ocean exploded.

—

“How’s your shoulder?” you asked, later, in the med bay.

“Not that bad,” Seungcheol said, but you could see the blood-stains on the bandaging.

“It won’t happen again,” you promised. “I think I just… practiced alone for so long. I forgot to listen. I’m sorry.”

Seungcheol shook his hand, eyes finding yours. “There’s nothing to forgive, Cherry. Forget about it.” Then, he brightened. “You know what I want to do?”

“What?” you asked, not entirely past feeling guilty.

His smile was devilish. “I want to go celebrate our first fucking kill.”

– 

You marked the passing of two years in statistics.

Three hundred and forty-six explosives detonated.

Two hundred and eighty-three drops. Two hundred and eight-three kills. 

Seventy-two mainframe repairs.

Twenty-eight achievement awards.

Nine television interviews.

Six upgrades.

One ill-informed “vacation” during which you both itched with anxiety, spending the whole time messaging your friends back in the Shatterdome desperately, praying you wouldn’t miss a fight in which you were needed.

Seven hundred and thirty days of living in and around Seungcheol’s mind and heart. But that stat should’ve gone first.

It was a good high. Your team had a good run.

It wasn’t a kaiju that reduced it to ash, not an attack that took your team out of the rotation of main fighters and sent your jaeger to gather rust and dust below the Dome. It was your own stupid heart.

There were a lot of moments that could have been it. Each time you walked into a fight knowing the danger, each time he ended up in the med bay reeking of antibacterial ointment and resentment. Each time you slid into your place beside him - space he saved only for you. Each time his voice bidding you goodnight from the bottom bunk was the last thing you heard at the end of the day. Any of these moments might have been the one to make you stop, gasp, suddenly slammed with understanding. That you loved him, that he was everything you couldn’t bear to be without, that he was part of you. But they weren’t.

There was no moment of realization at all.

Instead, it slowly seeped into your consciousness, as gently and naturally as morning dew collecting on pre-dawn petals. The knowledge clung to you, as impossible to ignore as damp feet after running barefoot through the yard just after sunrise.

If you knew something, that meant your co-pilot would know it, too.

Unless you tucked it away, pushed it down deep and cast his attention elsewhere, a mental sleight-of-hand. Look here instead. 

You were twenty-three, on a routine patrol, when Mission Control radioed Duellona that there was a reading in the bay.

“Looks like it’s only a Cat-1,” Mission Control told you.

“On it,” you told them, feeling your body already mirroring Seungcheol’s as Duellona picked up her pace, striding through the waves. 

You glanced sideways at him, and immediately wished you hadn’t. He was already zoned in, eyes focused and jaw sharp as he concentrated. 

He caught your gaze for only a second. “Focus, Cherry,” he cautioned. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I would never,” you retorted, and he laughed. You were both cocky; you both knew it.

For a second, things felt better. 

The fight was almost easy, when the ocean seemed to split in two and the waves fell away like wrapping paper to reveal the kaiju you’d been sent for. 

You swung and ducked, dropping explosives strategically, Seungcheol moving in unison with you. There was something graceful about it - something beautiful in the sync, something holy in the way your muscles mimicked each other’s. 

This is what happens when sunlight hits morning dew: it warms, lifts, makes the air humid and sticky until it burns away. 

It rose up in you, your love for him, infusing the air around you, infusing the neural handshake that he was deeply imbedded in.

No. 

You panicked, tried to do several things at once - tried to shove the feeling down, tried to think of something else, tried to push Seungcheol’s consciousness out of yours.

Duellona Fury lurched around you, shuddering. 

“Cherry!” Seungcheol screamed to your left, and then the kaiju hit, its full weight slamming into Duellona’s mainframe.

You both staggered, trying to right yourselves, as the machines around you blinked and beeped and rebooted. 

Seungcheol grunted under the neural weight of driving alone as you gasped and closed your eyes, trying desperately to fix it. Around you, you heard the floating words - recalibrating.

“Recalibrate faster!” you shouted, glancing sideways to see your co-pilot struggling to hold the monster in place, his face contorting with effort, arms straining against the machinery. He bared his gritted teeth, exhaling in a hiss between them. 

You gave yourself a shake, bouncing on the balls of your feet, desperate for the connection to take again so you could pick up your half, take the literal weight from him. As soon as you felt the neural handshake, you gave a mighty shove and Duellona flipped the monster backwards, the ocean receding and then coming back to slam her shins, swallowing the monster whole.

You both sank into a defensive stance, ready for the beast to rise again.

“What was that?” Seungcheol demanded, later, as he sat in the med bay, waiting for his nosebleed to stop. The nosebleed you’d caused by letting him carry a neural load meant for two.

“I don’t know,” you lied, still panicked and desperate. 

“Bullshit,” Seungcheol countered, eyes narrowed. He reached up and pulled the cotton away from his face, examining it. “I’m fine now,” he announced, and tossed the wad into a nearby trash bin, standing.

You fought the urge to cower, knowing he’d never let it go if you did. You followed him silently out of the med bay and back towards your dormitories. Halfway there, he slowed, then stopped.

Then, more calmly this time, he asked, “What happened, Cherry? You pushed me out.”

There was a slight pout to it, a sliver of hurt, and it sliced through you like something tangible, like you were actually wounded from it, like it might actually bleed.

“I don’t know,” you repeated. Guilt poked at you until you relented, gave him something that was at least partly true.  “I got scared.” 

“That can’t happen, and you know it,” he said seriously, his large frame casting a long shadow to your left as he leaned into your space. “You can’t keep secrets - that’s piloting 101. We’ve got to handle it. You know what’s at stake here.”

You did; you did, and that was entirely the problem. It wasn’t just feelings, it wasn’t just your relationship with Seungcheol at stake. It was your relationship with your co-pilot - your ability to fight was at stake, your ability to keep others safe. Your legacy.

Your parents’ wall of pictures flashed in your mind.

“I’m going to my mom and dad’s for a while,” you said quietly. 

He nodded, let you run away - trusted you to come back to him when you were ready, trusted you to let him in.

You weren’t sure if he was right or wrong, as you walked away and left him behind.

You didn’t go to your parents’, though. Instead, you went to the tech bay and sat, watching Duellona undergo simple repairs from her fight. You stayed there, the metal cold beneath your thighs, watching the tech team buff over a scratch on your jaeger’s torso, until someone dropped into the spot next to you, bumping their shoulder roughly into yours.

“Where’s Seungcheol?” Wylie, who co-piloted Fury Striker with Chan, was your closest friend in the Dome besides Seungcheol. 

“He’s pissed at me,” you answered, looking sideways, because the question had really meant, why isn’t Seungcheol with you? 

You weren’t sure she’d understand what you were going through - she and Chan had been obsessed with each other since they were kids. Neither of them had ever had to fear that their love for each other would mess anything up. It had been part of their deal from the start.

“What’d you do?” Wylie demanded, turning her full, unfettered attention on you. You wanted to shrink from the intensity of it - but that was always how Wylie worked: full wattage, all the time.

“Almost got us killed by a fucking Cat-1 tonight,” you muttered, angry at yourself, angry at your heart.

Wylie smacked your arm hard enough to send you sideways. “Cherry!” she scolded. 

“There was something I didn’t want him to see.” You said it in your head first, weighed the words, then forced them through your teeth. You hoped she’d just know what it was, hoped you wouldn’t have to force those words past muscle and bone, too.

Wylie’s face dropped into irritation. “Cherry,” she repeated, disappointment dripping from the two syllables.

You looked up at Duellona Fury again. 

“You can’t do that,” she told you, giving your ankle a little kick for emphasis. “You know you can’t do that.”

You can’t love him? Or, you can’t keep secrets from him?

You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to know the answer.

Seungcheol was waiting up for you when you finally returned to the dorm. You opened the door to find the first room - an entryway and kitchen, both - dimly lit. Beyond it, in the small sitting space, Seungcheol sat facing the door, his chin in his hand.

You knew the look on his face. You knew it so well that you almost ran from it, almost turned right around and went back out to the hallway.

Brows slightly furrowed, mouth a straight line, jaw tight. Eyes focused, locked in. It was the face he made in training before he bodied someone. It was the face he made in the field before an offensive strike. It meant he had his sights on a target, a problem, and he was about to throw everything he had at it.

And right now, you were the problem.

“Hey?” you tried meekly.

He nodded. Licked his lips. Stood. 

He’s pissed at me, you’d told Wylie. The energy radiating from your co-pilot was much more complex than that, the air around you palpably tense and teetering.

“How was it at your parents’?” he asked, voice low. 

You took one tentative step closer. “I didn’t go,” you admitted. One lie between you was already more than you wanted. “I watched them patch up Duellona instead. Talked to Wylie a little.”

He nodded, eyes still on you. Nervousness coursed through you, but it would be a lie - another one - to say it wasn’t laced with a little excitement. He was stunning, always, but like this - it almost took your breath away.

If he was in your mind right now, there’d be no question. He’d know all of it. The attraction, the desire, the fear, the affection, the love, the need. All of it. 

His eyes caught on a bruise peeking out from the short sleeve of your top. “You should’ve had them look at that,” he said, reaching out like he wanted to run his fingers over the dark splotch, but he was just too far away, fingertips closing around the air just an inch or two away. 

You shook your head. “You needed attention first. You carried the neural load alone.” Because of me.

“Only for a minute.”

“A minute too long. I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

It hung between you. You don’t know if you’d inched forward or he had, or both, but you were close enough to touch now when you hadn’t been just seconds ago.

He lifted his eyes, his gaze locking on yours. In the dim room, his eyes shone black. “You pushed me out.”

It was an accusation, but it was also a question.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated, barely able to say it, your voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. “Seungcheol, I was scared.”

Maybe he was in your head. Maybe he did know all of it.

“Don’t be,” he told you. “Don’t be scared.”

His arms were around you though you didn’t see him move. It wasn’t the first time you’d let him embrace you - after a fight, in relief, or in victorious delight, or sometimes just in sleepy affection at the end of a long day. It was far from the first time that you’d found comfort in the space between his arms, strong and capable around your frame, your forehead pressed against his sternum as his heart beat directly into your bones. 

But it was the first time that his fingers, confident and sure, tipped under your chin, guiding you to look up at him, guiding your mouth to meet his.

You don’t know if you melted or exploded - it was somehow both at once. You gripped his back, feeling the muscles move beneath his t-shirt, relaxing into his hold and focusing on the feel of his full lips firm and hungry against your own. This was everything - everything you’d wanted, everything you were afraid of, everything you needed, everything that could rip your life apart.

You didn’t mean to whine, but it slipped up your throat and into the gasped space between your lips and his as you tried to pull in a desperate breath. He responded with a grunt, walking you backwards until the edge of the kitchen counter jutted into your lower back. His hands traveled, up to the back of your neck, back down to the slight curve of your waist, around to the back of your ass. He tugged your hips against his roughly, and you let your head fall back, panting, head spinning.

“Cherry,” he breathed against the newly bared stretch of your neck, his lips close enough to drag against your skin as he spoke.

Your hands found the back of his neck, gave the slightest tug upwards, and he followed, bringing his mouth back to yours. His tongue pressed yours briefly, your moan muffled entirely by his mouth as you tried to press him closer, closer, as if you wanted your rib-cages to meld, to slip together like fitting puzzle pieces. 

His hand slipped lower from your ass and wrapped around your thighs, taking only a second to lift you onto the counter behind you. You wrapped yourself around him immediately, pulling him into the space between your legs, arms around his neck, pulling him in, wanting to feel every bit of him against you. 

His hands found the hem of your shirt and lifted; you raised your arms in compliance and felt the cotton slip over your head and your hands.

“Yours,” you murmured, but he had already reached back between his shoulder blades, his own top joining yours on the floor.

Your hands found him on their own, sliding over his skin, fingers dipping between muscles, thumbs sweeping over shadows.

You kissed until you turned liquid, molten, your fingers wrapped in his hair. His fingers mapped every inch of your skin, as if his job was to report back on every previously unknown dip, every rough circle, every beauty mark or blemish. His fingers traced them all, his hands passing over you reverently.

The brush of his bare chest against your own was torturous; delicious until you were full, until you couldn’t take it anymore, until the electric-sharp thrill became uncomfortable. You tilted backwards, creating more space between your torsos but pushing your hips firmly into his.

You both groaned at the contact. You could feel the heat and weight of him now, and everything instinctual within you urged you to shift further, to bring that heat and heaviness closer to the part of you that ached for it. 

He pressed his hips into you without reservation, your core clenching in response to the movement and the friction. 

Then he leaned back, his hands gripping the edge of the counter, his arms bracketing you on either side, his chest heaving as he struggled to control his breathing. He drank you in, his eyes as molten as you felt. You leaned back on your elbows and met his gaze.

The moment expanded; nothing existed but his eyes and the pant of his breath and the way he smelled like he’d just finished a fight and the way he felt between your thighs, unmovable and steady.

Neither of you was connected to jaeger machinery, but you may as well have been, because you knew without a shadow of a doubt that your minds were connected, the drift be damned. Your eyes locked, you knew he felt everything you felt - the gravity of what you were doing, the love that drove you, the fire coursing through you. If there was going to be hesitation or questioning, this was the moment, this was the pause. But you were one, your minds were one, and there was none of that. 

His unvoiced question definitively answered by the certainty that flowed between you, Seungcheol moved to lift you again, taking you easily from the countertop into the dark of the room you share, settling you on your back on his bottom bunk.

Above you, mostly shadowed, was your other half, the only person who knew and understood every cobwebbed corner of your consciousness, the only person who had walked through your mind and found himself mirrored in every way that mattered. He was beautiful in the fractured light, his expression serious and gaze intense. 

You reached up to slide your thumb along his jaw and his eyes fluttered closed, his breath leaving him as in relief, as if you’d made some kind of admission. 

Making love to Seungcheol felt like drifting. His eyes on you as his fingers pulled you apart felt the same as the careful way he’d watch you when your memories got emotional, like he was watching for any sign that you weren’t okay, that you needed more or less or him. 

The way his breath and shoulders shuddered when he pressed into you for the first time felt the same as when he faltered in face of his father’s memory; both times, his fingers laced through yours and held tight until you could both breathe again.

He felt how you’d always known he would. Perfect - a perfect fit for you, a physical compatibility you had never tested but had always trusted would be there. He took you apart without even trying, and all you could do was hold onto him, feel all of him, feel all of it, and try to remember to breathe.

You didn’t speak as you moved together in the dark; the only sounds in the tight room were muted gasps, tiny moans muffled against necks, skin on skin, the obscene squelching sounds that accompanied each snap of his hips. You didn’t say the words that your lips tried to form - it’s so much, go slow for a little, Seungcheol, I love you, more - please, don’t stop. Maybe he heard them. Maybe this was a different way to drift, one that didn’t need wires.

You did your best to hold his gaze, losing sight of him only when you strained up to kiss him, when you nuzzled your face into the warmth between his neck and shoulder and gasped against a wave of sensation, when you couldn’t help but close them as they rolled back, your toes curling. 

He pressed his forehead to yours when he finished, your name slipping out of him, as if it had been literally squeezed from his lungs. “Cherry… Cherry…”

You lay together in silence for a long time, feeling your hearts slow, your skin cool. Your thumb traced his jaw again and again, slow, worshipful. “Cheol,” you whispered. My Cheol. My everything. You didn’t say the rest as you lay together in the quiet, in the dark, your heartbeats competing. 

You didn’t know that you’d drifted together for the last time. You didn’t know that your ability to neural connect could be broken.

–

The wind whips around you, stinging your face. You barely flinch. When you’d first relocated here, three years ago, the cold had made you literally cry during your first month. Just from having to walk from the door of the dormitory across the yard to the mess hall dorm, the intensity of it had sent you spiraling into misery - damning the circumstances that had sent you here, away from everyone and everything you knew and loved, to a place where the air hurt. 

You were sure it would hurt, this intensely, forever.

But time eased the sting, and despite your doubts you did adjust. Now the early morning wind feels bracing and refreshing rather than painful. You’ve adjusted to a lot of things since relocating to a small training center in Alakanuk, Alaska: the climate, the food, the no-frills campus you lived and worked on. Being away from your parents, from Wylie and Chan and Seungkwan and Jeonghan and all the other pilots you were friends with at the Shatterdome.

Being away from Seungcheol. Being partnerless, a half instead of a whole. 

Being unable to pilot, unable to fight. 

Being brokenhearted.

Just like the cold, the pain of your losses was the same - the sting of heartbreak and loneliness and homesickness faded to something ignorable, something you could keep tucked tight in the back of your mind. 

You can hear the noise from inside the mess hall before you even cross the courtyard. There are short of fifty girls ranging from ages seven to eighteen being housed here, but from the noise you’d swear it was at least a hundred. 

The buildings are single-storied, painted with a heavily-chipping grey-blue that sometimes seems to belong to the mist you often get rolling in from the ocean. When you’d first come, you’d legitimately thought they were painted that way as camouflage, meant to blend in with the sea. The other trainers had a good laugh about that. 

As you cross the courtyard between the trainers’ dorms and the mess hall, you breathe deeply, eyes on the birds alight above you. After a lifetime in the Shatterdome, you don’t take for granted the fresh air you’re afforded as you pass between buildings, outside, the sky open and changing above. You don’t take for granted the rhythm of the ocean, the cries of the gulls, nor the distant treeline.

It was Seungcheol who had noted that you were sheltered, having never lived outside of the Dome. 

It was Seungcheol you could blame - at least halfway - for your relocation here, where there wasn’t a jaeger or even a city for hundreds of miles. 

When you pull open the flimsy door to the mess hall, the noise triples. Several of the girls call out to greet you, and you give them a quick wave as you head to the table where the staff eats.

“You’re later than normal,” one of the other instructors notes as you reach for a piece of bread.

You shrug lightly, unbothered. “Still have plenty of time before the first class. What day is today, Thursday? I’ve got the little ones first, right?”

The all-girls training center is meant to teach fighting and the groundworks for drifting, but no jaegers are housed here, no teams launch into the icy bay. The girls here will grow up to pilot - if they get selected, if they get paired with a partner. 

You’re mostly here to teach them to fight, the way you trained in the Dome, but you do plenty more. Help brush hair in the mornings, console tearful faces, teach games and sports, mediate arguments. You also got sucked into running one literacy class a week, though you still haven’t figured out how that happened. 

It would be a lie to say this wasn’t fulfilling, that you didn’t love the girls you cared for, that you weren’t happy here with the ocean and birds and trees and laughter. In many ways, the seclusion of this training center is exactly what you needed to get back on your feet, to find strength in yourself, to heal with distance and time.

But, god, what you would give for a real fight. What you would give to feel both loved and threatened by Wylie, to rib at the guys, to hug your mom. What you would give to hear Seungcheol’s teasing pout, to catch his gaze across the span of your jaeger and know what his body and yours will do, to feel his fingers just barely graze your back when he knows you need to be reminded to focus.

The final time you’d tried, the neural connection never took. It was like trying to connect with a stranger. It had simply been still, a thing that was never alive.

“Don’t do this,” Seungcheol had begged, and that had been the nail in the coffin.

Don’t do this, he’d said. It had landed like blame. Like everything was your fault, and only yours. Like you had broken the connection on purpose, were keeping him out, barricading your mind from his when you desperately wanted everything to go right back to normal.

After that failure, you didn’t tell him you were asking to be reassigned. You didn’t want to give him the chance to say don’t do this a second time.

You’ve just ended a class, the girls starting to filter out through the training room’s side door towards the mess hall for lunch, when the center’s Administrator calls your name from the door.

“There’s a call for you on my line. I have them holding.”

A call? 

Adrenaline races through you; it has to be an emergency. Your parents and friends can reach you on your own device, which is tucked into your back pocket. To call the mainline here at the center means this is a base-to-base call, not a personal one.

You’ve only been in this office a handful of times in your few years here, and you shuffle awkwardly around the desk and pick up the receiver that sits abandoned on the chipped, wooden desktop. 

You greet the person on the line with your real name. 

“Cherry?”

Your Marshall - your old Marshall, from the Dome - sounds unsure if he has the right person on the line. No one has called you Cherry in three years. Even your parents have used your given name the few times they’ve said it on your weekly calls home.

“It’s me,” you affirm. “Is everything okay? My parents?”

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, and you heave a relieved breath. “Everyone is fine. This is official business. I want to call you in.”

You shake your head, frowning, well aware that he can’t see your reaction. Your body has said no, but you force yourself to ask, “Me? Why?”

“We’re down a few teams,” the Marshall says. “And -”

“You’ve got more recruits than places to put them,” you counter before he can finish. “Call one of the new teams up. Call three new teams up. You don’t need me.”

“We do - we need teams with experience, teams that are ready. Not rookies bumbling around looking for mistakes. We need precision. We need Duellona Fury.”

Your Marshall lays out the situation: the teams that are out, the problems they’re having at the breach - less time between attacks, more monsters at once. You’ve seen this before, you all have, and there’s protocol in place - protocol that starts with all hands on deck. 

You shake your head again. From the door, the Administrator of the center watches you seriously, like she knows you’re being taken away. 

“Marshall, with all due respect, I don’t know why you’re calling me,” you admit. “What can I give you? I can’t pilot Duellona.”

Not anymore. 

The Marshall sighs, like he knew this argument was coming and didn’t have a good response. 

“I think you can,” he says finally. “I’m not saying it will be easy, and I’m not saying it will happen quickly or without effort. But I think you can.”

“No,” you say, the first time you’ve voiced it. “You were there. You saw what happened. We can’t drift anymore.”

“You couldn’t then,” he points out. “That was three years ago. You’ve both had a lot of time to…. You’ve both had a lot of time since then. Things that were once too painful to carry into the drift… they’ve had time to mellow.”

This blow knocks you into silence. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, eyes steadfastly on the warped wood of the desk, fingers toying absently with the Administrator’s pen. 

He’s wrong, and you want to tell him so. Nothing had mellowed. You love Seungcheol just as much today as you did three years ago. The splitting ache in your chest that you’ve felt every day since you became aware of loving him has only worked its way deeper with time. 

And Seungcheol’s anger? The anger and betrayal he’d leveled at you, when he was sure you were keeping him out of your head on purpose? You couldn’t speak for him, but if you had to guess, there weren’t enough years in a human life to let that hurt mellow into something safe enough to drift with.

“Have you talked to him about this?” You’re afraid of the answer. 

The Marshall hesitates. “Not yet.”

“You might want to do that first,” you point out. “Before flying me back only to have him refuse.” 

The Marshall’s voice hardens, and you can just picture his eyes narrowing. “Mr. Choi will follow orders,” he says evenly, “and so will you. Asking is really just a courtesy.”

“You can’t order us into being able to drift again,” you snap, pulse suddenly pounding in your arms, your hands, your face, your chest. 

“No,” the Marshall says, and any previous friendliness is gone from his voice now, “but I can - and will - order you to try.”

The girls cry when you tell them you’re leaving, and it makes you want to cry, too. You hold it together as you give them hugs, hold it together as you pack your single bag of belongings. You hold it together in the passenger seat of the center’s only beat-up van, waving out the back window as the training center fades away.

It’s standing on the deck of the ferry, the coast receding and the sea wind clawing at your face, that you let it go. You bury your face behind your hands and feel it release behind your ribs. You cry for all of it - for leaving the girls behind, for leaving a place that had sheltered you like a sanctuary. For the time you’d lost at the Dome, for the fights you’d sat out, for the years with your parents and friends that had slipped away like sand between your fingers. For your fear that Seungcheol will turn you away, just as hurt and angry as he was one thousand and ninety-five days ago. 

You’d been so determined to keep him from walking through the depths of your love for him, in the drift. You were so scared it would be too much, too intense, too much emotion for the drift. You’d been scared it would be too much for him - that the weight of it would inherently ask for more than he could give you in return. You’d been scared it would ruin your partnership, your compatibility, your capability to co-pilot.

But that had happened anyway. You almost have to laugh. 

As furiously as your tears begin, they peter out quickly. You take a few deep gulps of salty air, use the backs of your hands to wipe at your cheeks and beneath your nose. As you calm down, you keep your eyes on the horizon, your hands tight on the ship’s railing, and you let your mind wander back to Seungcheol. Here, thousands of miles away, you let yourself think back to those last weeks before you left the Shatterdome. You let yourself wonder, for the first time, what exactly caused everything to crumble.

You’d been so afraid to let Seungcheol into your head once the loving him had taken over. Why had it scared you so badly? As you keep your eyes on the grey of the horizon, you puzzle it out in your mind.

Had it been the uncertainty? That had certainly played a part. Did Seungcheol love you, back then? If he didn’t, everything between you could have changed - your friendship, your partnership, your ability to drift. It hadn’t seemed worth the risk to lose it all - his presence in your life, your ability to fight together. 

But maybe he had. If he did love you, back then… that would have changed things, too. What if starting something romantic affected your drift? There were too many maybes, too many variables. It had seemed safe to push it all down, to try and keep him away from it. To try and keep things the same.

Of course, you’d lost it all anyway.

Even if he did love you three years ago, you think as the sea air whips around you, did he love you the way you loved him? What if it had been too much - the way you could breathe once he was with you, the way you kept each other in check - what if he had loved you, but not that much?

Had it been a mistake to keep him out? Maybe. But it could have been just as catastrophic to let him in. There was no way to know, now.

You turn away from the ship’s railing, away from the horizon and the sea, away from your mistakes. There’s no use looking back like this. You can’t change it. You aren’t even sure you can fix it.

You were hoping to sleep on the plane, but you’re woefully awake well after take-off. Determined not to keep ruminating on what had happened before you left, instead you wonder what awaits you now.

The most-likely scenario, you think, professional and polite - but cold. Like you, he takes duty and responsibility seriously. The airplane bumps, a pocket of air jostling the small craft, and your hands find the armrests and cling tight until it stops.

The best case scenario, of course, would be that enough time has passed that Seungcheol’s hurt has faded. Maybe, you think, maybe he’s moved on from harboring that anger. Maybe he’ll greet you warmly, maybe you’ll pick up right where you left off.

This hope, this day-dream, aches, so much that you blink it away and turn to watch the clouds through the window, a desperate distraction. You crave Seungcheol - you crave feeling safe with his arms around you, you crave the elation you’d feel when he entered the room you were in, you crave the peace that comes with two minds engaged in neural handshake - the peace of someone’s mind interlaced with your own, understanding you, operating with you, picking up half of your mental lift.

You crave his giggle when you say something stupid in the dark of the dorm before bed, his pout when he feels like he isn’t getting enough attention, you crave his voice echoing in your head long after he’s gone asleep because you heard him talk to you all day long. 

You crave his lips on yours, his teeth on your neck, his hands on your body, even if you only had it once. You’ve craved it ever since.

You crave closing your eyes and pressing your forehead to his sternum, feeling safe and quiet and like you belong. You miss the sanctuary of that space, chest to chest with him, something sacred in the way it exists only for you.

You know you can’t have it - any of it. The daydream isn’t real. Your curse will be to crave it forever, alone.

When you arrive at the Shatterdome, it’s your parents who greet you just inside. For a moment, you’re happy to be back, overcome with emotion as you hug them tight. They’ve aged in these three years. You’ve missed them awfully. You only tell them the latter. 

They walk with you to the Marshall’s office, where you’re meant to report upon arrival. 

You hesitate, covering the moment by tugging your duffle’s strap higher on your shoulder. Your mother reads you anyway, reaching out and giving your shoulder a squeeze. 

“It will be okay,” she whispers. 

Your father catches on. “You’ve faced down worse,” he reasons. 

You disagree. There’s no monster in the sea bigger than your love for Seungcheol, no wounding possible that could hurt more than losing him has. But you appreciate the sentiment, so you give them each a grateful nod, tell them you’ll visit after dinner, and turn to knock on the door.

“Come in,” the Marshall’s voice carries through the door, and you turn the knob and step inside. 

All you see is Seungcheol; the Marshall, the office furniture, the flickering screens on the walls all snap into nonexistence in the presence of your former lover. He’s the only thing in the room that comes into focus. Everything else is just fuzzy noise.

His face wavers for a moment when your eyes meet his, the muscles rippling as he fights to get them under control. 

You don’t know what reaction he’s fighting. You don’t know if he’s feeling happiness or hatred. You don’t know if he’s fighting a smile or a scowl.

You give him a quick bow in greeting, and he returns it. His face is stone, now, his mouth tight and eyes flat. 

He turns to face the Marshall, to receive orders, so you do the same.

“I trust your travel went well?” the Marshall begins.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Even the single syllable of yes will come out of your mouth like gravel and dirt and sand, getting everywhere, leaving a trail.

“Your orders,” he says then, a bit of a sigh on his tone - as if he knows the uphill battle this will be, “are to reconnect as best you can. You’ll follow your old schedule. You’ll spar, you’ll meditate, and you’ll talk. After some time, we’ll try the drift again, see if the connection has recovered any.”

Seungcheol’s voice startles you when he speaks. “How long do you imagine it will be before we try?” he asks, just cold enough to have a sliver of sarcasm in it. 

The Marshall’s eyes narrow, just slightly, as if he’d caught it. “That’s entirely up to you two,” he says evenly. “When you were young and hungry to fight, you trained yourselves into exhaustion. You spent every waking second trying to cultivate the bond that would carry you into your jaeger. With the same intention and drive, I imagine you could be piloting Duellona within the week.”

You fight to keep your chin up, your eyes on the Marshall, instead of ducking your head and watching the floor. The Marshall lifts his arm and glances at his watch. 

“Your allotted time in Sparring Room 7 begins on the hour,” he says. This is his way of dismissing you.

In the hallway, you pause. “I’m just going to drop my bag in the dorm,” you say quietly, not looking at Seungcheol. 

He gives a tight nod. “Fine,” he says, and turns to go the other way, towards the sparring and training rooms. Clearly he intends to meet you there. You heave a deep breath, and turn back towards the wing with the dorms.

Stepping into the dorm you used to share with Seungcheol hits you harder than you thought it would. You’re not sure what you expected - to feel like coming home, maybe, or perhaps to be slapped with the memories of you and Seungcheol together, dancing around each other as you hurried to get dressed for a drop, lazing around in the sitting area after a full day of training. And, of course, the single night you’d spent together.

Neither thing happens. You aren’t overcome by a feeling of nostalgia and love, nor are you inundated by memories of what you’ve lost. Instead, the room feels exactly as it is: empty and still.

Your footsteps’ echoes taunt you as you walk through the kitchen, the sitting area, and into the bedroom. It’s pristine to the point of detriment; it feels like no one lives there. You set your bag on the floor near the foot of the bed - you can unpack later, after training - and turn to go.

Strangely, it’s stepping into the training room that slams you with memory and nostalgia. The wood cool beneath your feet, the vague smell of sweat and citrus-y cleaner, the sounds of punches landing and grunts of effort from the training rooms on either side - they all cocoon you in history, making goosebumps rise on your arms as the emotions surround you.

It makes sense, you think, as Seungcheol glances over his shoulder at the sound of your arrival. He doesn’t speak to you, just swaggers to the center of the room and takes a stance you recognize from Form One. Your body leads you opposite him, muscle memory guiding you into the first form you ever learned with him. It makes sense that this would be what felt like home - your minds going empty together, your bodies following the steps in unison. The sparring forms are the closest you can get to drifting without an actual neural connection.

Well, that and sleeping together, but you don’t see that on your agenda.

You stare at him across the invisible circle between you and try to read him. His face is cold and empty, but that already tells you so much about what he’s feeling. Seungcheol was never cold with you. When you fought together he slipped into that mode you loved so much - ready to level anything, chin lifted, eyes narrowed, confident and so very strong. But it was when you were together outside the fights that you had loved him best - often pouting, lips protruding, voice lifting into a whine. And the best of all - that smile, dimples creating shadows that beg for your thumb to press them, eyes squeezing shut with happiness or laughter.

Something must show on your face, because you watch the muscles in Seungcheol’s upper body untense, as if he’d been ready to fight and recognized that you weren’t.

“I’m good,” you mutter quickly, before he can ask. It feels better to lie to him before he actually asks you, like that’s somehow less dishonest. “Let’s go.”

Form One is basic - no hits, no fancy moves. At the training center, you’d teach it to the littlest ones until they had it memorized. It was really about control and communication - precision and alignment with your partner. You had to breathe together as your feet traced opposite circles across the knots in the wooden floor. You had to rise and bend in unison. It was about watching and listening.

You and Seungcheol could - literally, you’d tried more than once - do it blindfolded in perfect step with one another. Before. You don’t know if you still can. But, now, unblindfolded, it’s too easy.

You move through forms one through six without incident - both of you flowing as easily as water.

Form Seven is the first form that incorporates actual hits and blocks. You’ll have to touch for the first time, even if it’s forearm to forearm or ankle to shoulder. You move right as he moves left, crouch and circle as his right foot flies over your head, stand and punch where you know his open hand will be waiting to stop you.

It is, and you press your fist against it for just a second before spinning away to continue the form. You ache, even as your body continues following the steps, to have him entirely again - to meet his eyes and smile the way you both used to, because you were pleased with what your bodies could do. Because you had each other, completely.

After the tenth form, you bow, turn, and walk out of the ring. You drink some water, your back to him. Years ago you’d have used this break to chat, but you don’t know what to say to him. You’re scared that he’ll shut down anything you say, whether you choose small talk or go straight for the heart of the problem, and you honestly don’t think you can shoulder his rejection right now. So you stay quiet.

After a few short minutes of rest, you return to the center of the room. This is when you’ll spar for real.

You and Seungcheol had done this for years before things went wrong. You’d long ago adjusted to how hard you should hit, how to dodge his moves, how to make this a dance as much as a fight. Now, you feel like it’s your first time again.

Seungcheol attacks as you’d expect - all offensive, pushy, succeeding in herding you backwards even as you dodge each blow. You know his goal is to flip you, and normally you can avoid that by forcing him to go on the defensive as he avoids your own hits. Simply dodging won’t be enough - eventually he’ll cage you in unless you distract him.

You throw yourself into a summersault and manage to get behind him - an opportune moment to strike. You shift your weight to follow the blow as you twist your hips to send a kick towards his unprotected head. He turns just too late - the blow will land.

You can’t do it. You freeze, your core working to keep you upright as you fight your own momentum, halting the kick inches from his temple.

You know immediately that pulling the hit was a mistake. His eyes narrow, and he sweeps his foot at the ankle you’re balancing on. You crash to the ground, heaving a breath and taking quick inventory.

You aren’t hurt. Not this time.

“Get up, Cherry,” he says darkly, moving back to the center to start again. “And don’t do that shit again.”

He comes at you full force in the next match, too. You dodge and weave, but you don’t try to strike. You know he knows it; this isn’t how it used to work. You can almost feel him get angrier as you fight, but you can’t make yourself hit back. You want him to knock you down, you deserve to take some shots.

You take two blows to the back and one to a shoulder; you fall back unsteadily but manage to find your footing and roll away from his next kick.

The match continues - you taking a handful of blows, though none with the force to level you, and Seungcheol with his lip curled in fury.

“If you’re not going to fight, then leave,” he spits.

“Would if I could,” you retort without thinking. You mean that you don’t want to be here like this - not talking, cold, at odds. But you know it reads as not wanting to be here at all.

It seems like everything you say and do only hurts him more.

“I didn’t mean -” you start, and Seungcheol takes your arms and flips you over his shoulders.

“Don’t waste my fucking time,” he says, brushing his hands together and stepping back to give you room to pick yourself up.

“Don’t curse at me,” you answer, pushing yourself to your hands and knees, pausing to catch your breath before rising fully again.

He shakes his head, rolls his eyes a little.

You hate this side of him.

You know you deserve it. For pushing him out. For leaving him here. For loving him, messing everything up, when he never asked for that.

“Seungcheol,” you say, but he ignores you, pacing a few steps and then turning to face you, lowering himself into a defensive stance, ready to spar again.

“Cheol,” you try again. “Listen to me.”

“Marshall scheduled us time to talk later,” he says flatly. “Right now we’re scheduled to fight. So fight me, Cherry. Let’s go.”

The rest of the hour continues the same. By the time it’s over, Seungcheol storms out without speaking to you, furious over every single pulled punch.

You don’t know what to do to make it all better.

You shower quickly, dressing in dry linens, and then re-emerge for the hours you’re scheduled to meditate together. You hope that maybe this will help the situation - maybe not talking will be good for you, give you a chance to feel your connection without the chance to fuck it up with words.

You’re wrong; trying to meditate together is just as desperately fruitless as sparring had been.

You can’t focus at all - can’t shift your attention to your breath, to your body, to the earth beneath you, to the energy of your partner.

Your partner is the distraction, though he sits perfectly still, eyes closed. He might as well be yelling. His shoulders are tight, his jaw still clenched. Anger radiates off him so strongly that it makes your stomach hurt, makes you want to cower from it. You can’t stop watching him, hoping you’ll see him relax, hoping you’ll see the moment that he lets go.

He doesn’t.

“Your eyes are supposed to be closed,” he murmurs, and you feel your face heat, embarrassed that he knew you were watching him.

“I can’t,” you admit. Maybe, you think, you should just be brutally honest, starting now. It’s not like you could make this worse. “I can’t stop noticing how angry -”

“Then stop pissing me off,” he snaps, eyes opening. “Just a suggestion.”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” you cry, and push yourself to stand. You’re not sure why - maybe just to pace. “You never used to talk to me like this. Who are you?”

He looks at the floor, the first sign of guilt you’ve seen since you came home.

“Fine,” he finally bites back, and you know it’s as close to sorry as you’ll get. “I’ll reign it in. Sit back down.”

You shift your weight, arms crossed defensively across your chest, and close your eyes, deciding.

“Sit down, Cherry,” he repeats, and it’s gentler now. That’s what makes you cave, and you settle back across from him.

He’s less tense this time, so you eventually manage to close your eyes and count your breaths. But you’re still feeling for him, reaching for him in your mind, and coming up with nothing between you fingers. Touching him is as possible as touching the fog that used to blanket the training center, thick enough to blind you but impossible to grasp.

The pain feels like a cramp, except it’s behind your ribs instead of in your muscles. The pain grips and tightens, takes over. You want him, you want to be his again, you want to be inside these walls - where you used to fit comfortably. The fact that you’re out here, without him, aches so badly it makes you nauseated.

You want to beg him - let me in again, let me back in, let me be close to you again.

It won’t do any good, and you know it.

He was yours - you had him, you knew him, you could reach out to him and he’d pick you up. You’d taken it for granted, and you’d run away from it. You’d chosen to let it go, and now all you get is this: Seungcheol, cold and closed. Seungcheol, hating you for everything that happened.

—

Dinner is just as bad.

You go to the mess hall eager to see Wylie and Jeonghan and Seungkwan and all the other friends you haven’t seen in years. Wylie screeches like a banshee when she spots you, crossing the mess hall in a blur and hugging you so tightly that you both stagger, off balance, until Seungkwan joins the hug and rights you again.

“I missed you both so much,” you whisper, the only vulnerability anyone’s going to get out of you today.

“Then don’t leave again!” Wylie snaps, but you know the admonishment is full of love.

“I can’t promise,” you admit. Honestly, you’ve already made up your mind - you want to go back to Alaska. You’re not wanted here, not by the person who matters. What good are you, taking up a bed, if you can’t drift?

You’ve already given up hope that he’ll come around.

Seated at the table, you listen while your friends fill you in on what you’ve missed in three years - the fights in the bay, the new teams of pilots, the illnesses and injuries. You almost don’t notice Seungcheol silently takes a seat on Jeonghan’s other side, but something in you prickles, like you’ve sensed him.

The tension around the table heightens; the conversation goes a little stilted. When it’s apparent that he’s going to ignore you two seats down from him, Wylie slaps her hand flat on the tabletop.

“Come on, Seungcheol,” she scolds, and you’re sure no one wonders what she means.

His face goes dark so quickly it’s alarming. “Don’t,” he tells her darkly, one finger coming up to point at her in warning.

Her own eyes narrow and dart to her fork. Beside her, Chan’s eyes pingpong between them. He’s probably wondering if he should hold her back or join her.

“It’s fine,” you mutter, grabbing your tray and making to rise. “I’ll go.”

“Cherry, no,” Wylie protests, and then turns a glower onto your ex-co-pilot as if to say see what you did?

“It’s fine,” you repeat, standing. “I told my mom and dad I’d come by.”

You slink out before anyone else can argue.

You can’t even be mad at him - you did this by pushing him away. You hammered every last nail in the coffin by requesting to transfer. You pushed him out and you left him behind and now you have to face the reality that you can’t have him anymore. He isn’t yours, not anymore.

When you return to your dorm, he’s already in bed, the lights out. He’s facing the wall so you can only see his back, can only see the angry, tight shoulder poking out the top of the sheets. It tells you everything you need to know.

You don’t try to talk to him. You just go to bed.

—

You spend four days identically - fighting while sparring, not meditating, and avoiding Seungcheol’s ice-out. On the fifth day, your Marshall loses patience and changes your schedule. Your entire day is blocked to working on Duellona’s mainframe - buffing, repainting, greasing, and anything else you’re able to handle on your own.

“Since you can’t do anything else useful,” he adds, and you avoid Seungcheol’s eyes, ashamed.

Standing under Duellona’s unlit frame fills you with guilt. It feels like you’re letting her down, disappointing her by letting her rust here, failing your half of the bargain. You run your hands gently over the metal, finding the rough spots that need attention. Somewhere to your left, you can hear the telltale sounds of Seungcheol tightening bolts.

You work in silence for hours.

Eventually, you crack. You’re not sure if it’s the monotony of the task, the tension woven into the silence between you too, or being so close to your jaeger but unable to fight in it - maybe a combination. Something pushes at you from the inside, like a balloon trying to inflate under your skin and running out of room.

You flop backwards on the metal walkway, the grooves digging into your back. “What are we doing?” you ask, and you hear the tool Seungcheol had been using cling loudly as he sets it down.

“Following orders?” he says, stepping around Duellona’s side to look at you. “Fixing up the jaeger?”

“Fixing up the jaeger we don’t get to pilot?” you ask, sitting back up to look at him better.

“Is that what you’re here for?” he asks, the sudden ferocity of it surprising you. “To fight? Is that why you came back?”

You reach up to the walkway’s railing and pull yourself up. You feel yourself frowning at his question, at the heat behind it. 

“I’m back because the Marshall gave me an order,” you say slowly. 

“And that’s it?” he demands. 

You stare at him. You feel sure there’s more to the question, more that he’s asking. You feel sure, after knowing Choi Seungcheol down to the last molecule, that he’s really asking, you didn’t come back for me?

And it confuses you. You try to think about your split from his perspective: you’d shut him out, then slept with him, and then vanished. You’d made a lot of assumptions about his anger since then. You assumed he was angry at you for pushing him out of your head. You assumed he was angry at you for sleeping with him and then leaving. You assumed he was angry with you for ruining your drift, for ripping him away from the ability to fight. You assumed he was angry because he never knew why - never knew what it was that you were so desperate to hide, never knew why sleeping together had made things so much worse that the neural connection had fizzled into nothing altogether.

Is there more to it, his anger?

Should you call him on it, should you ask?

You take too long deciding. Seungcheol scoffs, like he’s disgusted with you. “I should have known,” he says coldly. “Princess of the Shatterdome, I should have known you only cared about piloting - about your legacy.”

This is something you’ve never said to him - that your desire to shine as brightly as your parents has weighed on you. This is something he’d pulled from the drift, something he only knew from tiptoeing around your mind before a fight. 

“That isn’t fair,” you say, your voice hard. “Is there another reason I should have come back? I’d love to hear it.”

He hears the challenge as it is - you didn’t ask me to come back, the Marshall did. You let me go.

He has nothing to say for himself, just stares back at you, eyes narrowed in anger, chest moving too quickly as he battles with his temper.

“Exactly,” you say curtly. The victory stings. It doesn’t feel like a win at all. “The bottom line is I’m here now, and we can pilot again if we can get our shit together.”

He shakes his head. “You left,” he says finally. “That’s the bottom line. You decided you were out, you decided you didn’t want me in your head, and then you left.”

He watches you, waits for you to say something. When you don’t, he lets out a derisive little laugh. “We’re both wasting our time here. The drift won’t work. We aren’t going to fix it.”

For the first time, fear slices through you like steel. “You can’t know that,” you say. You hear the fear in the way your voice comes out low and rounded, barely sounding like you at all.

“I can,” he retorts. “You know how I know? Because I don’t want to. You wanted me out of your head so badly? You got it. Can’t turn back now.”

He heads for the ladder, swings around and finds the third rung down with ease.

“So that’s it?” you ask his retreating form. Your heart is hammering and you’re starting to get tunnel vision. 

The only answer he gives you are his feet hitting each new rung with a clunk and a vibration that rattles up your legs.

—

You go to the training rooms alone and run through the forms just to do something; your mind turns the problem over and over as your body goes through the motions. After, you take a longer shower than normal, letting the water run hotter than you normally would.

After, you go to the Marshall’s office, determined. Or maybe resigned.

When he opens the door, he already looks irritated, like he knew exactly who would be on the other side.

“Requesting an audience,” you say flatly, fighting the instinct to cross your arms defensively.

He glances at his watch. “Five minutes.”

You step inside but leave the door open.

“I’m requesting transfer back to Alakanuk,” you tell him as evenly as you can manage. You’re sure he’s not surprised. “Seungcheol has made it very clear that we won’t be fighting together again. If that’s the case, then I can’t do anything useful here. But in Alakanuk I can.”

You pause, looking to see if you can read anything on the Marshall’s face - any hint that he’s considering what you’re saying, or that it’s a lost cause. He gives you nothing.

“Please,” you say. “Those girls need me. If I can’t help here, I can help them.”

The Marshall tilts his head just slightly. “Surely anyone can teach little girls the forms.”

You shake your head. “It’s more than that, and you know it. It’s not about the forms. I love those girls. I came back here to follow orders, and I tried. But if it isn’t going to happen… Please, don’t make me waste time here if I can be with them instead.”

The silence when you stop speaking seems to last for hours. Your heart pounds, and you work on keeping your breathing even. If he tells you no, you might just lose it, just give up entirely.

Finally, he takes a breath and seems to consider you. “If,” he says, and your eyes widen with hope, “your co-pilot agrees, then I will reassign you back to Alaska. But only if he will agree.”

“No problem,” you say quickly. Seungcheol was the one who said it was over. He should have no problem letting you leave.

When you step out of the Marshall’s office, Seungcheol steps out of the shadows. You should be surprised to see him, but in the Shatterdome it feels right that he just is wherever you are. That’s always how it was, before.

You look at him disdainfully. “I assume you heard that conversation?”

He nods, once.

“So?” you ask. “Will you tell him you approve, so I can go?”

For the first time since you returned, Seungcheol smiles, tight and sarcastic.

“No,” he says easily, like it’s kind of funny.

Fury erupts inside you; you can’t even pinpoint where in your body it stems from. “Why?” you demand. “Because you feel like I took something from you, so you want to take something from me?”

He doesn’t respond to this. You know you’re right. You know him. You know his mind.

“I hate to fuck up your narrative,” you spit at him, “but I’ve lost out here just as much as you have. You’re not the only one who lost the ability to fight. You’re not the only one who lost their partner.”

You wish you could tell him the rest - you’re not the one who spent three years with a broken heart on top of it. He had lost you as a partner and a friend - you had lost him in the same ways, and you’d had to harbor your broken heart.

He shakes his head. “Poor baby,” he bites sarcastically, and then takes off down the hallway, into the dark.

—

You stop sleeping at the dorm. Sometimes you sleep at your parents’, sometimes on Wylie and Chan’s tiny couch, sometimes in bed with Seungkwan, who kicks at you and whines that you take up too much space. Sometimes you sleep inside Duellona Fury, sitting up, your back against her metal frame.

The Marshall seems to have taken some pity on you. He schedules your mornings training the Dome’s recruits, and lets Seungcheol get back to what he was doing in your absence - which seems to be on track to move up in rank, to maybe become a Marshall himself, someday. It isn’t quite the same as being back with your girls, but training recruits feels at least somewhat fulfilling. And it keeps you and Seungcheol busy - separately - until afternoon.

Then, he schedules you to spar.

In your first week, you’d been unwilling to hit Seungcheol. You’d been feeling guilty for hurting him, sad for your time apart, hopeful that if you were soft to him, then he’d be soft back to you.

Now, you’re fucking furious.

For the first time, when the match begins, you hit him first. He’s surprised for only a second, eyebrows shooting up as he stumbles for balance, and then you watch something delighted and devilish fall over his face. Like he knows exactly what dance this is, and he’s been learning the steps in secret.

The match is brutal, reminiscent of your very first one, when you were both nineteen. You throw hit after hit his way; he blocks or dodges all of them. But he can’t get a hit on you either - you’re too quick, spurred on by fury. You’ve been angry in a fight before. But you’ve never been angry at him.

You spin and throw up a kick, expecting his forearm to rise and block it. Instead, you knock him in the jaw.

He grunts, hand flying up to cover his mouth, and you drop your stance with a gasp.

“Shit!” you cry, hurrying closer. “I’m so sorry! Are you bleeding? Let me look.”

“‘M fine,” he mutters thickly from behind his hand, but you ignore him. For a second, things are how they used to be between you. He lets you peel his hand away, lets you gingerly turn his head this way and that, even opens up so you can check his teeth.

“You’re gonna have a fat lip,” you tell him regretfully. “But nothing’s bleeding. Teeth look okay. Anything loose in there?”

He pokes around his teeth with his pinky. “Nope.”

You take a step back, cowed. “I’m really sorry.”

He laughs a little, wryly. “I bet you feel better, though.”

You bite back a smile. “Actually…” you say, and he laughs again. You both do.

Somehow, this seems to be the thing that cracks the anger you’ve both been encased in, unable to move forward or backward. You feel melted, and you wonder if he feels freer now, too.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you say. You mean the kick, but the words land heavy.

He avoids your gaze. “I need some water,” he says, turning and heading to the side of the room.

You do the same, sitting heavily on the bench where your water waits for you.

“Hey,” he says, and you look over, brows raised in anticipation. “Tell me about Alaska.”

You can’t help but smile.

“It’s so beautiful,” you tell him. “God, Cheol, the ocean there. And the birds, and the snow…”

He’s watching you, listening, but while he listens he stands and heads to the center of the ring, settling into a starting form. With a small smile, you follow, standing opposite him. He starts an easy match that’s mostly just following the eighth form. It includes some hits and blocks, but you both do them gently, easily, circling each other slowly.

“So you liked it?” he asks. You can hear how hard he’s working to make it sound casual.

“It was so beautiful,” you admit before ducking below a kick. “But it was also… really hard.”

“What was the best part?” he asks.

You smile, block a hit. He almost gets his hands on you for a flip, but you dodge around behind him. He turns to follow you. “Weirdly, it was taking care of them outside of class. We - the instructors - we kind of their moms, away from home, you know? I’m the one who knew Yejin won’t sleep unless someone sits by her bed for a while. I’m the one that knew that Farrah and Salome only argue because they’re competitive. I’m the one that knew that Maria and Anjali don’t know their times-tables, that Ximena can’t brush her own hair, or that Iseul is allergic to fish. I loved them. I loved knowing them.”

He looks at you for a long time. “Maybe you should go back,” he says finally.

It feels like a trap. 

You look at the floor, at the wall, then finally back at him. “If you’ll do this for real,” you say carefully, “then I’d rather be here. If we’re actually trying, then I don’t want to go.”

He’s quiet for a long time. Finally, he swallows hard, not looking at you.

“What was the worst part?”

There’s only one answer.

“Missing you,” you say. “Losing you.”

He manages to get both of your arms and hauls you over his shoulders. You land on your back so hard that the air is knocked out of your lungs and your eyes close protectively. For a second, you lay there panting, waiting for the pain in your back to settle down, waiting for the stars behind your eyelids to calm.

When you open them again, the ceiling coming into focus above you, the room is empty.

–

You have a hunch on where you can find him, and you head to the jaeger bay. Sure enough, he’s sitting below Duellona, knees to his chest, staring up at her.

You sit next to him and he doesn’t get up and leave, which you take as a good sign.

“I can’t do this if you’re not all in,” he tells you without looking at you. “You walked away from me once. I can’t let you back in my head if there’s any possibility you’ll walk away again. If you’re with me, I need you to be with me.”

Something prickles in the back of your head. You feel like you’re starting to realize something - the seed of an understanding is pushing delicately through the dirt, but hasn’t yet spread out its leaves under the warmth of the sun yet.

Something about his hurt. Something about why.

“I think we should try to drift,” you tell him.

This seems to startle him - he forgets to be cold, turns to look at you, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“I can tell you how much I missed you,” you reason, “and tell you about how I spent every minute just… steeped in regret. Or we can walk through it - you can see for yourself.”

You know what you’re risking. If he gets into your head now, he’ll see it all - he’ll know everything, he’ll be able to feel for himself the depth of your loss, the height of your love. 

But what’s the harm, now? You can’t lose him twice. Maybe it’ll be enough for him to realize you hadn’t left him because you didn’t care about him. Maybe it’ll be enough for his forgiveness. 

Maybe then, he’ll tell the Marshall to let you go back to Alakanuk. 

It’s Seungkwan you bother, since he’d been in mission control before finding his team of co-pilots. The sideways look he gives you as he walks to your conn pod is withering, but you know better than to take it personally.

You buzz with nerves. The last time you’d tried this, the neural handshake hadn’t even connected. There had just been nothing.

The second you hear neural handshake initiating, you almost sob with relief. You can’t even pay attention to the memories - Seungcheol’s memories - floating around you; you want to collapse, to press your palms to the ground and thank the universe for letting you back in.

His first memories are a breeze - the ones you’ve jogged through together hundreds of times: his first home, his school, his father’s hospital room, the Dome. Then you slow your pace, because this is new.

You’re facing the landing dock on the Shatterdome’s roof. Seungcheol stands with his back to you, watching through the glass walls as a helicopter waits, the pilot talking into his headset.

You watch yourself walk towards the chopper’s open door. You watch yourself leave, remember how hard it was to not look back.

You hadn’t known that Seungcheol had been there, that he had seen you go.

The pain that accompanies the memory hits you like you’re drowning, like it’s too deep and you can’t feel the bottom, and you feel the machinery falter around you.

“Hey,” you say quietly. “I’m with you.”

He nods, still doesn’t look at you. But the beeping stops, the connection holding. 

There’s knowledge in this memory, knowledge in this pain. Seungcheol’s thoughts in this moment read in your head as clearly as if he said them aloud - I did this. I pushed her too far; I made her run.

You can’t stay here, can’t let him wallow in the memory of pain. You had to move forward - that’s how the drift works. Reluctantly you step towards the door, glancing over your shoulder to see if he’s following. 

He is. His jaw is tight and fists are clenched, but he is.

When the next memory - not in order of chronology, clearly - appears before you, you want to vanish into the floor. You’re watching yourselves in Seungcheol’s bed. Thankfully, you’re sleeping - this was after. But in the memory, Seungcheol is awake, laying on his side, his eyes drinking in your sleeping form.

The emotions and the knowledge come with it in an instant. The tenderness and the love he felt in that moment surround you now in the memory, unignorable, impossible to mistake. 

He had loved you. He had known you loved him, and he was showing you how he felt. The understanding slams you so hard that you think you stop breathing.

“Seungcheol,” you whisper. Around you, the scene begins to flicker, the connection starting to react to the oversaturation of emotion.

“We can talk about it after,” he says, voice hard. “Don’t stay in it. Find the next door.”

Your eyes find the door, but you feel frozen. You want the connection to drop, you want to unlock yourself from the stupid drive-suit and throw yourself into his arms, you want to apologize for leaving him thinking he’d pushed you away, thinking that he scared you into running.

“Cherry,” he warns. “The drift can’t -”

You know. 

And you owe him your side of the story.

You take a steeling breath and head for the door. You don’t take his hand. You don’t know if you deserve to, if he’d want you to.

When you step through the doors, you’re confused - you’re still in your dorm. Your bodies are both in the bed.

Now, though, Seungcheol sleeps, and you - the memory of you - sits on the edge of the bed, your head in your hands. 

You feel the emotion the memory holds, which means Seungcheol does, too.

Fear. It’s still fear - fear that he’ll know, fear that what you just did together will make it worse, make it harder to hide. 

Beside you, Seungcheol’s eyes go wide. 

“We have to move on,” you tell him. He looks at you, then back at the memory. 

“You -?” he starts to ask.

“After,” you tell him firmly. “We’ll talk after.”

You open the door, and you’re suddenly outside, surrounded by white.

Alaska.

The emotion knocks you over with the fury of an ocean wave - even though you know you’re not supposed to let it. This was how you had felt every day that you were gone, and it screams at you now, determined to be heart, determined to be felt. The loneliness, the regret, the despair and heartbreak all rise up in you, overtaking you, as snow falls gently and silently around you.

And the love. That never went away. That never mellowed, as the Marshall had put it.

If he didn’t know before, he has to know now. There’s no way he couldn’t.

Seungcheol squeezes your hand, and you almost jump. You look down at your linked fingers in shock, then up at him, eyes wide.

“We should go back and talk about this,” he tells you, but his grip on you is firm, assuring.

“Okay. It’s this way,” you tell him, trying to breathe, and you lead him by the hand through the snow. The fog strengthens as you walk, until you can’t see anything but grey, can’t see anything but Seungcheol’s hand in yours.

You continue on. You know where to go. When you step through, the fog vanishes as if it was never there, nothing gradual about it. With the fog gone, you can see clearly where you are - inside Duellona Fury’s conn-pod.

As you begin to work on the straps, you call through the intercom, “Kwan? We… need some privacy. We’ve got to talk - alone.”

His voice crackles back at you. “Yes, I’m leaving, I’m already gone. If you hear popcorn crunching, no you don’t.”

Seungcheol gives you a flat look. “Let’s go home and talk,” he suggests.

Home.

You are so afraid and so hopeful. You don’t know how to juggle both.

Back in your small living space, you sit like you’re meditating.

“Let’s figure this out,” he says. “No lies.”

“No lies,” you agree. Your knees touch, and you reach to take his hands. He lets you, giving your fingers a squeeze.

“You knew,” you say first, bordering on accusation. “I was trying so hard to hide how I felt about you… but you knew.”

He nods, his eyes on you. “And you,” he says slowly, “didn’t… know? That I knew?”

You shake your head, confirming. “I didn’t know. I thought I hid it.”

He smiles at you, a little placating. “Not as well as you would have liked.”

“And you…” You chicken out, swallow, force yourself to be brave. “You… loved me, too?”

He nods. “I did.” 

The air leaves your lungs so forcefully that you bend over, pressing your forehead to the tops of your hands. He pulls his hands from yours and you feel his touch, firm and reassuring, cupping your shoulders and rubbing his thumbs along them.

“We felt the same,” you echo into your shins. “You loved me.”

“Cherry,” he says above you, his voice like a plea. “I don’t understand why - when we… when I… I felt like once I forced you to look at it, it was too much. You ran.”

You sit with this for a minute, stunned and processing. His hands are back in yours, which you take as a good sign. 

“You thought… wait. You thought, after that night, that I knew how you felt, too?”

He nods. “I thought you knew,” he says, confusion still present in his tone. “I thought we both knew. I thought if it was out in the open, the glitch in the drift would be fixed.”

You wipe at your face, trying to breathe. “And instead,” you realize, “we couldn’t even connect, because I was still trying to hide it from you, and then you were hurt. I thought it was broken. I thought we really broke it forever.”

He looks at you in wonder. “That’s why you left,” he breathes, and you know he’s understanding this for the first time. “You thought we made the problem worse.”

It’s your turn to nod. “After we…I mean, I knew if I couldn’t hide it from you before that night, there was no chance I’d be able to hide it after. I kept you out in the first place because I… was afraid. I was afraid for you to see how much I loved you. It seemed… hopeless to keep trying.”

The words lay bloody between you, but his grip on your hands is strong, and you take another breath.

You push on, adding, “I was afraid it would be too much. I was afraid everything would change.”

Which it did, you think. He nods, like he hears this, like he agrees.

He releases you and leans back, blowing out a loud breath. “We’re so fucking stupid,” he says, and you splutter out a laugh.

“We really are.”

“I can’t believe we lost three years over that,” he says.

“I can’t believe you thought it was your fault that I left.”

“I can’t believe you left in the first place.”

This makes you smile, guilty. “That’s fair.”

You push yourself to stand; Seungcheol mirrors you, as if you’re already in the neural handshake, bodies working in tandem. 

“Cherry,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “It could never be too much. I love you. I’m crazy about you. I’m only me when I’m with you.”

You remember him, the night you’d slept together, telling you, don’t be afraid. He’d told you, after all, and you’d missed it entirely.

You close the distance between your bodies and kiss him hard. His arms circle your waist immediately, like they were waiting for you. He kisses you back hungrily. His mouth meets yours eagerly, his tongue stroking yours confidently before he shifts his attention to your jaw, your neck, then your mouth again. His hands don’t wander this time - instead he holds you so firmly it almost hurts, like he won’t let you move an inch, won’t let you out of his grasp ever again.

You cradle his face between your hands, let your teeth gently scrape along his bottom lip. “Cheol,” you whisper, then kiss him again. “You’re everything.” It’s what you should have said aloud the night you’d slept with him.

When the kiss breaks, he presses his lips to the top of your head and holds them there, melting around you a little. You give his middle a squeeze, revel in his heartbeat surrounding you like music.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I didn’t just say it.”

“Me too,” you tell him, holding him just a little tighter. “I should never have tried to hide it from you in the first place.”

He kisses your temple, and you hold each other, silently, each grappling with the time you’d wasted apart. 

You’re interrupted by a knock. You break apart, puzzled. You’re even more puzzled to see your Marshall at the door, and Seungkwan literally bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement.

“I’ve heard your drift is working again,” the Marshall says dryly. 

You look over your shoulder at Seungcheol, grinning. “Seems like it.”

“There’s a Cat-1 reading in the bay. I was about to alarm for Pretty Savage to drop, but Savage’s team insisted I give you the opportunity first. They can follow as backup. How do you feel?”

Seungcheol is at your side. He looks at you, his face open and raw. “Well?” he asks you. “Are you in, or are you out?”

“I’m in,” you tell him seriously. “I’m with you.”

You thrum with excitement as a tech team helps strap you into the drive-suits, and you can’t help but shoot Seungcheol a wild grin, your happiness alive and unbounded. 

You tell mission control - Nainsi, probably, just like the old days - “Ready and aligned.”

Mission Control - definitely Nainsi - responds, “Prepare for neural handshake.”

The artificial voice bounces around you - 3… 2… 1… neural handshake initiating…

Around you, the machines flicker busily. Neural handshake strong and holding. Now calibrating…

You’re crying, but you ignore it. You beam through tears, looking sideways at your co-pilot. His eyes dance as he smiles back at you. You want to unstrap yourself to the drivesuit and go kiss his dimples, the dimples you hadn’t seen in years. You resist the urge.

“Ready to drop?”  He looks sideways at you, sly. 

You scoff at him, your own grin cocky and sure, like you’re twenty again, like nothing had ever been broken between you. “Been ready. Let’s light ‘em up.”

– end

thank you so much for reading!!!!

stay tuned for more fics in this universe! Wylie and Chan will get their own fic written by @sailorrhansol, as will Woozi! I'm also planning a Vernon x Reader in this universe, too! Should be a fun time!!

[lion-writer]

Reincarnation Au where Kaveh and Alhaithem reincarnate into Aventurine and Ratio. Because I've seen a ton of comparisons between these two and Need a reincarnation Au badly.

They're so similar on a surface level, flamboyant blonde x tsundere scholar. Then you get deeper and realize just how different they are. Alhaitham is lazy, and doesn't care about others. While Ratio is passionate to a fault, he's dedicated his life to teaching, to spreading knowledge.

And on the other side, we have Kaveh and Aventurine, two blondes who have lived lives of tragedy, and have self esteem in the negatives but try to cover it up with a flamboyant attitude. We have Kaveh who binds himself to his ideals, suffering for their sake. While Aventurine is bound by others and by fate itself and as such isn't free to hold himself to such ideals.

But If they're so different, how do you get Kaveh and Alhaithem to become into Adventurine and Dr Ratio? You may ask. And the answer is quite simple. You just break them.

Once upon a time, there lived Kaveh, who lived with Alhaithem. And they were in love, not that most people were able to tell what with all the fighting. A lot of it was over Kaveh's bleeding heart, how he would sacrifice himself on the altar of his ideals. How he would give and give only to receive nothing but pain in return. And then one day Kaveh got sick, and died, slowly, painfully, and far too young, questioning if it had all been worth it.

After Kaveh dies, a month or a year, some amount of time later, a cure is found. And Alhaithem recognizes the researcher who developed the cure, maybe they asked for his advice only to be shutdown, or they had submitted their research application while he was grand sage only for it to sit on his desk for a month and get rejected. Maybe nothing would have changed had he helped them, but possibly a cure would have been discovered quicker. And that possibility haunts Alhaithem, that maybe had he cared, maybe if he tried to help, maybe Kaveh would still be there. But maybes won't bring the dead back to life.

Thus in another life we have Aventurine, who can't quite remember why he tried to do the right thing, but knows that it has been his downfall before. He has two lifetimes of evidence as that proves that loving something is the best way to lose it. But still, no matter how hard he tries, he can't help but care. At the very least, with this heart of stone he's tried his best to create, he feels closer to that voice he doesn't know yet can't forget.

While Veritas remembers loving somebody who Cared. Remembers losing them because he didn't. Remembers calling himself a genius only to be hated and alone. And so, determined to fix his mistakes, he makes it his mission to help others, he will not, can not, rest untill he has cured the universe of its ignorance . Even if he'll never be able to care as much as the smile in his memory did.

They both cling to a memory of the person they once loved, and try to push and prod pieces of themselves into that shape. Cause they'd do anything to see their partner again, even if it's just in the mirror.

Ratio remembers more of his past life, partially due to Adventurine attempting to suppress the memories of his childhood, and partly due to Ratio still desperately trying to not repeat his mistakes. Thus when they first meet, Ratio would despise Aventurine. It feels almost like looking at one of those face swap photos, an unholy conglomeration of somebody he regrets being and the face that haunts his dreams. Blonde hair in the wrong shade, mannerisms that are almost but not quite. Still he falls in love, slowly, begrudgingly, and hating himself for it.

On the other side, what little memories Aventurine has is mostly of a grey haired scholar with a tongue as sharp as his swords. And so Adventurine sees Ratio and can't help but compare the two. They're different, undoubtedly, but it would be so easy to ignore those differences and fall. But he can't, he can't lose yet another person he loves.

[rainintheevening]

A big part of why the Prince Caspian movie hits me way harder than the book, is because Peter has to pick himself up from his mistakes and continue forward in making right decisions COMPLETELY ON FAITH. He does not see Aslan until it's all over.

In the book, Aslan leads them to the How, and by the time they get there they can all see him. And then they go and do stuff, after having seen him. I've never dug into what might be applicable meaning there, but nothing jumps out at me.

The movie on the other hand? Instant kinship. I don't get to see Jesus Himself in the flesh. No, I have to go on faith.

In the last four years, I've intimately known frustration with the state of things, loss, chaos, confusion, grief, anger, a deep desire for action and justice. I've gone my own way, and it's cost me, and I've begged the empty skies over and over 'God, where are You? Let me see You, where are you?' and I've stumbled and fumbled so many times, blind in the dark. And every time I've had to continue on faith without sight.

Peter makes his mistakes, tries it his way, gets it terribly wrong, he is broken and afraid. But he stops, and he stills and he REMEMBERS. He remembers what Aslan has done for him before, and how the Lion never failed his trust before. It's a test, like Lucy says, and he's been failing it, but he's not going to lean on his own understanding anymore, he decides. He will walk by faith, and not by sight. Because 'unless the Lord builds the house, its builders labour in vain'. And then at last, at the end, after he acts on faith, he 'stands still and sees the salvation of the Lord'.

It's also a very fitting transition for Peter, I think. He spent 15 years seeing in Narnia, then a year in England without seeing, and it began to wear on him. So when he comes back, he expect everything to be like it was and to see it all again. But he doesn’t, it's really not much better than home, and so though he makes the choice in Narnia, he's making it for his life in England too. To walk by faith, rather than sight.

And I am literally right in the middle of this journey. That's why these movies have struck me so hard. It's like God made a picture on the wall come to life so I would truly engage with what He's been trying to tell me.

I had so many incredible experiences with God, before it seemed the rain dried up and the heavens fell silent. And yes, remembering those times when I didn't know how to go on was very important, will always be important.

But then I've made all sorts of mistakes, tried to run the ship myself, hurt others, come dreadfully close to giving into fear and darkness.

So right now, you will find me sitting with Peter, searching the page-thin ink-lettered painting of the face of the one I love and follow, hearing the command, " Be still and know that I am God..."

[stellar-haikyuu]

rhythm of the game ☆ kita shinsuke x reader

synopsis: third-year reader is the inarizaki band leader. they have always admired kita from afar, but never had a reason to talk to him—until now. details: fluff, ~1.2k words, gn! reader, relationship leading towards romantic. warnings: none!

Doing one last run through your lists and music sheets, you excuse yourself from the band room to search for the volleyball team’s new captain.

Semestral planning and club application season have kept you and the other third years busy over the summer break. With the myriad of teams that Inarizaki’s orchestra band plays for, you’ve also had to coordinate and schedule meetings with them.

Naturally, your band conductor—who happens to be your best friend—immediately assigned you to the volleyball team. 

“If you’re lucky, you might see him again,” she had teased, a knowing look in her eye. You heart fluttered a little at the possibility of seeing your crush. It’s been a while. 

When you walk into the gym, you’re hit with some sense of comfort. The gym has felt like your third home for the past three years. The band practice room claims second place, of course.

As always, the Miya twins are off in a corner bickering about something. A few other team members surround them, either entertained or concerned. Suna, without fail, is documenting everything.

You look around for the coaches, but they are nowhere to be found.

Looks like I’ve gotta ask the members myself.

But before you approach them, a glimpse of white, fluffy hair in the corner of your eye catches your attention.

Make no mistake, it’s Kita Shinsuke who enters the gym. He pauses mid-step, noticing the commotion.

You wonder what he’s going to do next, but then his eyes lock onto yours.

Woah.

Many have shared how incredibly unnerving it is to be under Kita’s direct gaze. It’s like a quiet force that measures you in an instant.

You’ve heard the whispers from the team members themselves—how his eyes seem to say everything before he opens his mouth. 

The intensity of his deep, brown irises catch you off guard, but they’re not as terrifying as everyone says. In fact, something changes as the seconds pass by. You don’t know if you’re imagining it, but his eyes seem to soften.

“Good afternoon,” he greets you with a perfect bow. 

You snap out of your trance to return the gesture. “Good afternoon, Kita-san!” Before you introduce yourself, he surprises you.

“You’re the band leader this year, right?”

How did he know?

“Y-yeah.” You stammer. Your interactions with him have been limited to fleeting glances and short nods. The extended attention leaves you a little flustered.

“Well, congratulations,” he says, a small grin lighting up his face. “You deserve it, after all yer hard work.”

He smiled at me. He congratulated me. Hard work? Has he been watching? Why is he telling-

You realize you’ve been staring for a bit too long.

“Th-thanks, Kita-san,” your voice shakes a little, almost revealing your internal giddiness. “Means a lot.”

Just then, you notice the number on his jersey.

Number 1. 

The captain’s mark.

A gasp escapes before you can stop it.

“Is somethin’ the matter-”

“You!” You look up at him again, pointing at his shirt.

Kita’s eyes widen a little. You’ve never seen that expression on his face before, but you don’t blame him; even your sudden exclamation takes you aback.

“It’s- you’re the captain this year?”

“I…I am,” Kita’s composure falters for a moment.

“Oh my goodness, really?” Your excitement bubbles over, unable to remain contained.

“Ya seem real…happy about it.” He notes, eyebrows lifting.

“‘Course I am!” You beam at him. “I’ve always seen how good ya play, even if it’s practice. You’re so reliable, on and off the court.”

You see him open his mouth to respond, but you can’t help yourself from continuing.

“Dunno if this makes sense, but you keep the rhythm of the game going. You know exactly how to keep yer members in check. It’s just- I’ve always thought ya were the perfect choice. Like you deserve it, y’know?”

When you finish rambling, a deafening silence hits. You glance around to see that the entire gym has gone still. 

The twins are literally frozen mid-argument, Atsumu’s collar clenched in Osamu’s grip. The rest of the team, even the coaches—who’ve somehow appeared unnoticed—are staring.

Suna’s even pointing the camera at you and Kita.

Oh my god.

You look back at him, heat creeping up your neck. “Ah. Sorry, Kita-san. I may have overdone it. But, uh, what I meant to say was, congrats.”

He stares at you for a moment longer, and for the first time since you’ve known him, Kita Shinsuke lets out a laugh. Soft and warm.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Your cheeks burn, trying to ignore the weight of everyone’s stares.

Somehow, Kita reads your mind.

“Alright, everyone, please start your warm ups,” he addresses the team. “Suna, please put the phone away.”

Immediately, all heads turn the other way, the Miya twins’ argument seemingly forgotten. Suna begrudgingly shoves his phone back into his pocket as footsteps start to echo around the gym.

“Thanks,” you exhale, grateful for the reprieve. 

“So, what brings you here today?” Kita inquires and you nearly facepalm.

“Ah.” You pause to clear your throat. “Came to ask about the new captain, but I guess I figured that out on my own.”

The corners of Kita’s eyes crinkle slightly. “Looks like it.”

“Yeah.” You huff in amusement before continuing. “Anyway, I wanted to give you a heads up. The band will be comin’ by next week to observe practice. The newbies need to get a feel of the game.”

He hums in approval. “Sounds good. I appreciate the effort you all put into it.”

“Thanks.” You lower your voice. “We’ve also gotta prep for Atsumu’s background music request during his serves.”

Kita sighs with a hint of fond exasperation. “He’s been talkin’ about that for weeks while practicing his jump floaters. Hope it’s not too much trouble.”

You wave your hand dismissively. “Nah, it’s kinda fun. Boosts morale, anyway.”

“Alright.” He nods thoughtfully. “As long as you say so.”

Before the conversation ends, an idea pops into your head.

“Wait, Kita-san?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want a theme too? For your serves?”

Kita looks genuinely startled, like a deer caught in the headlights. You think it’s kinda cute.

“Me? I don’t think I need one.”

You shake your head insistently. “Aw, come on! You do pinch servin’ right?”

“Yes, but, I’m sure you already have a lot on your plate. I don’t want to stress you out.”

“Kita-san,” you say his name firmly. “I wanna score it.” 

The absolute conviction in your voice causes a silence to settle between you both. You wonder if you’ve broken him.

“I’m- no, we’re here to back you up.”

When did I get this bold?

You can hear your heart beating in your ears as you wait for his response.

“You’re sure?” His voice wavers a little, but you pretend not to notice.

“Yeah. Promise.”

Kita holds your gaze, and for a moment, neither of you can look away. 

Then, slowly, his lips curve into a smile that feels like staring at the sunrise.

“Alright,” he replies with a lighter tone. “I’m sure you’ll come up with somethin’ great.”

The corners of your mouth instinctively tug upward as he continues.

“Besides, I’m not the only one here who keeps the rhythm of the game goin'.”

masterlist

karasuno fic event: stellar's stationery (ongoing)

[phantomrose96]

Welcome to Renting in a Big City!!! Come with me! Let me walk you through your options!

First I cannot recommend enough one of these new-construction luxury apartment complexes! The amenities are killer and the maintenance is lightning-fast. Your apartment? This rectangular box with three interior walls. We don't like the term "studio" as much as "open concept." It's 400 sqft and the rent will increase 12% year over year (or maybe 30% 😉) once we start attracting all the rich people we want, and also if you attempt to move out at any moment that's not the exact end of your lease (with 60 days notice to not renew) then we'll charge you a 2-months-rent lease breaking fee.

Okay not your style? Don't worry we've got plenty of options in cozy residential areas within the city! Like this apartment! The building was built 150 years ago and the landlord is an 80 year old man who lives 7 states away and insists you mail him your rent every month since technology scares him. Need something fixed? No worries your landlord has great connections to a guy who knows a guy who has a son who's held a hammer once. He's very busy though so please give him 2 or 3 months to respond to anything. The ants were here first and they have squatters rights now so no you can't call maintenance about that.

Oh sorry I wasn't listening--both of those options are 2.5x your budget? No worries no worries I've got plenty of stuff in your price range. THIS beautiful place is only 40 minutes outside the city (2.5 hours in traffic, which is always). It's a modern-concept renovated shed and your neighborhood is the sad industrial remains of concrete and shattered dreams. The broker's fee for this is 5x rent. The construction outside your bedroom window has been going for 5 years, but it MIGHT be finished tomorrow? That's what we told the guy 5 years ago. (We do already have 7 applications for this place, so please decide quickly.)

Okay okay okay, I see the look on your face, not your style. You're a roommate kinda guy, yeah? Of course you are. Everyone is! (Not by choice.) Plenty of opportunities on Facebook and Craigslist to fill in a roommate slot! Just keep clear of rookie mistakes and you'll be golden. Rookie mistake #1: falling for a malicious scam which will take first last and security from you before vanishing into the night. Easy mistake. The best way to avoid it is to don't do it. Stay suspicious of any place pressuring you to make a decision quickly, which is all of them, including the legit places! Rookie mistake #2: signing in to the most batshit abusive and unstable roommate situation you've seen in your life, which the guy you're taking the lease over from was selling his soul to escape. You'll be WISHING you had the ant roommates then haha. We have fun here.

Man you're not looking excited :( that's bumming me out. Okay okay, something a little outside the box? You can get a room for SUPER cheap in this mansion right at the heart of the city, you just kinda need to join the cult that's living there. You can--oh wait what? Oh man, turns out the cult is selling the building :( yeah sounds like they're on hard financial times because they're the cult Shinzo Abe was assassinated over :( real sad. We DO still have a cool Mormon co-op if you--

[harunayuuka2060]

MC: How's everyone's experience? *while smiling in amusement*

The first-years: *cheering*

The sophomores: *yells* NOT GOOD!

MC: Ara! Why is that? *pretends to be shocked*

Professor Crewel: Misbehaving puppies, you have no reason to complain when the sophomores were allowed to use magic while the freshmen couldn't.

Professor Vargas: You were all so cocky before the event started!

*The third-years who have watched the scene unfold*

*The first years beating their senpais at their own game*

Lilia: This teacher is quite amazing. Wouldn't you agree, Malleus?

Malleus: Yes. Teaching the students not to depend so much on using magic.

Vil: We could understand why as they're someone who can't use magic themselves, however...

Lilia and Malleus: ...

Vil: Judging by how they have influenced these students, it might be that they know more than their field.

Deuce: Let us treat you, housewarden sir!

Ace: Yeah. Bet your back hurt from falling from the spider web.

Riddle: And whose fault do you think is that?!

Ace: You wouldn't have fallen if you didn't mind our teasing, but no.

MC: That's right, Mr. Rosehearts. In fact, it wasn't any difficult. Mr. Trappola and Mr. Spade only triggered you ever so slightly.

Riddle: Gnghh!!!

MC: *pats his head* Now I'm thinking that you need a whole lot of self-meditation.

Riddle: I don't need that! I—

Riddle: *suddenly falls asleep*

Ace and Deuce: ...

Ace: When will you teach that to us?

MC: Next class. *smiles*

Floyd: Hello, guppy~.

Jade: That was a fantastic performance.

Epel: Floyd-senpai and Jade senpai...

Floyd: You moved so fast that my eyes couldn't keep up.

Jade: And we were not able to sense you at all.

Epel: That's all thanks to MC-sense—

Epel: *got hit by a piece of folded paper on the nose* Ow...

Jade: Are you alright, Epel?

Epel: Yes. By the way, Sensei doesn't like it when I don't take credit for my hardwork.

Jade: *chuckles* Why, they're certainly right with that.

Floyd: But, who hit you with that?

Epel: Sensei.

Jade and Floyd: *starts looking around*

Floyd: From where?

Jack and Sebek: *arguing, because they almost got caught by the sophomores when they were trying to conceal their presence*

Jack: I told you to shut your big mouth.

Sebek: Your ears were poking out!

Silver: Why it should matter when you've won?

Ruggie: Yeah.

Sebek: You don't understand! Sensei wouldn't excuse that—

MC: Sebek~ My favorite student. Have you not learned a thing or two about teamwork?

Sebek: ...

Jack: ...

MC: And you too, Mr. Howl. Though it was my mistake for partnering you two.

Jack: Sorry, sensei...

Sebek: P-Please don't blame yourself, sensei!

MC: Hmm... *chuckles* But it's okay. You have improved a lot. I hope you both are ready for more advanced lessons.

MC: Isn't that right, Mr. Kingscholar?

Leona: !!! *shocked as to how they know he's approaching from behind*

Ruggie and Silver: ...

The professors: *having a meeting after the event*

Crowley: Is everyone here except Professor MC?

The professors: Yes.

Crowley: Hm. I think everyone has understood the purpose of this event.

Crowley: ...

Crowley: We've been neglecting the majority of them!

Professor Trein: Headmage, no... That's not it.

Professor Crewel: The purpose of the event is to show that our students are capable of learning much more. As proven by the first-years.

Crowley: O-Oh. Is that so?

Professor Vargas: We should think more outside the box!

MC: The students are uniquely intelligent enough. Just lacking when it comes to application. Hehe~.

Crowley and the professors: *screaming*

Crowley: H-How long have you been here?

MC: A few minutes ago. I was resting on the ceiling. *smiles cutely*

Crowley and the professors: ...

[heart-of-the-morningstar]

“Dress Up” Part 2: Second Preview!

Today was a day. Writing makes me feel better. After putting in like 50 applications for a new job, I started writing a little more of my fic. Here's another preview for Part 2 of "Dress Up"

No active warnings for this preview.

And thank you to everyone who's sent me messages, I appreciate it more than you know. I'll keep my head up, promise.

True to his word, Lucifer had managed to sneak away before you woke. After adorning his typical attire, he found himself wandering the halls of the hotel, finally stopping when he reached the lobby. Thinking he was alone, Lucifer started talking to himself and paced back and forth like a madman.

"Was this a mistake? Are we moving too fast? No, no, no it's alright, it's fine! We're fine! Get a fucking GRIP, Lucifer! You're panicking for nothing! She loves you...right? Yes, yes of course she does! Why would she say yes to you?! Unless...NO! No, none of that! Relax! Need to relax..."

"You know, if you don't quit your pacing back and forth, you're gonna wear out the carpet," Husk remarked, attempting to get Lucifer's attention in his anxious state.

"WHAT THE-" Lucifer shrieked hearing the bartender's voice. After seeing Husk standing behind the bar, he breathed out a sigh of relief and clutched his hand to his rapidly beating heart. "Geez, warn a guy next time!" Husk huffed and returned to cleaning the whiskey glass he held in his hand. "How, uhh, how much of that did you hear?"

"Enough to know that you're a fucking mess right now," the cat demon replied, setting down his now clean glass. "Perhaps you need a bartender to talk to."

"Uhh, alright?" Lucifer made his way over to the bar and took a tentative seat on one of the stools.

"This is about your girl, ain't it?" Husk correctly guessed, "about the wedding?" Lucifer sighed and nodded. "Mhmm. You love this gal, don't you?"

"Yes, of course I do!" Lucifer answered almost defensively. "She's...my everything!"

Husk picked up another dirty glass to clean. "And has she given you any reason to doubt that she feels the same way?"

Lucifer huffed. "Well, I...no, no she hasn't. She's always been there for me. Listening to my ramblings, making me laugh, consoling me during the worst times, like last night...she's...she's just perfect!"

"So what's the holdup?" Husk asked after setting the other glass down.

"It's not as simple as you're making it out to be, Husker," Lucifer retorted, pushing his way back from the bar. "I loved Lilith with all of my heart and soul. And she said...that she loved me too. But then one day, she was just gone. Vanished. We fell together. We built a life here TOGETHER! And she just leaves? It's like the last 10,000 years together meant absolutely NOTHING!" Lucifer ran his hands through his hair, trying to keep his composure. "I-I can't lose her like like I lost Lilith. I just can't! I just want to be enough for her. I don't know what I would do if she...", he couldn't finish his sentence. He sat back down at the bar, resting his head in his arms. "The pain would break me..."

The sound of a glass sliding across the counter top caught Lucifer's attention. When he lifted his head, he noticed a full glass of scotch sitting next to him. "Calms the nerves," Husk spoke. Lucifer let out a deep breath and took a swig, choking slightly in the process not realizing how strong it was.

"Not much of a drinker," Lucifer admitted, setting the glass down.

"Sir, if I may..." Husk began.

"You can call me Lucifer," the angel smiled slightly.

Husk smirked. "Lucifer, all I can tell you that love is a vulnerable emotion. I understand that you're afraid. Afraid that history will repeat itself, that your love is not meant to be, and that you're going to end up alone all over again." Lucifer's face sunk, lowering his head against his arms once more. "But," Husk continued, "I know one thing for sure. That girl up there ain't Lilith."

Lucifer raised his head, now hanging onto every word from the bartender.

"If anybody thinks you aren't enough, that's their own fucking problem. And I can tell you that your girl ain't like that at all. She adores ya, can't get her to shut up about ya! Hell, I couldn't even tell you why she ended up down here in the first place! Another one of Heaven's fuck ups, for sure. But for your sake, I'm glad she did." Husk reached over and gulped down Lucifer's unfinished glass of scotch. "Be a shame if it went to waste."

Lucifer let out the smallest of laughs. "Thank you, Husker. And you're right, even in this God forsaken pit, she manages to make it just a little bit brighter. She saved me. And I'm going to devote every moment of my immortal life to her."

"Good to hear. Now..." Husk slammed his hand down on the counter, "get your shit together and go get ready! You got a wedding to attend."

[purplekiwis]

You've got a new professor, and an obsession with his hands...

Genre: Sculptor!Harry | Professor!Harry x Student!Y/N

Warnings: +18 (smut... but not yet)

Wordcount: 3.7k

A/N: i'm not the best at photomontages so please don't roast me, I tried 😅

THIS IS A MULTI-PART SERIES. YOU CAN CHECK THE SERIES MASTERPOST : HERE AND PART 2 HERE

•·················•·················•

Hands.

His were artful,

Perhaps even an art form in and of themselves: smooth, veiny, with steady joints and capable and patient fingertips.

The hands of a craftsman - suitable for creating planets, galaxies, and even entire universes if they so desired. Both harsh and gentle, they tore, kneaded, and poked… only to stroke softly in the end.

The hands of a lover,

Those were my ceramics professor’s hands.

I bit the hidden part of my lip as I watched them move with conviction. Across the slickness, bare and sticky as they pried deeper and deeper, widening as they went and doing as they pleased.

I felt the urge to push my thighs together as I seemingly always did whenever my professor came closer, but I couldn’t because of the potter's wheel blocking my way - the one where he was fixing the crooked clay pot I had tried to make. “Next time, try using a little less water, okay? Your clay has gotten too soft… that’s why you're having trouble getting it even.”

“So less water than this time, but more than last time?” My struggle to get it right made me feel a little embarrassed, but I wanted him to know that I was listening and trying my best. He nodded in response to my question. “Okay, um- I'll try to do it correctly next time. Thanks for resurrecting my project and making it right again.”

My professor smiled warmly at me, noticing I was becoming discouraged by making so many mistakes. “No worries, I’m happy to help.” I watched him as he stood up, washed his hands in my water bowl and dried them on the rag he kept in his pottery apron. “Don't be afraid to muck around with what I've made. You're supposed to take it apart and rebuild it.”

“If I touch it, I'll ruin it and you'll need to come back for assistance again.”

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he shook his head. “I don't want you worrying about that. That’s why I’m here, to fix up your messes.” He sat on the stool next to me again for a moment, and when he spoke, he kept his voice low. “I want you to take it less seriously. Have fun with it — work it ‘til your wreck it. Don’t beat yourself up about it. That’s common blunder for someone who’s starting. We’ve all been there.”

“Thanks,” I smiled a little more assuredly. “I'll try to keep that in mind.”

He smiled back as he stood up from the stool. “No problem, just ask if you need anything.”

While I wasn’t sure how I got into the habit of fantasizing about my professor's hands, I did know how I ended up in his class.

I was a Product Design student.

Frankly, only because I didn’t have the grades to enroll in Interior Design like I’d always aspired to. Product Design was the second-best option that would still give me a chance of breaking into the field if I chose my classes wisely.

In order to achieve that goal, I had been planning to take a class on inclusive design this year. However, as I was about to submit my application, my computer crashed, forcing me to reenter all of my information again. Because of this, by the time I made it back to the page, most of the students had already chosen, leaving only statistical literacy and ceramics as open options.

None of those options had even the slightest appeal to me, which naturally made me incredibly frustrated at the time but, at least the choice was clear between them. Anything with the word statistics in it sounded absolutely dreadful and combining it with the word literacy somehow made it sound even worse… so I chose ceramics, despite the fact that I had never tried my hand at it.

That was why I was now behind all of my classmates, which didn't make me feel great, even though no one had made me feel inferior about my lack of skill yet… not even our professor. He was very sweet and attentive, without always being on top of me, which I appreciated. He gave me the freedom to try things on my own, but as soon as he noticed my eyes searching for him, he'd come over to check things out and lend a helping hand.

This wasn't always a positive thing because sometimes the only reason I was looking was because I couldn’t take my eyes off him. It wasn't just his hands that I kept staring at; I found him captivating in all aspects.

His hair was cool. I liked how he kept it in a messy bun and tucked flyaways behind his ears when they landed on his face. He dressed really cute too, I thought — creative yet casual, and the stubble he occasionally sported when he neglected to shave was sexy as hell.

I wasn’t fully aware of his age, but he couldn't have been much older than me when he had finished his Ph.D. in Fine Arts the previous year. In the rumor mill, he had been invited to teach shortly after earning his degree due to his extraordinary talent for clay sculpting, that had made him stand out at our university ever since he started studying there.

He hadn't shown much of his personal work outside of what he did during his school years, but I had heard through the grapevine that erotic themes were his specialty. Another thing I had heard was that because he made art under a pseudonym that he kept as a secret from most people, his work was very difficult to find online.

That bothered me a little because I was interested and wanted to see it, especially after learning that pleasure was the subject he enjoyed exploring the most. Among my classmates, I knew some made jokes about him being a pervert who had only wanted to come teach to score with the female students. My gut told me that wasn't the case, and I was miffed by those people who couldn’t comprehend that someone could find sex fascinating enough to want to depict it in most of their art without being sleazy. Fortunately, I wasn't one of them. I found sex to be an intriguing topic as well… I enjoyed having it, looking at it, and having thoughtful conversations about it.

“Professor,” I called as we finished class. I was still sat by my wheel, while everyone was cleaning and washing up. Being completely honest, I wanted to leave as well… but I made myself stay so I could make my pot look more presentable. “If you're leaving, could you please leave the room key with me? I was planning to stay a little longer.”

He seemed surprised that I wanted to stay.

I noticed his gaze fall on the collapsing walls of my pot as he handed me the key, but he was merciful enough not to comment. “Feel free to stay as long as you like. I'm taking a coffee break, but I'll be back as well.”

Finding that my professor was coming back made the prospect of staying more enticing. I wasn't expecting a lot of interaction with him, though… I didn't want to be a bother, so I would avoid requesting his assistance. It was already embarrassing enough to ask for it in class, even if he kept assuring me it was perfectly okay to do so…

Professor Harry returned to the classroom after about 10 minutes, seeming happy to find me still there. As he walked inside, he cracked a lighthearted joke about how surprised he was that I hadn't destroyed anything yet. I snorted a laugh and said that I was surprised too.

I observed him carefully as he re-tied his apron around his waist. It seemed like everything the man did attracted me. The way his triceps flexed with movement, the contours of his back, the ease with which his fingers tied the knot. None of these things escaped my attention.

“Would it be okay if I turned on some music?” Due to my dry mouth, it took me longer than it should have to answer his question. “I'm not a big fan of working in silence, but it’s okay if you are…”

“Oh, please, go ahead.” I was finally able to react, but my voice came out weird. “I don't particularly enjoy working in silence either...”

My professor smiled, then walked over to his desk and sat down at his laptop. “Have you got any special requests?”

I pretended to contemplate for a moment, but I didn't want to be the one picking the music. I wanted him to choose because I was nervous about accidentally having him listen to something he didn't like… and I was also curious about his musical tastes. “Not really, no. I'm not picky. I like most music.” That part was true, but he seemed skeptical. “Just pretend I'm not here and play whatever music you normally listen to.”

The look on his face was still skeptical, but he agreed. “Okay, I will. Just let me know if you don't like it so I can switch to something you like best.”

He put on Woodkid's Warm Core album and looked at me to see if I was keen on the choice. “This is cool. I like it.” It was the kind of alternative music I anticipated he would listen to, being an artist and all, and it made me happy because I also liked it.

“Alright, good. If at any point you decide that you no longer like it, feel free to request a change.” I was getting a little hot over how much he was focusing on making sure I liked his music. I’d always had this conviction that one of the ways to tell if a guy is good in bed is to look for signs that he is considerate and eager to please – and already, my professor was scoring points in that department. I glanced at him, and I believe he noticed because he asked, “Is there anything you need help with, or should I just let you do your thing and keep to myself?”

“Um…” I stammered, returning my attention to the horrible looking pot I was working on. I had been right the first time. I shouldn't have touched it after he fixed it for me. “I'm holding up for now. Thanks, professor.”

He smiled at me. “You can leave out the “professor” when we're outside of class. That term is still settling in for me… it's a bit off-putting to be addressed that way when I was also a student here just a year ago - especially when I can't be that much older than you, right?”

I joined him in his smile. “Yeah, I get what you mean. I suppose it's not weird for me because I don't remember seeing you at school last year. How old are you, though, just out of curiosity?”

“I’m 27, you?”

“Wow, you’re really old...” He wasn’t, really… especially since I had assumed he would be in his thirties, given that he was a professor and all. I snorted when he side-eyed me from across the room, where he’d been tidying up and organizing the equipment the students had left behind. “I was just kidding. I'm 22, so...”

His brows furrowed slightly in response to my reveal. “So you're a little older than the rest of the class. Makes sense, you seem a bit more grown-up in comparison to them.” I took that as a compliment because, while my classmates weren't much younger than me – they had to be around 19 – some still acted like teenagers in many ways. “Also, since you mentioned not seeing me at school last year… that’s because I went abroad for a few months to study, and then I had to wrap up my thesis, so I didn't come very often.”

“Oh, that's cool. Where did you go?”

“Norway, to Oslo more specifically. It's a city I think everyone should visit if they ever get the chance to. I had a wonderful time there.” He turned his head away from what he was doing to look at me. “Have you ever thought about going abroad for school?”

“I've thought about it, but I don’t know. It doesn't really call to me right now, to be honest... maybe next year.” I was really interested in hearing more about Harry's experience in Norway, so I shifted the focus of the conversation back to that. “What was the best part of it for you?”

I could tell he was excited to talk about it, as evidenced by the sparkle in his eye. “A difficult question, that. I loved the landscapes and food there, as well as the people. Oslo’s a beautiful city, and it has an amazing art scene that's definitely worth exploring.” He paused for a moment, laughed, and then spoke again, “But I guess I should say that meeting Astrid, my girlfriend, was probably the best part.”

“Wow, that's... something.” Something I'd rather he didn't have, I thought to myself despite my amenable expression. “Has she traveled all the way here with you?”

“Oh no, she stayed in Oslo. We've been doing long-distance and stuff… it isn't always easy, but we make it work.” I could tell by the look on his face that he had somewhat regretted sharing that with me. “Anyway, you should give the studying abroad thing some more thought... you seem like someone who would enjoy that kind of thing. You give off a good vibe.”

“Ha, thanks... so do you. I really like your style.”            

I saw his cheeks flush at my compliment. “I don’t put a lot of thought into my clothes, to be honest. Most of the time, I just throw on whatever.”

“Well, it works, so...” Seeing me shrug, he smiled, but said nothing further. I figured the conversation was over and got back to my work. Harry did the same thing; except he was no longer cleaning up and was instead using his laptop.  Even though I stayed another hour, he didn't leave until I did, which made me feel bad because it made me wonder if he had stayed on purpose to be there in case I needed anything. “Do you usually stay here until this late?” I inquired as he closed the classroom door.

“Um… it depends, sometimes I do, but if you weren't here I would’ve probably left earlier.”

His confession caused a small contraction in my heart. I now regretted staying for so long, especially since I had spent some of that time merely acting as though I was working. “Oh, I'm so sorry. You didn’t have to do that. I would have been fine by myself. I just wanted to practice.”

“Oh no, don't get me wrong. I stayed longer because I wanted to. I live alone, so… I am by myself a lot. It was nice to have company for a change.”

“Ah, I see...” That was something I hadn’t considered before, but it made sense. Most of Harry’s university friends were probably no longer around, or if they were, perhaps he'd lost touch with them after going away for so many months. That had happened to me with my high school friends, so I knew how it felt. “I was actually planning on doing this more frequently to see if I could improve my pottery skills, so… you're welcome to keep me company if that's something you'd like to do.”

He acknowledged my invitation with a courteous smile. “Ah, thanks. I appreciate that.” When he didn't respond right away, I assumed he wasn't interested, which made me feel stupid for having suggested it. Why would he want to spend time with a student five years his junior? He was probably cringing at the thought. That was what I was assuming, until he started speaking again after a pause. “I reckon as long as you really don't mind me being around, that could be something that works for me.”

•·················•·················•

Over the course of a couple of weeks, it became a habit for me and Harry to spend time together after class. Most times, more than once a week. The days when I didn’t have class until late, I would wander to the atelier after his class and spend the next few hours there. It was really easy to get along despite our slight age difference.

I didn't know Harry well enough to say that we had a lot in common, but we just clicked really well. Having a conversation with him was easy, and his presence was warm and reassuring.

We would sometimes work separately, but Harry had taken it upon himself to teach me the things I had been falling behind on. He taught me how to use a kiln to fire and glaze pottery, as well as a bunch of different building and decorating techniques. I liked the last one most because he got to sit next to me and help me paint and texturize. I was really proud of a mug we had made together. Harry had commented that the wavy handle I had made for it looked like the tail of a fish when we put it in, so we went on to decorate the rest of the mug to fit that concept.

“You’re a good painter…” He complimented me as I painted the fish’s fins. I wrinkled my nose at him. Painting had always been a fun activity for me, but I had never considered myself good at it. Harry, on the other hand, was a true artist, thanks to his Fine Arts training and skillful hands…

I looked at the fin I'd drawn and noticed that it was unmistakably more unsightly than the one on the picture I was taking inspiration from. Harry couldn't possibly believe I was talented as a painter. He was just trying to say something nice.

“What? I'm serious…” He assured me, appearing a little surprised by my doubtful demeanor. “And you have a great eye for color too.”

“Hmm, I find that last one is a little more believable; I'll take it.” I said before returning to straightening out my wonkiest brush strokes. I'd spent enough time designing pretty rooms in Intericad Lite to feel reasonably confident on my ability to mix and match colors so, accepting that compliment wasn't too difficult. Besides that isn’t really a talent, is it? It's something a lot of people have.                                         

“Hey,” Harry’s voice drew my attention back to him. “I meant both of the things I said. I wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t.”

The seriousness I was met with when I looked into Harry's eyes made me feel emotional and flustered at the same time. “Thanks,” I smiled a little before looking down at my mug. “I think I haven't gotten a compliment on my painting skills since I was a little kid…”

“You used to get compliments on it when you were little?”

“Sometimes, yeah… mainly from teachers because I always colored inside the lines.”

“I think it's really unfortunate that we stop getting compliments as we get older… I can't really complain because I've been lucky to grow up in a supportive environment, but I know that after a certain point in most people’s lives criticism becomes the norm, while praise for rightdoing is never given.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” I grabbed another brush and continued to color my mug because the topic we were discussing was now making me feel like I might actually start crying if I didn't keep my emotions under control, and I didn’t want Harry to see that. “My parents were never particularly supportive of me or my interests, so I haven’t felt much of a difference as I grew older… I think that’s why I find it a bit difficult to accept people’s compliments nowadays, though. I tend to doubt myself and others a lot.”

“I’m not gonna lie, I had a hunch that was the case with you.” Harry’s statement surprised me a bit. I knew professors could usually read their students well, but I wasn't aware of how see-through I was. “When we first started class, I was a little nervous because I could tell that you were lost at times and could use some help, but I wasn't sure of how to approach you. I was afraid that if I made it known that I could tell you were struggling, you would withdraw even further. I didn’t want that. I wanted you to feel comfortable and know that I wouldn't judge you.”

“You never made me feel uncomfortable… I just felt embarrassed to ask for help because everyone in your class comes from an arts background and knows more than me. I didn't want you to think I was dumb or that I was wasting your time with questions that I should have known the answers to.”

“You could never waste my time. I like teaching you a lot… you always listen and all the questions you ask are perfectly normal.” He gave me a reassuring smile and I felt my insecurities melt away with the rest of my body. “And on top of that, it's easier for me to teach you since you are a blank slate, as opposed to some of the art students who come with stubborn vices they won't get rid of. Experience isn’t always an advantage.”

“You're a really good professor, Harry.” I said truthfully. “I'm really glad I ended up in your class, even if it wasn’t my first choice.”

“It wasn't your first choice?” His face pretended to be shocked, but I knew he wasn't. Given that I had told him about my goal to pursue a career in Interior Design, I knew he had to have known by that point that there was no reason for me to be in his class other than by chance. “Okay, now I'm offended, and no amount of ego-puffing will help you remedy that…”

I shook my head and smiled at his antics as I dipped my brush back into the paint palette. “Not even if I admit you're really cool to talk to and have great musical taste?”

Following my brush dip, Harry dipped his as well. “Give me a little more detail on that and I might re-consider.”

•·················•·················•

I hope you guys liked this first part 💜

PART 2

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

Don't know about divorce watch, but it does seem like their Diana arc is right on track. Those horribly awkward joint engagents that Charles and Diana did in the 80s, where they could barely contain their disdain for eachother... Uff! The latest CBS interview seems to be pretty much thesame thing. And for a change, I think this is genuinely the same.thimh, not just Diana cosplay.

There were a few years of this for Diana and Charles till it all came to a head. So if say another couple of years of this weird, awkward, barely contained resetment for them. The question is during the divorce who gets to do the Diana cosplay? Harry being her son, is the obvious conteder, and God knows, he has legit grounds to play the victim here. But Meghan, being Meghan, would probably put amber heardto shame.

That being said, do you think there is any credence to the billionaire boyfriend rumours? I just don't see her losing focus by getting a boytoy. Plus she looks too miserable and angry to be getting it on onthe side. If she was having an affair, she would have been able to put a better act with Harry. Her relationship with Cory was very rocky for nearly a year but she looked her best and acted so happy.

I think we need a tour with incredibly awkward, very visible "we're separated and not getting along" body language, like Charles and Diana in Korea. Don't get me wrong - the Sussexes' tours and foreign trips are cringe, but they're not cringe in a "divorce watch" kind of way. Not yet. Colombia could be it, though.

Whoever gets the Diana cosplay for the divorce (aka the victim edit) will be whoever files the paperwork and gets their story out first. But the caveat to that is also "whoever controls the narrative." For exactly the reason you mention - Amber Heard.

Amber intended to "win" the divorce with the victim edit and, for awhille, she was actually successful at it. Her mistake was the Washington Post editorial, which gave Johnny's team the opportunity to poke holes in a very public, very televised, very controlled way that eventually collapsed her narrative.

And this is 100% Meghan's blind spot. She loves editorializing how awful everything is, in interviews, op-eds, and books as an anonymous source. It's all but guaranteed that she will one day write something - or have something published that's attributed to her - that will give Harry's team something to use in a point-by-point rebuttal that turns her from victim to villain.

(I'm not worried about Harry having something in writing because, well, he doesn't write to begin with.)

Yes, her relationship with Cory was rocky but it looked much more stable than her marriage to Harry - and that's the power of illusion. I made a Wizard of Oz reference in an earlier post: "Pay no attention to the real lady behind the curtain, just worship the illusion that appears in front of you." That's applicable here too. With Cory, because that relationship was shown in public through Meghan's photographs and Meghan's stories on Meghan's blog, she controlled the illusion we saw; that they were stable and happy.

But with Harry, the curtain has been pulled back and we see the real relationship, warts and all. Their marriage is being shown in public through everyone else's photographs, everyone else's video footage, and everyone else's stories on everyone else's platform. Meghan can't control the illusion we see, so we see everything happening behind the curtain. That's why her platform includes censorship - so she can control what we see of her. That's why her tools include Sussex Squad and Christopher Bouzi - so she can control who says what, and what we say, of her.

As for the billionnaire rumors, I think it's just gossip. We know that she'll only leave Harry for something better, and the only thing that's better than him (according to her narcissm) is someone with a buttload of money who can finance her goals, aka billionnaires. But Meghan talks too much about money and private business for that to be attractive to billionnaires. Billionnaires don't talk publicly about money or their private business. Just look at Bezos and Lauren Sanchez - for as much as we see them in PR and as much as Lauren flaunts the relationship, she actually keeps her mouth shut about Bezos's money and his business. Meghan could never.

My feeling has always been that if there's a divorce, Meghan's next partner will be someone in tech. Tech is the only "industry" left that she hasn't tried (Trevor was acting, Cory was lifestyle and foodie, Harry was charity, society, and business. All that's left is tech and politics). Especially since in today's world, tech is the framework for almost everything. You want to get into content? You need tech. You want to be in media? You need tech. You want to be in politics? You need tech (big Tech is a huge donor and lobbyist in politics). You want to be in charity work? You need tech. You want money? It's all in tech.

Plus, there are dozens of centimillionnaires in/around tech than there are billionnaires in the world. It'll be so much easier for Meghan to meet, and get into a relationship with, one of those guys than it would be for her to get into the same room as a billionnaire.

(Just for the disclosure, since I am Rumor Tracking Anon, there's an astrologist who's seen Meghan marry a Middle Eastern billionnaire after leaving Harry. So it's not totally out of the question. I think it's implausible given everything, but never say never.)

[vicsy]

Vicsy family lore actually has to do something with f1 this time around and boy was I shocked.

yesterday after I returned home I was telling my dad about attending Baku gp, about racing in general etc. naturally I start telling him all about Fernando and how great he is and I happen to mention crash gate.

“Do you by any chance know an Italian guy named Flavio Briatore?” I asked jokingly, since my dad has been doing business in Italy for thirty years, so perhaps he heard something one day or knew someone who was well-acquainted with Flavio.”

“Of course,” my dad said proudly and then dropped this fucking bombshell: “I crossed paths with him many years ago at an event in Sardinia.”

so. I take a pause. like, haha, right? pull up Flavio’s photo and show it my dad, who doesn’t have the best memory for faces. and I just go “this guy? you’re not mistaking him with anyone else?”

wish I was making this up tbh but my dad deadass said that he went to Billionaire club in Porto Cervo (which is owned by Flavio helppppppp) and Flavio was hanging out in there, my dad’s Italian friends casually introduced them and that was it. they just met. I had to double check. My dad just said “he used to look better back then”.

but guys. it’s not just that. to my stunned silence my dad added:

“It was hard not to know who Briatore was because everyone in Italy knew him in some way and you know that I have friends everywhere. Oh, but one time he did come to our restaurant for a business meeting.”

our family business is restaurants here in Moscow, right in the city center, and my dad spoke of the one in particular. Italian cuisine and, at the time of it opening in 2005, head chef from Sardinia kept one of our restaurants in the spotlight of the Italian embassy, so many notable Italians came there to dine. apparently Flavio fucking Briatore did, too.

you could say “Vicsy, darling, touch grass and go back to writing fanfiction” but I kid you fucking not I WISH I COULD BEAT THE ALLEGATIONS. but no. i really thought my dad was messing with me but his track record of spending almost 30 years of his life on work trips to Italy (which I remember distinctly from my childhood) serve as proof. plus I’ve seen some of his Italian friends irl. let’s say the M word could be applicable to them.

I asked my dad again today if he remembers when it was (like pre crash gate or after) and he genuinely doesn’t remember the exact year. my conclusion is that it was before Flavio got expelled out of f1 cause apparently Flavio’s visit to Moscow was him scouting the location for a possible Grand Prix (which later happened to take place in Sochi for several years).

so. my dad met Flavio Briatore at some point in life and, years before I even grasped the concept of F1, Briatore also sat on the second floor of our restaurant at the big round table under the huge chandelier I used to love when I was a kid. and he shook hands with my dad and all that.

does that… does that mean I’m one handshake away from Fernando?….

[boxerharrys]

The New Girl Spencer x F Reader

sorry for any spelling mistakes or punctuations missing! and I'm not the best at writing but I was excited to get this out!

Part 1 ( trying to make this like a real fanfic a true story to it)

Description: you were a somewhat popular YouTuber on your own. you focused on vlogging and funny sketches through out college. you watched Smosh for years admiring their work. but as you join their crew after graduating you start to admire more than their work....

Sunday:

you spent the night finishing editing your vlog of the week and watching Smosh; they seemed to help you cruise through editing. until a newer Smosh video starting to play in the background you heard Ian mentioning how they were open for a new cast member; you stopped in your tracks of what you were doing 'I'm sorry what did he just say' you said in your head rewinding the video. "Since a lot of our members right now are soaring with new projects and opportunities we are open for a new cast member!' Ian said through your laptop. 'no way id get the gig' you thought to yourself, you've dreamed of working for Smosh for years. 'what would happen if I sent in a application... I mean doesn't hurt to try I guess' you said to yourself. you went to the description and clicked the link where applications were going through. Although you didn't have much going on you just finished college and didn't have a big resume but you did have your channel. you filled out all the paper work and sent a link to your channel, like you said not much going on so you don't even get excited. you then continue finishing your editing and schedule it to post for tomorrow at !2pm. you then got into bed with your laptop and continued your mini marathon of Smosh to ease you to sleep.

Friday:

It has almost been two weeks since you entered your application to Smosh obviously not even thinking about it since you doubted anything from the start. Until you were home working on some sketch ideas and you received an email from Smosh… ‘the fuck’ you said to yourself. ‘Probably telling me how they regret to inform me they picked someone else’. You didn’t even look at the email you knew there was no way anything was coming from it. Till you received yet another email this time from ‘selinagarcia@smosh.com' you froze; as you sat there frozen for a good you’d say 5 minutes but it was more like 45 seconds you finally went to open the email.

To: (your email) 

From: selinagarcia@smosh.com

Hello Riley my name is Selina from Smosh! You should’ve got an email from out regular Smosh email congratulating you on an interview with Ian, Anthony and I! Was just reaching out to see when the best time and day would work for you to meet with us! Let me know! Below in the address and times we are open to meeting!

Thanks!

Selina

You felt like you were going to throw up. You had to re-read the email at least 3 more times. ’There’s no way I got an interview’ you said to yourself. But then you said ‘shit I got an interview’ you went to email Selina back and told her a date and time you could meet, ‘how’s Tuesday at 8?’ You emailed back; giving you enough time to mentally prepare and physically prepare for whatever the hell kind of dream you’re in. You then started going through sketches you had and dealt with one you never actually ended up filming for your channel. You had a lot of inspiration from Smosh and their TNTL series so you had a lot of jokes for that situation if you were ever in a predicament that you needed jokes for something like TNTL. You then printed everything out that you needed for your interview since the first initial email said to have those ready when you come. You then received an email back from Selina confirming that day and time was great for everyone. You made the decision to take a bath; you needed to relax your nerves were through the roof. You started the water added some bubbles and went to your kitchen to pour yourself a glass of wine. After your 30 mins bath you went to your room an put Netflix on and went to bed. 

Finally it was Tuesday at 5 in the morning you were making yourself a cup of coffee considering you were so nervous you couldn’t sleep last night. Still chose to be up early enough to shower, pick a good enough outfit to compare to Courtneys awesome fits she usually wears, your make up, and hair. The Smosh office was 25 minutes away from where you live so it was finally time to leave; rushing out the door you did a full 180 remembering your paperwork you needed.

Once you got to the office there was a buzzer at the front door. 

You press the button.

“How can I help you?’ Selina says through the speaker

“Hi its Y/F/N I’m here for an interview” 

“Yay come on in” Selina says as she buzzes you in.

You took the your atmosphere in, not believing what you’re experiencing since Smosh was your childhood and you’ve watched them every year of your life. 

You were then met with a happy lady that you knew was Selina!

“Hi it sonic to meet you I’m Selina! We are so excited to talk with you today! 

She shows you to the conference room passing some of the cast and crew; where you’re met with Ian and Anthony. You’re a great actor so you good with keeping your composure.  

“Hey its nice to meet you” Anthony says smiling 

“Yes we are so excited to pick your brain today” says Ian 

“Well let get this show on the road then I’m excited to pick your brains as well” you say confidently to your inspirations.  

Spencer: 

As he was eating lunch with Courtney, Shayne, Angela and Chanse; he was distracted from the conversation as he saw a beautiful women walk by with Selina. 

“Guys I swear I just saw an angel…” he says getting everyones attention.

“Did you drink too much Kickstart today Spence” says Court laughing.

“Yeah what are you going on about” Chanse says with a questioning look.

“Did you guys hear about anything with hiring a new cast member or do we have some type of brand we are going to work with be cause I just saw Selina walking the most beautiful women to the conference room!” Spencer says to them. 

“No” everyone says in union.

Then I see then And give the most sly look ever 

“ You know the conference room is all glass we could talk a look” she says wiggling her eyebrows. 

“No I’m not getting fired from the dads” says Shayne.

“Im in!” Chanse yells

“Angela I can’t either let me know wtf is going on tho” Spencer says 

He watched Angela make an amused face to Chanse and they get up pretending to be some type of ninjas or spy tiptoeing around us and sining action movie music

“ They are idiots” Spencer says paling his face

They come running back 

“He's not lying she gorgeous; id go straight for her” says Chanse 

“yeah id go gay for her” Angela says 

“Oh my god guy what!” Courtney exclaims.

“What does it look like is going on” Spencer says.

“I don’t know  but they were going over some type of paperwork” Angela says while sitting back down.

“Looks like well have to ask Selina afterwards… we gotta get going its almost call time” Says Shayne. 

Back to Y/N 

So everything looks great Y/N” says Anthony! 

“Thank you” you say as you start to blush.

“So I think we would benefit from you a lot” says Ian 

“Oh wow guys um thank you… I will like to be honest with you now hahaha….. you guys have inspired me so much thought my life and this is crazy that this is even happening and I’m very thankful I really didn’t think anything would come from me applying” you explain. 

“Well I’m glad to know that but its happening and we would love to hire you! So do you have any pitches for us?” Anthony says 

“Actually yes its for TNTL I think you guys should do a nostalgia episode where its nostalgia jokes and skits coming back whether its the same stuff or stuff rebranded I think the fans would love it!” You say geeking out a little.

Ian and Anthony look at each other and smile… “ you know what I really love that idea, Selina can yo see when we can do that and make a call sheet for it” 

“Yes defiantly…. So Y/N think you can start next Wednesday? I can send you everything tonight you’ll have the rest of the week to look over and prepare and we can start with maybe just one call time that day if that sounds good to you?” Selina says smiling

“YES” you exclaim!

“Perfect ill show you out! Unfortunately we can’t introduce you to any of the other cast members because they are filming right now but you can meet some of the crew! I’ll show you around so you’re not too confused next week!” Selina says.

“ Thank you!” You say as standing up. “And thank you so much guys it was pleasure meeting you and I’m excited to start” you say as shaking Ian and Anthony’s hands.

You walk out with Selina and get your tour then head home to start preparing for the best thing that has ever happened to you.

Okay that is all for now let me know if I should continue!

[jawritter]

Something About Fate...

Chapter 1

Summary:  Y/N has been homeless and living on the streets of Dallas, Texas since the start of Covid. Until one day, a handsome, green eyes strange notices her and turns her whole world upside down.

Warning: Homelessness, fear of sex trafficking, brief mention of past relationship. Brief mention of almost assualt.

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Reader (eventually). 

Word Count: 2700

A/N: This series is completely unbeta’d, so all mistakes are mine! This series will contain mature content eventually, and therefore is unsuitable for persons under 18 years of age! Anyone under the age of 18 will be blocked for my blog! Thanks so much for reading! I hope you all enjoy this series!

Main Masterlist                  Series Masterlist 

Y/N shivered as she pulled the thin jacket she was wearing closer to her small, underweight body. She watched in silence as the people on the street passed by her from her spot in front of the streetlamp where she sat cross legged, with her paper cup in front of her. Some would glance at her, sometimes in disgust with judgment plastered all over their faces. Some would even go as far as to actively take a step away from her to put some distance between them. Other, more kind people, would drop a few coins into her cup, most of the time with barely a glance at her. 

If she was lucky, she might even have enough money to get a sandwich from the little shop she sat just across from tonight; at least, that was the goal. Then she would wander down to the park and break into the splash pad bathroom to shower in what was surely going to be a painfully cold shower, but even though she was homeless, and currently begging to eat every day, she was going to at least be clean as she could manage anyway. 

She only owned a backpack full of belongings, some of which contained two changes of clothing, and on Tuesdays, she’d sacrifice eating her one meal a day to go to the laundromat and do her washing. Today was Monday, so if she didn’t want to not be able to eat for the next two days as opposed to one, tonight would have to be the night that she collected enough to get her a sub that she might be able to stretch for a few days. Which meant she had to hope and pray she could gather up enough coins to go and get something before they closed at 8 pm, it was already 6, and she was running out of time. During the winter months though, it was harder because there was already less traffic on the streets than normal, and right after the holidays, people were exceptionally tight with their money, and therefore, she missed a lot more days of eating than she cared to admit. 

This wasn’t always life for Y/N. At one time, she had a job, she had an apartment of her own, she’d even planned to go to college to become a nurse. Then, covid struck, and the man she thought loved her left her for another, prettier woman, or at least that’s what the dick had told her. She lost her roommate at that point, and then covid came, and she lost her job too. The world shut down around her. No one was hiring, no one was open. She fell into a downward spiral she couldn’t come up from, and now, here she was, living on the streets, begging money from people to eat more than once a week if she was lucky. 

It wasn’t that she wasn’t hirable, it was more the fact that when you fill out a job application and have no place to put down as a permanent address, it’s a red flag for businesses. They immediately don’t want to hire you, no matter how great your credentials are. 

She wasn’t addicted to drugs or alcohol the way some where that lived on the same streets she did, and she quickly learned that a halfway house for women wasn’t safe when she was almost assaulted twice, once by another homeless person, then again by someone that worked for them at the shelter. But of course, who was going to believe her? 

No one, the answer was no one. 

She’d learned a long time ago that it did no good to cry, even though tonight it was hard not to do. Crying didn’t change things. 

A crack of thunder sounded overhead, and she sighed heavily as she heaved herself upward, and made the decision to move over to the side of the building where the overhang would protect her from the impending rain at least a little. She knew this was a dangerous move, because if some customers complained about her presents, the owner may would come out and make her move, but she had to try, this was the last night she’d be able to eat for a few days, and she was starving. 

Lucky for her, no one seemed to notice her sitting there that cared enough to turn her in, at least, they didn’t seem to, and she did get a few more people drop a few dimes into her cup. She almost had enough, she just needed one dollar’s worth of change, and she’d be able to eat, and then go and take her frigid shower before trying to find somewhere to sleep for the night. Somewhere dry preferably; maybe under the overpass off of I-10 even if the wind was terribly cold under there. 

A large group of people heading down the sidewalk interrupted her planning, and she looked up to see some well-dressed men, accompanied by a shorter, thinner, redheaded woman walking her way, and she quickly sank back into the building’s exterior as best as she could to give them some room, and also make herself look as small as possible. It was quite obvious that this group had money. They were dressed too well. Usually, well-off people didn’t like homeless people, and Y/N feared that they would have her tossed away from her meal, especially since the tall, breathtakingly handsome, green eyed one seemed to be unable to keep himself from openly staring at her as they walked past. He little slower than his counterpart who seemed to not notice her at all as they walked into the establishment where, she watched them all make their order through the window, sighing in relief when they didn’t seem to be talking to the cashier about her. 

She noticed that the handsome, green-eyed man sat on the end of the booth they were all sitting at once they placed their order, allowing the woman that was with them the safer seat against the wall. She wished she knew what it was like to have someone like that protecting her. God he was handsome. Tall, thick in all the right places. His features were striking. A strong jaw accented by just the right amount of facial hair, and if she looked hard enough at him, she could almost see a light dusting of freckles on his face. The man was a walking, living, breathing work of art; something beautiful in the dark and cold world that she lived in. 

Suddenly, as if he could feel her looking at him, his astonishing green gaze turned and met hers. For a moment, she thought she saw a flash of something cross his handsome face. Sadness? Pity maybe? But whatever it was, it disappeared fast, and he was on his feet, making his way on long, bowed legs to the cashier that was leaning against the counter, texting on her phone. 

A deep rock dropped into the pit of her stomach, and she bit back the tears as she slowly started to gather her things. Surely, he was going to ask her to be moved like all rich men did. Which meant that he may have been an Adonis on the outside, but on the inside, he was just as cold and ugly as everyone else in his status. Then again, maybe she was just that cursed, and it had nothing to do with what men seemed to think of her at all.

The door chimed behind her as it open, and she scrambled faster to dump the change she’d collected into her bag to hide it there, when she noticed the same dark jeans that the man was wearing inside the shop kneel down in front of her in the corner of her vision, and she froze terrified as to what was to come from him. 

“Hi,” he greeted her, and shivered against the wind that billowed through the now suddenly, impressively empty street. 

Y/N kept her eyes on the ground, holding her breath, unsure as to what might happen next, she was too scared to run, and honestly, he’d probably be able to grab her before she could even get away. 

“Are you hungry?” he questioned, keeping his deep voice as soft as possible as he offered her a wrapped sub gingerly, and her stomach rolled loudly as she looked at his freckle dusted hand; giving her away so that she was unable to deny her situation at hand. 

“Take it honey, it’s okay,” he pressed, and she reached for the sandwich with shaking hands, half expecting him to jerk it away at the last minute and laugh, but he didn’t do that to her surprise. He just let her take it from him with the same sad look on his face as he’d had when he’d passed her earlier while he watched her unwrap it with trembling fingers. 

She mumbled a quiet, “thank you.”

Before another word could escape his perfect, pink lips, the door to the establishment opened once more, and this time, a taller, thinner man was at the door, along with the short, red-haired woman. 

“Hey Jay, Felisha needs to go back to the hot–,” the man blurted out, stopping in his tracks when he saw that his friend, ‘Jay’ was crouched down in front of the homeless girl that loitered the side of the building, and Y/N could have sworn a slight panic crossed his features. “Is—is everything okay?” He questioned him, and the man in front of her just nodded, not taking his eyes off of Y/N, who was now cowering slightly under his sharp gaze, and away from the man that had just come out of the door. 

“Yeah, everything’s fine, you guys go ahead,” he said, reaching out to take the sandwich the man at the door offered him, “I’ll catch up to you guys.”

“Jensen,” the woman, Felisha said, taking a tentative step forward, but Jensen, which was apparently the handsome man’s name, and ‘Jay’ was just a nickname, held his hand up to stop her as Y/N slid back a little further on against the wall away from the three of them, suddenly, she felt trapped. 

She’d heard of sex traffickers capturing younger, or young, women on the streets, and suddenly, she was afraid this was just that. 

“No, you’re scaring her,” Jensen voiced in an authoritative tone, and his friends took a step backward to give them some room. “You two go on back to the convention. I’ll meet you there, I promise, I just wanna make sure she’s okay.”

The tall man wrapped his arm around the woman’s shoulders and nodded at his friend before they both started back towards where they’d came from, leaving her alone with Jensen, and Felisha looking back over her shoulder as they went, concern etched deep in her pixie-like features. 

Jensen then did something that shocked the hell out of her. Instead of grabbing her, which is what she expected him to do, he plopped himself down on the wall next to her and began to open his own food. 

“What’s your name sweetheart?” he questioned, and Y/N just looked at him like a deer caught in headlights. It had been so long since someone asked her that question, a simple, ‘what’s your name,’ that she had to think about it herself. 

Had she really been out here so long that she’d forgotten her own identity? 

“Y/N,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rain that broke loose overhead, and the loud crack of lightning that followed, causing Jensen to look away from her for a moment, and up towards the angry, dark sky. 

“I’m Jensen,” he said, keeping his voice calm and low, probably to try and keep from scaring her again. 

Personally, Y/N was still trying to figure the man out. Why the hell would this God of a man sitting down in the dirty street to eat his sandwich next to a homeless girl? Much less introduce himself after asking her name? Was he dangerous, should she run?

As if Jensen sensed her sudden extreme fear and apprehension, he slid a little closer to her, blocking a little of the blistering cold wind and rain with his broad back and shoulders before he continued. 

“How long have you been living like this Y/N?” he asked, taking another large bite of his food, which reminded her that she had her own in her hand. 

He couldn’t be that horrible. Maybe he was just an eccentric rich guy who just like to talk to homeless people? He couldn't be that bad if he was being this nice, could he? Surely if he was part of some sex trafficking ring, they would have grabbed her and made off with her by now, right?

“Almost three years,” she answered him, looking down and flinching away from the flash of lightning that lit up the street in front of them. Jensen even flinched himself this time. She knew before long, they would both have to get off the street and find shelter somewhere. Which meant she would probably never see the handsome stranger again, and that made her heart ache just a little. He was the first person in so long to show her any kindness. She hated to see him leave, even if he might be a weird sereal killer or something. At this point she’d take what she could get. 

“Damn,” he murmured, a look of what she thought might be disgust crossing his face, and shame flooded her, causing her to look down at her lap in order to keep from crying. 

Crying did no good. There was no point in crying. 

Jensen’s phone rang in his pocket, and he quickly silenced it, not even bothering to look and see who was calling him, most likely it was his friends that had left him there with her. 

Jensen looked up the street at the falling rain, and then back to Y/N’s trembling form before he stood slowly, a heartbroken look in his deep green eyes as he reached out a hand to her, determination taking control of his face, and she just stared back at him as if he’d lost his mind. 

“Come on honey, it’s freezing out here, and it’s pouring, please come back to the hotel with me. I know that sounded terrible, like I’m some sort of pervert or something, but I swear I’m not,” he said, pulling a tag that said Creation Entertainment Supernatural Convention, from his back pocket and showing it to her. “My hotel is less than a block from here. I’m here for the convention, Dallas is my hometown, I’m from here. I’m not just some freak. I can’t leave you out here in this, I just can’t. I swear I’ll not lay a finger on you. I just can’t leave you alone and cold here in the rain.”

Y/N’s chest tightened as panic, and some other emotion she wasn’t sure of gripped her tight around the throat and threatened to choke her. She knew then, she had a choice to make. She could either turn down the handsome stranger, watch him walk away back to his job, leaving her to live in the squalor she found herself in, maybe survive another day…

Or she could take this man by the hand and leave with him to the hotel he was staying at, and leave this mess behind her for even just a night…

Worst case scenario, he would kill her and dump her body in a dumpster behind the place he was staying when he was done doing God knows what to her. It was a fate she knew would probably happen to her eventually if she kept living the life she was living, she wasn’t an idiot. 

She was pretty certain that he wasn’t a sex trafficker, or else he wouldn't have the badge he had shown her to get into the convention. 

Maybe he just wanted a good time for a night, and thought she was an easy pick up for some sick reason? Would that really be so horrible? So what if she had to sleep with him to stay the night? At least he was attractive and seemed nice. Surely he’d let her take a shower and sleep on the floor of a warm, dry hotel room, that was more than she could ask for… Even if he did kill her, what did she have to lose?

Jensen watched as she debated within herself, patient, the rain beginning to dampen his jacket and perfectly placed brown hair, but he never moved a muscle, just looked at her with the most pleading eyes she’d ever seen. 

Slowly, still somewhat unsure of her own fate, she reached up and took his warm, massive hand, and he helped her to her feet. 

There was no going back now, either way, she’d just sealed her fate…

“Come on darlin,” he said, slipping his jacket from his massive shoulders and over her own thin frame, not caring that the rain pelted against his side as he slowly started to guide her towards the massive hotel off in the distance. “Let's get you dry and cleaned up.”

Forever:

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat

@wittysunflower

@demongirl1996  

@as-lost-as-sams-shoe

@jensenslady79

@spnwoman

@stoneyggirl2

@unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men

@stixnstripesworld

@fullwattpadmusictree

@nancymcl

@christycreature

@whiskey-infused-dreams

@supernatural79impala

@deandreamernp

@forgetthisbull

@miraclesoflove

@slamminmine

@deanwanddamons

@rvgrsbrns

@chevyharvelle

@i-love-superhero-movies

@lyss-dw79

@magssteenkamp

@lemondropirwin

@squirrelnotsam

@hobby27

@spnbaby-67  

@mrsjenniferwinchester

@defenderrosetyler

@thecreatiivecorner  

@vicmc624

@busy-bee-angel-misska

@justanotherwinchester

@brilovesdeanwinchester

@idksupernatural

@lyarr24

@emoryhemsworth

@dean-winchesters-gardian-angel

@flamencodiva

@itmejado

@thoughts-and-funnies

@teresa-67

@hearteyes-j2

@peaches007

@bobbie3939

@vulgar-library

@writercole

@fairlyspnfanfic

@sexyvixen7

@spngi

@b3autyfuldisast3r

@donnaintx

@maliburenee

@the-family-business67

@agirlwithdemonblood

@captainsoldiergirl

@twinkleinadiamondsky

Jensen and Dean’s Babes

@deans-baby-momma  

@impalaslytherin

@perpetualabsurdity

@msmarvelouswinchester

@akshi8278

@love-jackles

@irmcpar

@pink-sparkly-witch

@deans-spinster-witchs-favorites

@herstarburststories

@mimaria420

@deanwinchesterswitch

@charred-angelwings

@pascal-rascal424

@myloversgone

@fortheloveof-jackles

@eevvvaa

@bts-spnlvr12

@jxackles

@lassie-bird

@samsgirl93

@shawnie74  

@kaz11283

@mlovesstories

@ladysparks78

SAF tag list

@itsdesiree86

@evilunicorns4minions

@jesllianaquilesrolonsworld​

@thefemalestorywriter

@tapedeck-hearts​

[inksandpensblog]

I've seen a lot of post-Wanted ideas suggesting that Victim is envious of the relationship Orange has with Alan, but what if it's not about that. What if it's not the relationship that Victim envies.

After all, Chosen was the one the mercs were hunting down. They only got orders to bring Orange in when he appeared and interfered during their active pursuit of Chosen.

And Chosen...didn't have a very enviable relationship with noogai, to say the least.

So why, if the relationship with their creator is the source of Victim's contention, would he focus on Chosen?

Orange's and Alan's relationship is something that's developed with time, and communication, and honest effort on the part of both parties involved. But they began as two enemies extending a cautious truce because they wanted something from each other. Orange's and Alan's relationship was only even possible because Alan chose to spare Orange, and why did he do this?

There's no denying that they've come far since then, but still...whatever his reasons may be in the present day, Alan originally kept Orange around because his art skills made him valuable to Alan.

Orange got to live because the animator found a way to make use of him.

Now let's consider Chosen.

Given how noogai handled Victim when he got out of hand, you'd think he'd handle Chosen in a similar way. Especially since Chosen got much more out of hand. But, no. The animator doesn't simply rid himself of Chosen.

Chosen got to live because the animator found a way to make use of him.

Of course, there are important differences between them. Orange got a say in their terms; Chosen certainly did not. Orange was utilized in a way that enabled his skills to flourish, and allowed him some agency in their application; Chosen had limits and restrictions imposed upon his capabilities, and little to no choice in what manner him impeded skills were implemented. Orange is free to come and go as he pleases, but has elected to remain on the computer voluntarily; Chosen was held in captivity, and escaped the moment an opportunity popped up. Orange was released; Chosen freed himself. Alanspc is home, to Orange, and the animator is part of that; Chosen has only ever returned to Alanspc in times of crisis, and it's never been for the sake of the animator.

Orange is happy, with his creator.

Chosen suffered, under his creator.

But.

When you take away all the context surrounding Orange's and Chosen's respective histories with their creator and look at just the simplified timeline of events, what do you get?

The animator defeated Orange, and then kept him, alive.

The animator defeated Chosen, and then kept him, alive.

And what must that look like, to Victim?

Victim, who fought and fought for every second he got, and was dismissed as worthless? Victim, who battled the animator nearly to a standstill without even leaving the animation window, all without powers, using wits and resourcefulness alone, only to be brushed away? Victim, who did so much with the little time he had that he was still on the animator's mind when noogai created Chosen, and yet wasn't worth keeping around?

Chosen went on to spend almost five years on the computer, after his defeat. Would it matter to Victim, that Chosen spent those near-five years enslaved and miserable? Or can Victim only see the near-five years of life that Chosen got to have while Victim was denied?

Victim lived for fewer than two minutes. Quality of life might be negligible next to having a life to live at all.

He might not realize that the animator's decisions to spare Chosen and Orange were directly tied to how much control the animator could maintain over them. He might not understand that he was noogai's first living stick, and mistakes were bound to be made. He might not understand how noogai has changed, and how this has changed the way noogai sees stickfigures. He might not realize that the animator doesn't keep sticks anymore, doesn't determine their right to live based on any notions of usefulness that they could provide to him, doesn't make them stay. He might not believe that, given a second chance, Alan would do better by him.

All that matters to Victim is that the animator saw something in Orange and Chosen. Something that he didn't see in Victim. Even though Victim proved himself countless times over, in the fewer-than-two minutes he got.

[lixenn]

OCtober 2024 day 23: community

@myrmyrtheorca one science girl coming right up! Anemone is also working hard, pipetting lots for qPCR 🫡 what a legend!

A yapping essay under the cut, I will talk science so you have been warned.

Now before I ramble about science I'm just gonna talk about the art for a bit. I did use a reference for this because I'm not insane and drawing the lineart with it was ... alright I would say. I actually looked through my own pictures and my uni website first in case I could find something as a ref but no dice so I needed to look it up anyways. I think the most difficult lineart to draw was the fucking pipettes... I need everyone to know that all the lab equipment (except maybe the blue regant holder) is a simplification of what it actually looks like because by god I could not replicate the real thing with my current skill set. I know most people will not give a fuck but I do so it needed to be said.

Otherwise colouring went okay and rendering wasn't extremely tedious. I noticed that I actually really like rendering blond hair, years ago I found this hack where you use red for the shadows and turn the opacity down and it works so well every time, I'm a bit obsessed tbh. I need to give more of my OCs blond hair lmao.

Okay enough about art let's talk science! Honestly this is really just me explaining science stuff, so feel free to skip because this can get long.

As I mentioned above I drew Anemone doing qPCR and I chose qPCR because her focus is genetic research. So basically she looks into the human genome (entire set of human genes) to see how it correlates to the Pallid Flame.

qPCR stands for quantitative polymerase chain reaction or real time polymerase chain reaction (RTpcr) and it's a valuable tool for analysing stuff down to genetic aka DNA level. You might have learnt about PCR in school but if not or if you've forgotten: PCR is the amplification of a specific gene aka you take one specific part of someone's DNA and replicate it a bunch of times. This is useful if you want to proof if a specific gene is present in the DNA you are analysing. Now qPCR also does the DNA amplification but as it already implies with the name it also counts how much the gene was amplified. You can use qPCR in many applications for example I used this method in my thesis to test if skin related genes are upregulated (higher gene expression aka genes are more activated? <- me trying to simplify genetics I'm not sure if this is the correct term of phrase) or down regulated (lower gene expression) when I put mast cells in my skin models. It gives you insight how certain factors affect cells on DNA level and since it will give you number at the end you can do statistics which is what everyone will really care about. I hope this explanation was at least somehow understandable if anyone has any questions I can talk more about this no prob 🫡

In fact I will talk more about it just... less why you do qPCR but more on how you do it. Because the thing is with this method... You need to pipette, you need to pipette A LOT. And honestly I'm really not a fan because you need to be so exact with this pipetting since each mistake you make stacks up and shows in your data at the end. It's very frustrating especially because there are a lot of steps where you can make mistakes and you need to be fully concentrated the entire time. I... I would say I'm good at my job but I really don't like this part of it because it grates on my nerves. But I think Anemone would be good at it, it's something repetitive that requires a steady hand and patience. Normally post Docs and even some PhD students let assisstants handle this job but I'd like to imagine that Anemone likes doing small things occasionally. Maybe not the entire process (there's a lot of prep work required for qPCR) but the last few steps she can take over, just for a change of pace.

[starlight-brainrot]

FFXIV - Academic Rival AU (x reader)

Characters: Aymeric, Alphinaud, Urianger, G'raha Tia, Y'shtola

Tags: fluff, high school AU, academic rival AU, gn reader, miscommunication (g'raha's)

Warnings: since it's a high school AU, it's assumed that wol/reader is the same age as Alphinaud.

Word Count: 1336

-

Aymeric

Mr. class president

Chess club leader as well?

You, meanwhile, are the captain of various sports teams

As well as boasting a more than stellar gpa

It ends up being a competition of who will have the better college application - him, or you?

Whenever the two of you meet, it feels as though sparks are flying

The two of you will share pleasantries, but make no mistake - the tension is thick.

For every competition he wins, you make sure to win a couple more. For every academic ribbon you earn, he’s right there behind you.

Haurchefant and Thancred secretly have an ongoing bet to see when the two of you will finally get together.

And as time goes on, more and more of your friends join in on this bet

It seems that the feelings between the two of you are obvious to everyone… but you.

Every stolen glance, every blush, every rant about the other - it was maddening to have to watch two idiots clearly in love avoid their feelings over an inconsequential rivalry.

It’s only after the two of you graduate and receive acceptance letters into the same college, both with full ride scholarships, that Aymeric nervously asks you out.

“I know that we were at odds in high school… but seeing as we’re both here and our rivalry has ended in a tie…”

“Would you like to grab coffee with me?”

Congrats to Alisaie, who won $20 from everyone in your friend group.

-

Alphinaud

The two of you are fellow debate team members

…however, the two of you are constantly trying to one up each other.

Who will capture the attention of the audience?

Who will have a more airtight argument?

You were known for your iron logic. It was tough, if at all possible for others to oppose your arguments

Alphinaud was meanwhile known for capturing the hearts of his audience

Surely a formidable duo, if only the two of you could get along…

As the semester drags on, the big competition for your debate team inched nearer and nearer

With all your mock debates with Alphinaud, you felt like you had done all that you could for tomorrow’s event

But it felt like something was missing…

It was Alphinaud who approached you, wanting to go over strategies

Begrudgingly, the two of you recognized that the other could provide helpful tips

Alisaie gives her brother a knowing look as the two of you settle in with your laptops and coffee. He avoids her look with red cheeks.

He feels sick the morning of the competition. He’s so nervous!

But when he hears you say that he better not lose to anyone but you, he feels some semblance of peace, followed by determination for the day ahead of him.

To no one’s surprise, the two of you crush your competition, leaving your opponents floundering for words as you leave them behind in the dust

No, the real surprise is how loudly the two of you cheer for each other upon victory - how proud you are for Alphinaud and how proud he is of you.

-

Urianger

You’re unsure of when or how the two of you started competing to see who could read more books in the library.

Perhaps it was that the two of you saw each other there everyday

Or the fact that Moenbryda and Y’shtola seem to constantly egg the two of you on

Little did the two of you know, the roegadyn and miqote were trying to get the two of you together, as they had been trying to do for the past four years.

Maybe this will be the year…

Urianger found himself exploring sections of the library he wouldn’t usually frequent in hopes of being in your presence just a little longer.

His puppy love felt silly to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop, especially if you kept looking at him with that soft smile of yours

If given the chance, he’d make a whole new library for you filled with poems and flower words detailing his feelings for you.

If someone were to find one of your names in a library book’s checkout card, it was near guaranteed that the other’s name would be just under it.

Your name became synonymous with his, and vice versa

But a competition that was never meant to be one in the first place will fall apart, have its lines blurred and crossed.

Moenbryda and Y’shtola receive their answer one day when they approach your usual reading spot, only to find the two of you lounging together in one of the library’s bean bags, books long forgotten in favor of sleep wrapped in each other’s embrace.

-

G’raha Tia

Could the two of you really call it a rivalry?

As far as anyone could see, the two of you just had a string of unusual coincidences.

The exact same schedule, lunch spots near each other, both being on the Tennis team - you saw him every hour of every school day.

So then, was it coincidence that his heart eventually began beating faster when you were around?

G’raha felt like he was going to explode, constantly in your presence

So, like any healthy and sane person does, he begins to (try to) avoid you.

Unfortunately for him, it’s almost impossible to avoid someone who shares your whole schedule

Oh, and you definitely noticed what he was doing.

Had you done something to offend the miqote?

Slowly, your friendship morphed into avoiding the other, both of you running from your feelings

When I say that everyone is tired of the two of you making puppy eyes at each other when you think no one is looking

I mean EVERYONE

It’s the twins who eventually get fed up and decide to act on it, forcing the two of you to put the tennis equipment away together, just to get the two of you to talk.

The silence is deafening as the two of you awkwardly clean up

It’s when the two of you brush fingertips and he recoils like he’d been burned that you snap.

“Am I really that disgusting to you?” You question, frowning.

Upon recognition of what he’s done, G’raha scrambles for an explanation, but eventually sighs and gives in, telling you the truth, he’d always had a crush on you, and hoped it’d fade away with time.

News flash, his feelings only got worse

He sincerely apologizes, not expecting any reciprocation or forgiveness

And is shocked when you give a relieved giggle.

“I’ve always liked you too, idiot.”

-

Y’shtola

Y’shtola was going to destroy you.

Well, perhaps that’s a bit too strong.

There was an internship available for fresh graduates under a well known researcher, and both you and Y’shtola were competing for a recommendation for said internship

Anyone who witnessed the two of you would admit that it’s a bit scary to watch the two of you interact.

As they say, an immovable object met an unstoppable force.

Even your teacher is a bit intimidated by whatever’s going on between the two of you, but given that they’re receiving help from the two of you, they’ll keep quiet about the fact that they can give you both the recommendation.

Though the two of you were at odds, it didn’t stop you both from completing your work together swiftly and without complaint.

You couldn’t help but feel as though Y’shtola enjoyed riling you up - but even as you tried to resist the temptation to reply to her, you failed every time

Luckily for Y’shtola, out of everyone she could have this silly competitive streak with, it was you. Oh, how cute you look when you’re upset, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed.

Upon the realization that both of you got the recommendation, an eerie silence entered the room.

All that competition for nothing?

How embarrassing.

And if anyone noticed the two of you walking to a coffee shop, hands entwined after this whole mess?

They’re better off not mentioning it.

-

a/n - I apologize if I wrote anyone ooc hehe... I'm not used to writing for many characters so I just took em and ran (shrug)