#them to be as good as they are i guess it really shows how good these characters are man 😩

[storm-and-starlight]

Oh, absolutely, I 100% agree that fanfic has huge amounts of interiority, "looking at the characters' thoughts that we never get to see" is a huge part of why it's written! What I'm referring to with "fanfiction bad habits" (if they can even really be called that, because they're not always bad habits if you're actually writing fic!) is stuff like overdescription of appearance or gesture. Fic authors are trying to indicate that the character on the page is the same character as is on the screen, and part of what is distinctive about the character on the screen is their appearance/physicality. For instance, in SPN Sam Winchester has long(ish) hair as... more of an appearance note than anything else? you can dig for character meaning but the show really doesn't do that, but it's one of the most iconic elements of his character, so it gets referenced in fic a LOT and often in places where on a technical level it's either unnecessary or actively slows down a scene. Same goes for trying to exactly describe character outfits. If you switch to original prose and aren't trying to match a character who primarily exists in visual media, you don't need to be constantly describing their hairstyle or walk or appearance, but the habit is there and might be hard to notice or break.

HOWEVER I also completely agree with your statement that a lot of authors (ahem ahem SANDERSON) are writing like they really want to make a movie or TV show, I don't have anything to add but. yeah. that's definitely something I've noticed as well.

A lot of fiction these days reads as if—as I saw Peter Raleigh put it the other day, and as I’ve discussed it before—the author is trying to describe a video playing in their mind. Often there is little or no interiority. Scenes play out in “real time” without summary. First-person POV stories describe things the character can’t see, but a distant camera could. There’s an overemphasis on characters’ outfits and facial expressions, including my personal pet peeve: the “reaction shot round-up” in which we get a description of every character’s reaction to something as if a camera was cutting between sitcom actors.

When I talk with other creative writing professors, we all seem to agree that interiority is disappearing. Even in first-person POV stories, younger writers often skip describing their character’s hopes, dreams, fears, thoughts, memories, or reactions. This trend is hardly limited to young writers though. I was speaking to an editor yesterday who agreed interiority has largely vanished from commercial fiction, and I think you increasingly notice its absence even in works shelved as “literary fiction.” When interiority does appear on the page, it is often brief and redundant with the dialogue and action. All of this is a great shame. Interiority is perhaps the prime example of an advantage prose as a medium holds over other artforms.

fascinated by this article, "Turning Off the TV in Your Mind," about the influences of visual narratives on writing prose narratives. i def notice the two things i excerpted above in fanfic, which i guess makes even more sense as most of the fic i read is for tv and film. i will also be thinking about its discussion of time in prose - i think that's something i often struggle with and i will try to be more conscious of the differences between screen and page next time i'm writing.

[gyuswhore]

Cherry Picker [1]

«« "Do me a favour and forget your mouth guard next time. Let the puck punch you in the mouth if I can't." »» 

Choi Seungcheol x reader | part of the winter with you collab hosted by @camandemstudios!

Part 1: 19k | Part 2

warnings: Hockey player! Seungcheol, figure skater! reader, *deep breath* ENEMIES TO LOVERS, angst, fluff, smut [MINORS DNI], toxic friends, cheol has anger issues, kkuma appearance, @miniseokminnies makes also makes a fluffy appearance, injuries, mentions of blood, smut tags in the next part

synopsis: Cherry Picking [ice hockey]: a manoeuver in which a player, the floater, literally loafs (spends time in idleness) or casually skates behind the opposing team's unsuspecting defencemen while they are in their attacking zone. There wasn't much you counted on in life; just your skates, your drive and how it felt to win. And of course, your local ice rink, that is now being colonised by an obnoxious hockey team in all their big, loud, stinking glory. Neither does it help that one particular red donned specimen forgets to leave his cherry picking on the ice.

[a/n] (it's a long one but PLEASE read) : ITS HERE FINALLY this was an extremely bumpy ride and I wouldn't have finished it without all of my friends who quite literally kept me going. I know I made an update saying this was gonna end up being 20k max but it turns out my yap-itis is for life </33

the posting schedule for this fic is going to be a little less predictable, I will try to get part 2 out asap but I do not currently have a date for you.

big thank you to @highvern for betaing and making me feel better about this fic, @amourcheol for talking me out of meltdowns multiple times and for giving me some really good scene pointers, @ugh-yoongi for being so patient w me and explaining how ice hockey works with so much patience. ty to @the-boy-meets-evil @tusswrites @lovetaroandtaemin for also proof reading for me 🥹

HUGE thank you to everyone at @camandemstudios who agreed to be part of this collab and being part of the journey as we grow 🫶 please check out the collab masterlist linked above, there's already so many amazing fics posted ready for you to read <33

that being said, I know more about figure skating than I do about hockey, but even so there are defo some inconsistencies in terms of accuracies in this, please bear with me 🫶 remember to reblog or send me an ask telling me your thoughts, id love to hear what you guys think 🥹 masterlist

“CAN I HELP YOU?”

“I’m sorry,” you gravel out. 

“Sorry isn’t gonna give back my hour and thirteen minutes.” 

The strap of your gym bag cuts into your bare shoulder where the collar had slipped, the tight threading sure to leave a scratch by the time this is bound to be done. You’d managed to avoid coach Carroll’s morning cornering for a couple months, going above and beyond by showing up to the icy rink before she could even pull up in the parking lot in her blaring red Porsche, let alone before her ten minute meditations in her cream coloured seats. 

“There was an accident on the highway. Truck tipped over.”

“It’s eight in the morning,” Carroll points.

“Illegal truck, I guess.” 

Teeth to tongue, you know you’ve done it. 

She’s in her usual tracksuit, green today, that contrasts her bright red hair in its tight curls. Her glasses are her sensible Ralph Laurens, eyes piercing through the tinted lens as she holds her chin in her hands. Silent, calculating. 

“Fine. Change.” 

Your legs want to give out before you can even get your skates on. 

There were many things Isabella Carroll was good at. The industry would have one of them be a good coach; one of the most expensive, the one that squeezed the life out of her students to inject into the golds, silvers and bronzes they would then bring her on an equally diamond encrusted platter. 

She has also mastered the art of impeccable dressing downs. 

The fact she chose to skip out on verbally humiliating you meant you’d managed to strike that cord. She might be leaving in the next 45 minutes, but she has a very particular way of stretching the minutes into years. 

Like a whipped horse, you scurry into the locker rooms, skin crawling. Your gym bag is positively launched into your designated locker, shoes kicked off as you attempt to stick your right foot into your skates, narrowly missing your heel as it grazes right past the toe pick. 

You slow down after that, not needing a scar on your heel to match the large one on the side of your calf. 

By the time you jog back out, unzipping your jacket to throw onto one of the benches, coach is on the ice, following Marina who zips around on the other end of the rink in her step routine. 

It’s difficult to not rush through your warmups when you’re already late, your splits hardly pushed out as you pray all that running around in the desolate locker rooms was enough to stretch everything out. 

There’s a crash on the illuminated ice as you slip off your skate guards, Marina already practising her Salchows. “You’re in the air for enough time, why can’t you rotate?!” 

Right blade first, you step into the cold encircling, gliding into the centre to begin making your usual rounds around the circumference.

There’s a positive screech of your name from across the ice, wind blowing in your hair as you turn to look. “Do I need to hire someone to hold up your free leg? Fix it, girl!”  

Holding your left leg more taut, you attempt to transition into a jump and spin. You fail, landing on both feet. Somehow, falling on your ass felt like a better conclusion to that arc. 

“Wonderfully executed! Let’s try both hands on the ice too next time, really complete the contemporary finish,” coach hollers out to you as she continues to follow Marina at the same time. 

Trying again, you manage to land on your outer left blade. You receive no comment. 

You try the jump again, pushing into a sit spin. 

The momentum is enough to begin the familiar slack in your scalp, your bun loosening its grip on your hair. Biting your tongue would be dangerous right now, but you would if you could, especially considering the ramifications of your hair coming undone in front of her. 

The crouch as you spin burns your thighs like you’re being branded, pulling yourself back up as you finish abruptly. Still no comment, the unintelligible string of nagging coming from the other side of the rink. 

Marina stands hands on her hips, breathing so heavily she’s nearly heaving. Her blonde hair is loosening far worse than yours, strands framing her face. Coach Carroll waves her hands and shakes her head so quickly you wonder how her glasses haven’t flown off. You didn’t get to see what cardinal sin Marina committed to warrant this reaction, but you feel better knowing she’s exhausted enough to let her insults swim past. 

Ten seconds is enough to catch your breath, moving to do something busy enough to avoid another being screamed at across the ice, again. 

By the end of the remaining forty five minutes, you realised your punishment was also punishing Marina. Coach Carroll remained tailing Marina as you attempted to do everything that would please her, far away from her. Not a direction, praise or neutral comment in sight or sound, sealed with her always expected retorts. 

She leaves without a word, leaving you scrambling to the benches for a seat. Putting your skate guards on is torture, your legs refusing to pull up to reach them. You hardly notice Marina slam down into the seat beside you to mimic you slumped down and head lolled back, eyes closed to the bright ceiling. 

“These skates are gonna kill me,” you whine once you’ve caught your breath, unlacing them to inspect the blistering damage. 

“They’re brand new, what did you expect?” she retorts, moving to sit up straighter. Of course, you were grappling at straws expecting anything akin to sympathy from Marina. 

It was your misfortune that the day you had to break in your skates was the day you’d be late, your heavily bandaged foot still aching as you sit idle. 

Your lungs are still burning when you pull yourself back up, knees buckling the absolute slightest bit as you attempt to take the first baby step back onto the ice. 

“We need to get back to it,” Marina says, and you have half a mind to bite that you were up before her. 

She’s faster at slipping off her skate guards though, and you watch her back as she glides back onto the ice. You follow suit, trailing her as you speak. 

“Hey, I’m sorry Carroll was on your ass because of me. My alarm didn’t go off this morning, I overslept.”

She turns to look at you, ghost of a smile on her face. “Time to go old school I guess, I think my brother left behind his old alarm clock from college.”

“I guess—”

“Besides, I needed that. Wouldn’t have known my Salchows were sucky otherwise.”

She doesn’t let you respond and you’re left to watch as she takes off to warm herself back up. 

Strange as it was, you’ve found her behaviour simply doesn’t affect you anymore, choosing to take her as she was. She pushed you to be better, to work harder. Even now, as your ankle burns and your hip screams, you brace yourself into another axel entry, trying your hardest to keep up with Marina. 

It’s another couple hours when Marina leaves for her second appointment with her personal trainer, leaving you alone. 

It’s less crowded now, despite the head count going from two to one, but you appreciate the alleviation as you continue to practise for the rest of the morning. The rink feels more vast and your hip has stopped its incessant aches. 

Having finished a run through of your routine without music, you move towards the sound booth to turn on the tail end of your track, skating back to the echoing rink to brace yourself for the next four agonising minutes. 

You’ve adjusted your starting position about ten times by the time the silence of the song restarting settles. And then it begins, soft piano as you push yourself off into the throngs of this hellsent routine. 

It’s muscle memory by now, but your stomach lurches before you push into a jump anyway. There isn’t much time to ponder when you’re midair, tight yet contorted, trying to land on the right side of the blade. But there’s a phantom pain in your right ankle, right when you’re at the point of your arc, and you feel the all too dreaded panic flood in. 

You land on both feet, less than ideal but with no one to watch the fail, it was better than falling on your ass. There’s been worse outcomes, so there’s little you can do but continue into the step sequence. 

Trying to shake off that bout of panic, you briefly wonder if the music suddenly had more bass than you’d last checked. Perhaps you just hadn’t been practising like you should, but you make a mental note mid-spin to listen to the track again later tonight for any tidbits you’d missed. 

Your heartbeat is trying to accommodate more air than you can let it, especially as you feel the pulse in your ears quicken as you approach your final jump sequence. The music is louder yet muffled all the same, there’s an incessant banging that you can’t figure out is from your head or a corrupted music file. But you find that sweet spot, deciphering through the ruckus in your brain, and you jump. 

It happens again, the strange ache in your ankle that should be long gone, and just like that, all that panic you shook off in the interim comes hurtling back. The world’s gone silent, blaringly so, and for some heaven known reason, you’ve closed your eyes.

You aren’t so lucky this time round, landing directly on your back with a spectacular crash, the ice cutting cold through your thermals as you slide in the direction of your epic fall. Eyelids opening, they’re met with the spotlighted ceiling, head cushioned by the hard plane of ice beneath you. 

The pain in your ankle’s escaped like a fugitive, done it’s damaged and left you crumpled on the floor. The adrenaline is rushing just enough to keep you from identifying any other awakened aches, but you have a sneaking feeling your hip is going to hate you after this. 

You’re still laying flat on the ice when you realise you're laying in mostly silence. Your music is off, and has been since you came to on the floor. The banging, you realise, wasn’t just in your head either. The unmistakable reverberation of the locker rooms is loud and assuming, noises rattling all the way out onto the echoing rink. 

It takes the strength of a village to pull yourself up, but you do it anyhow, ignoring the blatant protests of your mind and soul as you squint across the rink to the sound booth. 

As you skate towards the gate, you assume it’s Hansol trying to get your attention by disrupting you mid session, but the figure shuffling into view is telling you otherwise. 

It isn’t anyone you know, clearer as you grow closer to the gate. It’s obvious he’s the culprit that turned off your music, your laptop shut and the wire to the speakers disconnected from the port. 

You stare at it pointedly as you grapple for your skate guards. 

The man does nothing but remain with his hands in the pockets of his bright red hoodie, hovering over your laptop as he watches you struggle with your skates. SVT stitched onto the back in black. He’s as blank faced as ever, a stark contrast to your heavy breathing as you come round. 

Standing up straight, you dart between your laptop and this person, waiting for an explanation that seems to be lost in the void. You’re still heaving slightly, scowl forming on your face as this strange man offers you nothing.

“Um, did you—”

“Yeah. It’s four,” he responds, like it was supposed to explain enough. 

“And that means…?”

“We have the rink reserved.”

“But it’s Monday,” you respond. It sounds stupid, but it meant something. The rink was reserved on the weekdays for coach Carroll’s mentees, the weekends for the public. 

This man and his big brown eyes gaze directly into your soul as he responds, “And that means…?” 

You’re sweaty and tired, your feet ache with about five new blisters from the last time you checked, and you’re sure you need to get your hip checked out. Perhaps that’s why there’s this unreasonable surge of irritation that rises in the back of your head, irrational and half blinding. 

“That means—”

“Seungcheol! Get your ass in the locker room before I drag you in there myself.” The voice that rings out is heavy and has you flinching, the man’s order echoing from somewhere in the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms. 

The man you assume is named Seungcheol begins to walk away from you without a word or gesture, and you can only blink at his retreating back. 

“Hey! Do you mind not touching my stuff next time round?” you call out as a last ditch attempt to have the last word. He turns his head to you, eyebrows raised and a smirk of mild disbelief growing on his face. Nothing is said as his head turns back to the front, strutting into the tunnel.

He lets you have your last word as he walks away, your gaze the same shade of crimson as his retreating form. 

“AND THEN—THESE—HUGE dudes with fucking botox or fillers in their shoulders storm out—”

Your vent is interrupted by Lorelai who’s burst out laughing mid bite of her sandwich, “What?”

“Botox!” she muffles a shriek through a full mouth.

“They were shoulder pads or something, you get it!” 

The air in the outside seating of this cafe is stellar, the perfect in between you wait for all year. The parasol above you is enough so you don’t have to squint your eyes in the late afternoon sun, the wind perfectly paced in a breeze. Your own sandwich remains untouched, the bread gone stale as you pick at the corner of the crust. 

“Apologies,” she yips. “So you're saying we’re being partially colonised by hockey players?”

“I don’t know! Was it a one time thing, a weekly thing? It can’t be a weekly thing, Monday afternoons are routine practice days.” 

“The routine you’ve been practising for the past year and a half?” 

“I can’t afford getting rusty.” 

Lorelai drops her head like she’s had enough, “Maybe these hockey jocks are a blessing.”

“What?”

“Nothing! Hey, do you want cake, they have cheesecake, I could get some!” 

“Lorry!”

“Okay,” she huffs, dropping back into her seat with blown cheeks. “I’m sorry.” 

Lorelai has a sense of humour that took you more than enough time to decipher, but that wasn’t nearly the first thing you noticed about her. She was beautiful, even more so with the sun gracing her like a loving embrace. The highlights in her otherwise dark hair make the hazel of her eyes pop like two perfectly welcoming cliffs to jump off from. She was the definition of spunk and valour, yet graceful in everything she does. Even now, as she picks up her smoked turkey on honey oat, complete with every fixing and condiment on earth, you question how she can wrench her mouth open to take a reasonable bite; but she does, not a crumb out of place. 

“I have to share a rink with dudes whose hockey sticks are gonna make craters in the ice, why are you not mourning with me?”

“Pretty sure your toe picks do the same thing.”

“Lorelai!” 

“Not the government name!” she wails as though woefully wounded. 

“You’re impossible.”

“Carroll didn’t hate me for no reason.” She smiles in her pride. 

Lorelai’s competitive skating career came to an end sometime last year before the Grand Prix, a decision she announced gracefully with the words BITE ME etched with sharpie on her brand new competition skates. It was difficult to erase the mental image of the scarlet of Carrol’s face when Lorelai marched in with her hair chopped so short it’d be impossible to pull into a bun, marked skates in hand and a mask of determined rebellion on her face. Of course, the whole ordeal could’ve been an email, but it simply wouldn’t have been Lorelai. 

“It’s not like you were trying very hard to please her,” you grumble, nibbling on a fry. 

“Why would I try pleasing that woman?”

“For one thing, your sponsors were paying a bucketload so you could have her.”

“I didn’t want Carroll as a coach. Ever. I wanted Jameson. The only reason they put me with Carroll was because they were putting you and Marina with her.” Her voice is hard, eyebrows raised the slightest bit. 

“What does Jameson offer that Carroll doesn’t?!”

“Oh! I don’t know, let’s see,” she raises her voice as her sarcasm begins to simmer with a lethal edge. “Maybe the fact that an hour training with Jameson doesn’t feel like the subjected wrath of a world war two dictator!”

“Carroll is not that bad!”

“God, you become more like Marina everyday.”

You frown, “What does that mean?”

“It means—!” Lorelai pauses to close her eyes, and you can almost hear her counting in her head. “It means nothing. Eat your sandwich before the bread starts molding.”

“Ew.”

Lorelai smirks. “Bite me.”

You attempt to channel some of that Lorelai energy when you get to the rink past noon on a weekday. You hope you’re reasonable in your hope that Hansol will be in his office as you walk towards the door. 

Three rapt knocks before you hear a muffled voice telling you to come in. The door creaks when you open it. Loudly, might you add. 

“How long is it gonna sing every time I come in here?” you grimace. 

Hansol looks at you from behind his laptop with a tight smile. “For as long as I keep forgetting to oil the hinges.”

Hansol, for as young and qualified as he is, is only the rink manager because his family owns the place. Having graduated the year before with a shiny new law degree, he opted to take a break from moving forward with his career to “slow down” as he put it. The rink was as slow as it could get for him, betting the only important thing on his laptop screen currently was solitaire. 

“Did you also forget that I have the rink during the day on weekdays? 

“Ah. You’ve encountered the hockey team.”

“Yes. They turned off my music mid routine.”

“They're only here till the renovations in their home rink are done, we’re the only other rink in town that’s closed to the public on weekdays.” 

“But they’re cutting into my practice time?” you add, brows furrowed. 

Hansol opens his mouth before closing it again, eyebrows raised. “You clock in here five days a week, ten hours a day.”

“And?”

Hansol huffs out a breath. “Listen, I know you and the other skaters like having the rink to yourselves, and I’d be happy if it was always just you guys. Trust me, these jocks are impossible to clean up after, let alone deal with. Between the launch pad calibre noise and the stupid plastic barriers I have to put up on the railings, I’d love for it to just be you guys. But the only times you officially have the rinks booked is in the mornings when you’re training with coach Carrol, the rest of the week is technically up for grabs.”

“Let me book the rest of the slots then.”

“SVT’s already booked most of the remaining hours.” Hansol’s voice is sympathetic, but his words seemed final. You aren’t sure how bad your face was contorted, because suddenly he’s adding, “But hey, you can look at the leftover hours if they work for you.”

He pulls out the roster on a tablet before handing it to you. It only takes you a minute to scroll before you realise the only viable options were past 10 PM. The rink closed at 11. 

You sigh, shoulders visibly sagging as you let out a bated breath of tension. “It’s fine.” You hand the tablet back to Hansol. “I’ll figure it out.”

Turning on your heel, you make a move to leave the premises. Hansol calls out your name. 

“I’m sorry. Really.” 

You muster a smile, one that you cannot feel the slightest bit. “It’s alright.”

“Only a few months.”

Something in your smile sours, and you nod absentmindedly. “Only a few months.” 

THERE WERE OTHER WAYS the universe could have let it happen, someplace where you might have forgiven yourself. Someplace you had reason to be. 

You were accustomed to physical exertion, how could you not be when you were what you were, but hiking on an incline was never something you fancied yourself with. Gyms and coaches and paved running trails are nothing like rocky terrains and steep mountain paths with no guide but a mobile map. 

The semi finals had passed you by, handing you a gold medal along the way as you thrust yourself into bliss. It was a job well done, so much so that you allowed yourself a weekend of something other than skating rinks and training sessions. So many nights that you can hardly remember, yet flash like lightning under your eyelids. Where you sobbed into your pillow and cursed yourself for ever having the gall to take a step back, to be so arrogant and blustering to announce yourself away from the thing that should’ve mattered the most. 

It only took one tiny crater in the path to twist your ankle so hard you crumple to the ground with a scream you cannot remember. More hands than you have holding on to your searing ankle, like they were holding it together with nothing but their palms and fingers. Lorelai was talking, and talking and talking, but all you could hear was the roaring question in your mind. 

Why did you bring me here? 

Six weeks. 

You watched with your own eyes as the Grand Prix final shuttered away on a reel, like you were watching a movie from an age you could not visit. 

Six weeks. 

Marina sat beside your bed and said words you’d never forget. 

“I’m sorry, but…this is your own fault.”

Six weeks. 

Lorelai wept, and said the same words for an entirely different reason. 

“I’m sorry. This is my fault, it was my idea.” 

Six weeks. 

Carroll kept face, but you could see past the mask. A sigh that said more than any words of reassurance. Disappointed but not surprised. 

Six weeks you were bedridden with an ankle that refused to support your weight on the surface area of your bare foot, let alone on the 3/16th of an inch on a blade. 

Bedrest, meds, physical therapy, and still. The ache in your ankle follows you like a ghost haunting you of your worst mistake. 

It was your fault. You chose to put whimsy above everything you laboured for, for years and years. You chose to look past your shortcomings like they would not become your achilles heel. You chose to get on that trail. You chose to walk out on crutches.

You, who could land a jump on a fraction of an inch of steel, could now barely stand on her own two feet. 

You’d decided on that day, that you were as pathetic as they come.

IT WAS THE MOST natural decision to drag Lorelai out of where she rotted in bed to come with you to the rink. 

“You want me to fight them?” She’s wearing her Winnie the Pooh fuzzy pyjama pants and a university hoodie on top, her short hair concealed in the hood she’s pulled up. “They are hockey players. We are twigs!” 

“Lorry. Have you ever thrown a punch in your life?” you ask her as you pull your hair back into a loose bind. 

“No?” 

“Then why on earth would I ask you to fight goblins triple our size?” 

Her mouth is gaping in disbelief. “Why am I here then?” 

“You,” you start, grabbing your skates and moving out of the locker rooms. “Are gonna sit pretty in that sound booth and make sure nobody touches my laptop.”

“…you realise Hansol has security cameras right?”

“Are you planning on robbing my laptop?”

“No. Although it does have nice specs.” 

You ignore her as you walk towards the benches. “That stupid hockey team needs to know I have reinforcements of my own.”

Lorelai stands there, brows furrowed and in clothes that drown her. She glances down at her outfit and then back up at you. She deadpans, “This is the most unthreatening I have ever looked.”

“Just—” You stand up too quickly and feel yourself wobble. The railing is hardly a foot away, your hand moving over to grab it. Except your palms feel nothing but the flat of something smooth and hard, fingers bumping into the feeling of something unfamiliar. 

You manage to find your balance with a yelp, immediately snapping up to see where you missed the railing. The railing was still there, perfectly within arms reach. There’s a glare in your vision, like looking through a screen. Higher and higher, you realise quickly that you’ve been looking through a clear barrier so high up you can hardly find where it ends in its erect standing. 

Lorelai speaks up first, her voice resonating loudly, “Isn’t that supposed to be on the other side of the railing. Stupid, stupid Hansol.” 

It looks like it stretches throughout the circumference of the rink, wrapping whoever’s inside in a giant plastic fish bowl. 

There’s a clench in your jaw you can’t control, something a little more than annoyance building in your senses. It should be an easy thing to ignore, especially regarding its practically invisible nature, but its presence is all you can think about, even as you step your right blade onto the ice. 

Skating towards the middle of the rink, you feel claustrophobic. 

“Woah! You look like a zoo animal,” Lorealai adds unnecessarily. 

“Just play the track,” you grumble. 

“There should be a don’t tap on the glass sign,” she says, voice muffled as yells from the benches. “You already look like a weasel, can’t have confused people in the stands.” 

“Lorry!” 

“What?” she yells, her voice muffled as she yells from the benches. 

You curse the plastic that cages you as you yell louder, “Play the track!” 

Lorelai nods and makes a noise of understanding, and you watch her as she disappears into the sound booth. 

Taking your starting position, you wait for the quiet lull of the track before the beginning of the unmistakable piano; the low tremor in the beginning existing to prepare you to jump into the routine. You stand there with your arms out like a swan, waiting for your cue that won't seem to arrive. 

You almost yell out at Lorelai again before you suddenly hear the resonating shrill of the piano notes, startling yourself out of your first push. It’s fine, you’ll recover. You’re distracted by your staggered start and it’s enough to have you miss your first jump. It’s fine. You’ll recover. 

By the time the four minutes are up, you’ve missed two of your five jumps, a spin gone wrong, and nearly crashed into the plastic barrier. Not to mention, the aches in your body are enough to seem impossible to geographically pinpoint. 

It’s pointed, the way you make a beeline for the benches, refusing to look at Lorelai. You can almost imagine her expression, the poker face she has when she’s trying to think of ways to structure her next words nicely. 

“What was that?” she deadpans, voice a little far away. Your body hurts enough to take your focus away from her. 

“I don’t know.” 

“I thought your ankle was fine now?” she asks. 

You grit your teeth. “It is.” Lies. The way it was hurting you right now was making sure to remind you of that. 

“You know, you did pick back up a lot earlier than we thought—”

“I said I’m fine, Lorry,” you snap. “Now can you please play the track again.” 

You finally look up, and she looks like she wants to say something. But you’re on the ice before she can. 

You adapt to the excess muffle of the plastic barriers, ears straining to hear the beginning of the piano before you jump into the choreography smoother than last time. This time round, it’s better. The pain in your ankle and the budding one in your hip is apparent, but it’s suddenly easier to drown it out. Focusing on the music, keeping your centre of gravity, pushing into your jumps and spins with enough vigour to hold to what you are. 

Another four minutes pass and it’s over. Immediately, you swing over to the soundbooth to find Lorelai, only to find her joined by an extra set of people.

Impossibly, your blood runs cold. 

There’s a sneaking suspicion you know who it is despite the two men having their backs turned to you, especially judging by the obnoxious red jackets they have on. SVT. You can hear Lorelai speak indecipherably, her voice stern. 

“And you are?” one of them asks. You don’t recognise him, but you do the other one. The one who turned your music off the first day him and his team stepped foot in here. 

“Lorelai!” she yells it for no reason. 

“Gilmore?” The one you recognise snorts. Seungcheol, that’s what they called him the last time you saw him in the sound booth. 

“I’m worse,” she states. 

“Lorry?” you interrupt, arms crossed and gaze directed at her. 

“Lorry?” The one you don’t recognise says. “Like a truck?” 

“You think you’re funny?” Lorelai takes a step towards him, a fair attempt to look threatening if it weren’t for her very unthreatening attire. 

“Oh look at her pyjamas! It’s Pooh bear, Cheol,” he exclaims. That seems to irritate him. 

“Can you replay the track, please, I have to smooth things over,” you intervene. In your mind, ignoring their presence in your space was the best solution, refusing to give them a way to merge into your lane. 

“Woah, we have the rink booked today,” Seungcheol stops you. “4:30.”

Snapping around to find the clock on the adjacent wall, you read the time. “4:17. You can wait.”

He raises his eyebrows. “And thirteen minutes makes what difference?”

“You said 4:30. It is not 4:30 yet.”

The other one thumps him on the back, all smiles. “We can wait, right, Cheol? Besides, we have to put our skates on.” 

His gaze is hard and doesn’t leave yours. “Fine.” 

You break away first to find Lorelai still in the same position, staring at the exchange. You ignore the two men that stand there and address her, “Play the track.”

Before the music begins, you glance back to the benches where the two men have seated themselves, apparently strapping in to watch you. You dig your nails into your palm to reign yourself back in. No point in getting upset. 

The piano begins, and you're determined to not mess up. Especially not right now. 

It goes well for all of 45 seconds, you're hitting the right beats, you feel like water. But then the first jump comes along and you see a flash of red from the stands. An irrational feeling hits you as you push into the first jump, it’s enough to make you stumble when you land. You manage to not fall, but it’s obvious you’ve messed up. 

Somewhere beyond the music you hear a distinct, “Solid 4!”

It distracts you again, and you miss a move. Somehow your second jump ends up worse, and you feel your bottom hit the hard ice. 

“8 point 5! Nice!”

It doesn’t take long for you to realise what they’re doing, anger crashing into you like a flash flood. Scoring your falls? You’re determined to make the next jump combination. You make it fine, but your quad Salchow turns into a triple. The oafs are too shallow to notice, so you hear no jeer. 

But you know that you messed up the only quad in your entire program. 

The last jump goes from a triple axel to a double, and you want to break something. 

The song ends, and you know you have another nine minutes left to yourself, but all you can think about is getting out of the vicinity as soon as possible. Away from all of the eyes that are trained on your hunched form. 

There’s nothing you know about Seungcheol, and yet, the thought of him even looking at you right now is unbearable. Twice you fell, countless times you failed. 

Lorelai says nothing while you pack up, and nothing as you leave the rink. 

“CHOI SEUNGCHEOL, CENTER,” LORELAI reads aloud from your bed with her mouth still full of salt ‘n vinegar chips. 

“Perfect, he already thinks he’s the center of the universe,” you grumble from your position on the floor of the bedroom. Your foam roller feels like heaven under your calves, but the position is beginning to cramp. 

“Surprised you haven’t heard of him, he’s half a celebrity.” 

You turn to her, “I have two gold medals and five podiums for every major skating event.”

“Do I ask for your autograph?”

“He’s not special.”

“Hm. His skill and popularity would beg to differ.”

“Why are you so hellbent on liking him?” 

“Because he’s cute,” she grins wide. “Although the other one was cuter, very angel-like. And he liked my Pooh Bear trousers. Can’t find his name on the team roster though.”

“He was wearing the same stupid jacket—”

You’re cut off by a gasp, a loud one at that. “He coaches the babies!” 

Her face is contorted into something between an “aw” and a sob. 

Lorelai’s phone is dropped dramatically on the bed as she thrashes on your made (now unmade) bed. You swipe the phone and read. His picture is there, the name Yoon Jeonghan, Junior League Coach.

“Good for him.”

“He just got five times hotter,” she states like she’s out of breath. 

“Give it another meeting and he’ll give you five other reasons to hate him.”

“God, you’re so negative,” she huffs. 

“They’re hogging my rink!”

“It is not your rink.”

“It’s as good as!”

“Whatever.” Lorelai rolls her eyes and sets back on the bed, no doubt searching the man up by name. 

“Ow!” you yelp as you stand up from the ground, ankle twisting slightly in the process. 

Lorelai jumps. “What?”

“Nothing,” you mumble quickly, hoping she’d drop it. But she catches your lingering stare on your bad ankle. 

“It’s still hurting, isn’t it?”

“I just twisted it weird,” you defend, walking to pack up your foam rollers. 

You’re met with silence, but you know she’s thinking. Lorelai speaks, “Maybe you should skip out on the shelter today.”

You snort, “Why would I do that?”

Once, sometimes twice a week, you’d volunteer at the local pet shelter. It wasn’t hard work, mostly taking the bigger, more energetic dogs for their runs because it seemed you were the only one who could keep up with their stamina. And now Lorelai is trying to take that away from you. 

“I saw how you struggled at the rink today, there’s not a day you don’t rest. Like, actually rest.”

“That has nothing to do with me struggling!” you retort. 

“What is it then?” she asks, sitting up straighter, defiance in her gaze. “What is it that’s making you skate like you bought your first pair yesterday?”

The irritation is growing into something hotter, her defiance pushing you into a corner. 

“I know what you want to hear from me.” Your voice is shaky. “I’m not going to say it.”

“Because it’s not true? Or because you’ve been convinced it’s not?” 

You know what she’s talking about, and you know you’ve been avoiding the topic like it’s the plague. The ache in your ankle comes alive, and in that moment, you cannot tell if you’re imagining it or not. 

“Convinced by who?” you snap, shoving the box of foam rollers under your desk. 

“Does that have to come from me too?” 

“Lorry, I don’t know what you want from me!” 

“I—”

There’s a knock on your door, loud and demanding. Wrenching it open, you find Marina behind it. 

She has a frown on her face. “You’re still here? I thought you were running with the dogs today?”

“It’s none of your business if she goes or not, Marina.” Lorelai’s tongue drips with venom most commonly reserved for her most hated people. 

Marina, still in her workout clothes and duffel bag, furrows her eyebrows. “Who shoved a pole up your ass?” 

“I’m leaving in five,” you hiss, before making a motion to close the door. 

When you turn around, Lorelai is still on your bed, hands in fists like she’s holding herself back. There’s more behind her eyes than you could even consider unravelling. 

She leaves before you. 

THE ENTIRE WAY TO the rink was just one constant string of prayer. 

All of them go unanswered when you walk in to find the rink full of hockey players in red and black gear. 

The only thing you can do is curse under your breath, only watching frozen in your tracks as a million players skate across the rink passing and yelling at each other. No one you recognise, their helmets and gear eluding any semblance of individuality. 

Where you stand, a little ways away from the plastic screen and the benches, a dark circular puck suddenly slams directly into the boundary at eye level. On instinct, you flinch at the loud bang, half expecting to get hit. 

When you open your eyes, somebody’s skating up to the boundary, and you lock eyes through the cage of his helmet. 

Your blood is suddenly charged with something electric, fingers curling into fists on instinct. 

Suddenly, all that rings in your ears is the distinct jeers of numbers over the muffle of plastic as you continue to fall, and fall, and fall on the cold, unforgiving ice. The amusement in your failure, the joy in your defeat. 

Spinning on your heel, you stalk to Hansol’s office. 

In your blinding anger, you take a wrong turn, looking up to realise you’ve walked into the locker rooms. You’re one step into the men's locker room when you come back to your senses, startling yourself once again as you spin back from where you came, only you’ve been caught. 

For all the luck you’ve received in this life, it seems to opt out at that exact moment as you hear the unmistakable noise of a herd of ogres walking in, the glare of red on the walls surrounding them. Frozen in your spot, you can only grip the straps of your duffel bag harder, tense up like you were preparing for impact. When they turn the corner, the brilliant idea of simply walking towards the women’s locker rooms befalls you. But it’s too late. 

Seungcheol saunters into the hallway, leading the pack. 

His helmet is in his hands instead of on his head, revealing a sopping mop of hair drenched in what you can only imagine is sweat. He’s laughing at his teammate who’s making futile attempts to escape his own helmet, not noticing you in the way. 

Until he does. His smile fades immediately, eyebrows raised as he registers you in the doorway. You feel his gaze on you for a few silent moments, his teammates shushing at the shift in the air. Seungcheol opens his mouth, and you already know all that’s going to leave it is dung. “Didn’t realise the rink had a vacancy. Do I need to show you my ID to take a shower?”

A rustle of chortles and chuckles flitter from the group. “Go ahead. I don’t need an ID to tell you need a shower.”

Somebody ooh’s, despite it not being your best work. You suppose it was your delivery that did it. Deciding to continue riding that high, you simply turn towards the women’s locker rooms, refusing to give Seungcheol the luxury of your eyes on him.

Hurtling into the women’s locker room, you throw your duffel bag somewhere you’ll regret and crumple into one of the seats. You count to ten, attempting to take the image of Seungcheol out of your brain. 

It was difficult to rile you up to this extent, a trait you needed to possess if you were to be coached by Carroll in any capacity. There was so much you heard from her mouth, swallowing it like a prescribed pill and nothing more. Take what you were given, because it was given by the best, bought for you by the best.

Yet for some reason, Seungcheol manages to irk you in ways you previously have never encountered. Irritating people come and go, but you doubt you could place him as something as simple as just irritating. His presence felt like an intrusion, his air was thick like a concentrated gas. Everything he’s said to you so far has come from nothing but disdain and condescension, his haughty personality the only takeaway when he enters a room. 

You’re still in your outdoor shoes and jacket by the time twenty minutes are over, coming to a conclusion as you get up from the empty, soulless locker room. Hansol is in his office when you make the formality knock before barging in. His head is on the desk, like he’s asleep. It takes him a second, by he lifts his forehead from the papers on the tabletop to regard you at the door. You hear him sigh. 

“The hockey team’s done. It’s two.”

“I wanna book a slot.”

“The rink’s empty you don’t—”

“Let me book the slot, Hansol.”

“For fuck’s sake, you’re turning out worse than those baboons,” he curses before setting his forehead back onto the table. “Write it on the sticky note, I’ll put it in the schedule.”

“Now. I wanna book a slot for right now,” you grit. 

Hansol whips his head up again, eyes wide like he’s holding himself back, nodding furiously as he pulls his keyboard towards himself with an unnecessarily aggressive tug. “Fine. 2:16 till closing. Enter. Print. Here.”

He hands you the printed receipt of your slot, ripping it from the printer tray as he does it. You take it from him in the same vigour, hardly a thank you as you spin on your heels and walk out the door. You stop for a minute, turning back around to yell into the office. 

“Go home if you’re just gonna nap on your desk!” 

Not waiting for a response, you stalk towards the locker rooms. Within minutes you’ve tugged on your skates, laptop and shoes in each hand as you emerge out the tunnel to the rink. 

The ice is empty, mostly. Placing your laptop in the sound booth and your shoes under the benches, you step foot on the ice. They’re there, on the other end, sitting on the cold ice with their jerseys still on, eating what looks like cups of dippin dots. 

Seungcheol and Jeonghan, you remember from Lorelai’s squealing, either don’t notice you on the ice, or simply choose not to. Because it’s easy as you skate up to them, gaining speed from across the rink, you slide to a stop, sending a perfect spray of ice from your skates, directly into their ice cream cups. 

Seungcheol’s full spoon hangs mid air, halfway to his mouth, now garnished with ice shavings. 

“Thought you’d have the respect to keep the dippin dots out of this,” Jeonghan comments, disbelief in his eyes as he looks up at you. 

“Ice is booked.” 

“What time?” Seungcheol asks. Your gaze flickers to the left side of his face, a nasty bruise blooming purple and blue that you hadn’t noticed before. 

“2:16. It’s nearly fifteen minutes past.”

“You’re only one person.” He’s significantly more annoyed than when you saw him outside the locker rooms just minutes ago. 

“And?”

“And…you have about 97% of the rink to yourself.”

You raise your brows, hands on your hips. “But I booked 100% of it. So I’m gonna need that plane of ice you’re currently sitting on.” 

“What if I don’t move?” Seungcheol presses. It’s menacing, the way he looks at you, like he’s a lion only waiting to be provoked. Maybe he’s already halfway there, because it sure looks like it. 

“We’ll find out another day,” Jeonghan sings before you can snap back, grabbing onto the collar of Seungcheol’s red and white jersey to yank him up. He continues to glare as he obliges with his friend’s tugs, nearly as angry as you are. “Let’s go, sport.”

You watch as they walk to the exit of the ice, realising they’re wearing their shoes instead of their skates. 

Jeonghan calls from the benches, right before he and Seungcheol move out of view. “Trash those for us, would you?” 

Their half eaten dippin dots cups, with the ice now melting on them remains on the floor of the rink. Once again, the unexplainable urge to kick something befalls you, hearing them laugh and talk from far away as they exit the rink behind their long gone teammates. 

You give in, swinging a leg over to kick the cups and spoons, dippin dots and plastic scattering across the ice. It’s another sprawl of mess you’ll have to clean up, but it feels good to ruin something of his, no matter how inconsequential. The empty rink encourages you, needing to scream so loud the plastic barriers crack and break. You know it’s impossible, but that doesn’t stop the urge. 

You channel it into the most aggressive warmups on ice you’ve ever done. Your spins are faster, your jumps higher. But this also means you crash heavier, fall harder. It’s then, sitting on the bench to take a break, breathing so heavy you can hardly sip your water, you find an unmistakable headline on your browser home page. 

Everything stops. 

!HOT TOPIC! 

SEAT AT RISK FOR SVT HOCKEY TEAM’S SHINING STAR? Read All About It Here! 

!HOT TOPIC! 

SEAT AT RISK FOR SVT HOCKEY TEAM’S SHINING STAR? Read All About It Here! 

Choi Seungcheol’s seat for next season at risk? Insider reports that the hot headed center may be at risk of contract termination due to recent controversy. The hockey player, renowned for his aggressive playing tendencies, seems to be taking his temperament outside of the rink. Multiple games played by SVT have been subject to eventful halves and quarters, the center seen getting violent in the benches with opposing team members, and sometimes even team members of his own! While his short temper has always been a recurring subject in the news, his skills as a player have always remained top notch—we do wonder if he even has to try! The tables seem to turn a little differently this time around, because it looks that SVT higher ups have been fed up with the increasing reports of Choi’s aggressive behaviour. Insider sources report that talks of a contract termination may be coming into order. While he has proven to be an effective player on the ice, it seems as though it won’t be saving him from this particular ramification! 

Stay tuned, hockey fanatics, as we bring you more updates on Choi’s sticky situation! 

BEFORE EVERYTHING, BEFORE YOUR ankle, before it began to feel like your world was crumbling at your feet, came the scar on your leg. 

In hindsight, it feels like it was the very thing that set the ball rolling, the beginning of your demise. 

Coach Carroll was only on her first handful of sessions with you, Lorelai and Marina, all of you still learning her quirks and expectations as a coach. 

It happened when you were on the sidelines, hanging over the boundary as Lorelai handed you a water bottle from the benches. Marina was practicing her routine, taking up most of the ice as Coach followed on the side. It seemed unclear, to this day, whether you’d drifted inwards on the ice as you sipped from the bottle, unaware. But when you felt the hot searing pain in your calf, there were only two people on the scene. 

Marina skated past, her free leg in the air, meeting your calf as she skated past, effectively slicing into your leg in a deep gash. Blood was wiped off the ice, your leg bandaged and wrapped. Not without Coach and her comments, of course. 

You heard her berate Marina from the other room, for moving closer to the boundary than what was required for her routine, heard the way she gave her the blame. And then she round up on you. 

“Idiot! No reason to be on the ice when you aren’t practicing, did you want it to be your ankles too?!” 

It was the first time you realised that Carroll was beyond your perception of the word demanding, her gaze remained in a high place, no regard for what it took to get there. Even if it meant destroying her skaters. 

Marina apologised. “I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t see you there, I would’ve dropped my leg—”

“It’s okay, Marina. Really,” you smiled through the still aching wound. “I know you didn’t mean it.”

She smiled a little too, “Lesson learned, I guess. Don’t loiter on the ice.” 

It was difficult to keep the smile from fading as you heard her say that.

“What shit apology is that?!” Lorelai yelled as soon as you mentioned it to her later. You cringe as you realise what slipped, and to whom it slipped to. 

“It’s the best I’m gonna get from her, Lorry. Honestly, I don’t care.”

“You’re out of service for a week till that slice heals and that’s all she has to give you?” 

Lorelai is breathing heavily, mostly because she’s been practicing her triple axels for her routine, but also because she’s extensively heated for you. You watch her from the benches. 

“Lorry,” you sigh. 

“Listen, I wanna win too but—”

“Are you trying to say she did it on purpose?” you ask. 

“No! Let me finish, woman,” she snaps. “I wanna win, you wanna win. We’re doing everything we can because we want to win—”

“So this was a subconscious attack?” you interject. 

“Fuck this, I’m leaving,” Lorelai begins to skate backwards and away, leaving you on the bench. 

“NO! Wait, okay, I’m sorry I won’t interrupt.”

“Too late.”

“Lorry! Lorelai!”

It wasn’t until you were back in your shared apartment, Marina out doing whatever while Lorelai hijacked your bed that she got to finish her sentence. She was rubbing ointment on a bruise while you changed the  bandage on your calf. 

“Her need to win is ruining her. And it’s like she’s taking us down with her. I know she doesn’t mean it like that, doesn’t want to hurt us. But she thinks this kind of hurt is good, if it’s the kind of hurt that pushes you to win.”

You cringed at the sight of the wound, still red and ugly. 

“She might not have meant to hurt your leg, but—don’t loiter on the ice? Really?”

“She only meant it as a reminder.”

“Exactly! You don’t need that reminder because I think you’ve learned better than anyone else to not stay on the rink when someone is practising. A couple weeks ago she made some stupid comment because I left the gym early. Nothing inherently rude, she’s never actually rude. But it was pointed anyway. I’ve been up since six in the morning I think I deserve slacking off a little, it was nearly midnight for fuck’s sake!” 

Cleaning the wound was taking everything you had, the need to hiss at the contact of the wet cloth was near abominable. 

“Her…her perception’s a little warped. But her heart’s in the right place!”

Lorelai had rolled her eyes, screwing the cap of her ointment tube back on with unnecessary force. “I never said it wasn’t, just—stop defending her! I’m sorry but half the reason she continues to act like this is because you listen to her.”

At that moment, you felt a little offended. Of course, Marina had her moments where she’d say something a little less than healthy, especially coming from a friend. But you’d always thought you handled it better than most. 

You met Marina when you were still only splotchy faced preteens, during a competition where she came second and you came third. She’d been skating for longer, so it was expected, but you also couldn’t conceal your surprise when you’d found the state of her later on. You were ecstatic simply because you managed to make it to the podium, but it seemed Marina’s tears held another thought process for her. 

You found her crying in the locker rooms later on, her coach who looked like she…should’ve been comforting her, but it was more like a stern talking to, to suck it up and work harder next time round. 

When you tried to help her, out came words you felt oh so strange coming from a stranger. “What do you know? You came third!”

It hurt. Possibly the first genuine stab of the feeling you’d ever felt. In the following weeks, when Marina apologised and you’d begun to build a friendship, you felt something peculiar. Practice sessions on the ice became harder, your two hour sessions were suddenly extending to four, sometimes five hours a day. All of it, your own doing. 

It was subconscious when it was happening, the silent tug of You came third! What you first considered an achievement became an intermediate step. 

If there was anywhere that you’d pinpoint the shift, from when figure skating went from fun to a responsibility, you’d pick that exact moment. When someone congratulated you later on, it wasn’t a big smile and a thank you.

“I only came third.”

Your calf healed and all that was left was a scar, but there in the discolouration of your skin, also lay a realisation. 

SEUNGCHEOL HOSTS ABSOLUTELY ZERO thoughts in his mind as he shoves the collar of his hoodie over his head. Slamming the door shut on the rest of his red SVT paraphernalia, he makes quick work of his hair, shoes on and out the door within the minute. Jeonghan is still fast asleep when he leaves, mouth open and drooling onto his pillow when Seungcheol walks into his room to let him know he’s leaving. 

Jeonghan might tag along to practice for the fun of it despite leaving his competitive hockey career behind him, but his distaste for 6 AM practice remains forever unchanged. He’d see him later though, on the rink lingering once the sun is higher in the sky and Jeonghan deems it less of a sin to be awake. 

Seungcheol leaves without a response from his friend. 

By the time he gets to the rink, most of the team has already geared up. The locker room is splotched with red, moving towards the back of the room to get to his own locker. They weren’t assigned, but he liked to have his claim. He had one in the old rink, the one locker everyone knew was his. And now he has one here, despite the temporary nature of the ordeal. The rest of the boys know to steer clear, as does he for the others who have their lucky spots. 

Mingyu bumps into his shoulder when Seungcheol is looking down, immediately whipping around to bow a full ninety degrees. He’s laughing as he apologises, not really sorry, but Seungcheol is too exhausted to humour him too much. 

He’d been up playing games all night, under the covers in the dark, his phone brightness up too high and his eyes too wide open. He could feel the regret when his alarm blared while it was still dark outside, his eyelids stuck together, refusing to open. It cost him fifteen minutes of warming up, but he’d make it somehow. 

Seungcheol can hear coach Mason’s booming voice from outside, moving closer and closer to hustle the rest of the boys out onto the rink. He shoves his foot into his skates, making sure all that’s left is to lace them up. 

“Look alive, boys! I want you on the ice within the minute,” he booms into the locker room. 

Seungcheol doesn’t look up. When he gets up to leave the locker rooms, his hockey stick and helmet in hand, he’s the last straggling few to leave. Chan earns himself a hard thump on the back from Coach as he scurries out. 

There’s a hand on Seungcheol’s chest as he’s about to exit, Coach stopping him from leaving. 

He looks up, expecting a hard look from Mason, ready to hear a mildly violent threat about being late to call time again. Except Seungcheol finds him with his own gaze on the floor. 

“Rink manager said I could use his office. We should talk there.”

Seungcheol could’ve said he knows what this was going to be about. The game last weekend had less than ideal results, not because they didn’t win, but more so because of the WWE level brawl that went down in the benches during one of the intermissions. 

He tenses, but it was more like he was squaring up. His shoulders are hard, his grip on his hockey stick tighter. Of course, he wasn’t about to swing at his coach, but one could say it was simply a subconscious response. 

The entire walk to the office, Seungcheol thinks of new ways Coach could address his issue. But the gist was always simple. 

Choi, stop fucking fighting. 

He’d usually just rip Seungcheol a new one in front of the boys, berate him and verbally throttle him in the hopes that he’d keep his anger under check. But as they turn towards the door to the office, Seungcheol has to remind himself that this was a first. Being led aside, like he was being led into some formal meeting. 

A plea deal, perhaps?

Choi, what is it going to take?

The office is barren, hardly looks like it’s used with how sparse the equipment is. The amount of dark brown gives it enough warmth to not make it look like some sick form of solitary confinement. That doesn't stop Seungcheol from feeling a hint of pity for whoever has to work here. There’s no nameplate. 

Coach doesn’t take a seat, opting to lean against the table in front of him instead. His arms are folded, and he’s not looking him in the eye. A crawl of suspicion creeps up Seungcheol’s neck, as though in an attempt to ambush him. 

It’s silent in the room as he waits for Coach to speak, refusing to be the one to break it. 

When he does speak, it’s not in his usual Coach voice. Without the built in bass and tremors he was born with. 

“There’s no easy way to break this,” he starts, eyes drifting up to somewhere on the barren walls. “But I’m gonna try my darndest.”

Finally, he feels Coach’s gaze lock with Seungcheol’s expecting pair. 

“They wanna drop you.”

“What?”

Coach squeezes his eyes shut, like he’s recalibrating. “Your contract is up by the end of the season. And the tie wearers and the shoe shiners don't wanna re-sign you.”

Seungcheol’s eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean don’t wanna re-sign me, on what grounds?!”

“You’re temperament—”

“I’ve scored at least two goals for every game you’ve put me in, I’m your most consistent player!”

“They have no qualms with you when you’re on the ice.”

Seungcheol knows where this is going. He knows what knocked up alley this is turning to and he hates it. “Which is all that should matter.”

“In most cases.”

“Is this about last weekend? You didn’t hear him, he deserved more than a broken fucking nose—”

“I didn’t need to hear him, because I know. I know he’s a jackass, I know they’re all jackasses! They know that too. You need to learn to let things go, let them chirp—”

“He was coming on to my mother!” Seungcheol bellows, now properly angry. He remembers the guy’s name, Jason or something. 

“His coach came onto my entire bloodline when we were young, this is Kim’s strategy! You’re playing right into their hands like a dog! For fuck’s sake, Choi! Punching someone in the chiclets isn’t always the answer!” Coach Mason is shaking his hands in front of him like some violent prayer. 

Seungcheol drops his hockey stick and helmet, mouth open as he huffs and puffs. He wants to pace, wants to point his fingers at Coach and make a few threats of his own. 

“Just—”

Seungcheol rounds up on him. “Seungkwan punched a guy in the mouth. Wonwoo kicked one in the balls.”

“Seungcheol. This is becoming nearly. Every. Single. Game. Not the occasional tousle we can pull people out of. You can’t keep sending people to the hospital, it’s a wonder nobody's pressed charges yet!”

“So that’s it? I’m being punished because some dick runs his mouth?” 

“This is about you, Seungcheol. You need to get a fucking grip. You’ve started picking at your own teammates, shoving Mingyu around—seriously?”

Seungcheol’s mouth opens but nothing leaves it. He ends up gaping like a fish. 

For all that it was worth, for everything he’d been through, Seungcheol always assumed his seat was safe. Always assumed he’d have the position he does. Because he showed results, won them nearly every game and put up a damn good fight in the ones they didn’t. 

Seungcheol knew he was an asset, but not for one minute, stop to realise that this was all

conditional. 

For everything he did for this team, for every fiber of his being he poured into its chalice, they were spitting it all right back into his face. Chewed and warped and rid of anything worth salvaging. 

The red in his chest, back, stomach, spelling out the unmistakable letters of his team. The red in his helmet that rests beside the red in his hockey stick. 

“Listen, as much of a pain in the ass you are, you’re good fucking player. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters. But it’s not up to me, so we need to work around that. They’re worried about the repercussions of your behaviour. And you are gonna make sure you keep yourself in check.” 

Coach walks closer, finger digging into Seungcheol’s chest through his jersey. “I want no more fights, no more kicking and punching and swearing no matter how much that motherfucker deserves it, I don’t care. Do whatever it takes. God knows I’ll never forgive you if you make me agree to those prissy hands in suits.”

Coach left Seungcheol in the barren office, stepping over his stick and helmet as he exited the room, leaving him alone. His fingers flex under his gloves, like he’s trying to remind himself to stay in the moment. His exhales are stronger than his inhales, his vision blurring as the desk turns into two, and then disappears for a second. 

He can hear the distinct sound of the puck slamming into hockey sticks. Practice had started. By the time Seungcheol walks out, he’s the last person to go through the mandatory drills. 

The rink is mostly empty as the team gears up for a practice match, leaving Seungcheol enough reign to slam into every puck like he had some personal vendetta against every last one. It’s one after the other, sent directly into the open net, waiting. 

Practice goes fine, as good as it could go with the scrambled eggs that had become of Seungcheol’s mental state. He found himself whipping his head around to Jun when he fumbled an assist, face scrunched under his helmet as he prepared to send him to hell in a handbasket. 

He sees Jun physically tense up in defense, and the insult (for once) dies on Seungcheol’s tongue. 

“Just—keep up, alright,” he says instead. His tone is empty, and on a downward slope. 

If anyone finds it odd, they don’t say. 

It’s a couple more hours of passes, assists and hollers across the ice, regrouping the teams every so often to keep the rotation consistent. 

Over here, everyone is in red, everyone is on his side. The bleachers are empty, devoid of spectators to watch him lose his cool on anything. But he thinks of the way Jun recoiled, like he was preparing for the worst of his teammate’s words. He and Jun are friends. 

Somewhere amidst his thoughts, the puck flies directly into Seungcheol’s face, banging into the cage of his helmet with a noise that resonates across the rink. He’s startled enough to skate back a little, not before hearing another resounding thwack! from next to him. The puck rebounded from his helmet and hit the plastic barrier with a noise that had everyone looking over. 

Skating up to where the puck fell back onto the ice, he looks up to where it hit the barrier. 

Through the plastic he sees…you. You're staring at the same spot he is, where there’s a slight mark from the force of the rubber. 

And then your eyes drift up, locking with his own. 

Like every other person he’s around, he watches you tense up. But it’s laced with something more than just bracing for impact. 

It’s apprehension, your form turbulent and agitated. It’s all he can see when you spin on your heels and walk away in the opposite direction from him. 

The all too familiar irritation sparks in the back of Seungcheol’s mind, as it does when you’re around. All he does is slam his stick into the ice with force, pushing the puck back into the middle of the rink. 

They’re nearly done by that point, and he finds that Jeonghan has graced himself in the benches. He’s wearing his old jersey, likely because he doesn’t want Coach to notice him and accuse him of distracting his players. 

Jeonghan would’ve gotten away with it anyway. 

Seungcheol tells him to wait up, walking towards the locker room with the rest of the rest of the team to wash up. He finds some reprieve in Seungkwan’s attempts at fumbling with his helmet, letting out a laugh as he fights with it. Looking up as they take the turn towards the locker rooms as a group, he somehow finds himself in your presence, again. 

It’s the same thing, like you’ve been connected to a faulty circuit and you’re trying not to show it. You look like you want to say something but all Seungcheol can do is send a snarky remark of his own. 

Even as you walk away after the ordeal, he feels anything but settled. 

It’s like the world has it out for him, because as he opts to stalk back to where Jeonghan was, forgoing a shower, there’s only another calamity waiting for him. 

Jeonghan is in the rink, sitting on the ice with two cups of what looks like dippin dots. He looks up when he hears his treads on the ice, having taken his skates off already. Seungcheol crumples to the ground and on the ice next to his friend. 

The first words he utters are the only ones that’ve been on his mind all day. “They want to drop me.”

Jeonghan only grimaces in response, only running his hands through his hair as he sighs loudly. “I know. I heard.”

Seungcheol perks up, head lifting from the ice. “...How?”

That’s how Seungcheol has Jeonghan’s phone so close to his face he’s hardly an inch away from the screen. He reads and reads and reads. And his blood boils and boils and boils. 

!HOT TOPIC! 

SEAT AT RISK FOR SVT HOCKEY TEAM’S SHINING STAR? Read All About It Here! 

Choi Seungcheol’s seat for next season at risk? Insider reports that the hot headed centre may be at risk of contract termination due to recent controversy. The hockey player, renowned for his aggressive playing tendencies, seems to be taking his temperament outside of the rink. Multiple games played by SVT have been subject to eventful halves and quarters, the center seen getting violent in the benches with opposing team members, and sometimes even team members of his own! While his short temper has always been a recurring subject in the news, his skills as a player have always remained top notch—we do wonder if he even has to try! The tables seem to turn a little differently this time around though, because it looks that SVT higher ups have been fed up with the increasing reports of Choi’s aggressive behaviour. Insider sources report that talks of a contract termination may be coming into order. While he has proven to be an effective player on the ice, it seems as though it won’t be saving him from this particular ramification! 

Stay tuned, hockey fanatics, as we bring you more updates on Choi’s sticky situation! 

Of course, to add to the absolute media pandemonium, you had shown up on the rink itself after Seungcheol had to read through the entirety of that stupid article. Jeonghan was smart to pull him away from the situation before he wrapped both his hands around your neck in an ultimatum. 

The way you stood there, hip popped like you owned the damn place, face haughty and demanding. You stood while they sat, looking down at Seungcheol like he was some pesky ant. There was nothing he would’ve rather done in that moment than swing his leg clean across your ankles, and watch in delight as you crash onto the ice in front of him. 

“What the fuck is her problem?” he grits as soon as he’s in the locker rooms. Collecting his things to leave and take a shower at home. 

Jeonghan walks behind him, hands in his pocket in idleness as he watches his friend pack up. He’s humming a tune that’s possibly too familiar to Seungcheol. “Hm. She does seem a little wound too tight.”

“Wound too tight?! I’ve seen her thrice just today and every single time she looks like she wants to skin my fucking hide!”

Jeonghan only snorts. “Thing two isn’t any better. She’s cute though.”

Seungcheol whips around. “Who gets that territorial over a sound booth?!”

“Down, boy,” Jeonghan soothes, half in jest. “Surprised she isn’t here today either.”

“Yeah, you’d like to see her.”

“I would, actually, yes. What was her name?”

“Something to do with a train or a bus or something—”

“Lorry! Right,” Jeonghan furrows his brows. “I don’t think that’s her real name.”

Seungcheol throws his duffle bag over his shoulder as he motions he’s done. “I don’t think anyone who actually loves their child would name them after a bus.”

Jeonghan halts in his steps. “My dead dog’s name was Lorry.”

Seungcheol is extra nice for the rest of the way home. 

SEUNGCHEOL CAN'T SLEEP.

His dreams are full of voices, of every single teammate he’s ever had. The junior league, his high school team, up to his college team, and finally, his team right now. 

They’re all murmuring like they were paid to do it, uttering the same things, over and over. He doesn’t belong here, they don’t want him here, he doesn’t deserve what he has. 

And with the way his heart is racing when he jolts awake, cold sweat and all, he realises he’s kicked his blanket off of him sometime during the night. He looks over to his alarm clock that glares bright in the dark of his room; 5:08 AM.

He doesn’t need to be up, but it seems his own subconscious has given him a good enough scare to make sure every last essence of sleep escapes him. He lays on his back, catching his breath like he just ran a marathon. 

Seungcheol hasn’t woken up from a nightmare like this since middle school, one that knocks the breath from his lungs and fills his head with all the horrible things in the world. With every moment that passes after that conversation with Coach Mason, his ordeal becomes increasingly real. 

In that moment, laying in his bedroom, staring blankly at the dark ceiling above, he wonders if he’s made the right choice to come this far. 

With all the confidence he’s exuded, the thought is downright terrifying. 

Seungcheol was a difficult child. Too much energy, too much to say, too much to do. His parents didn’t know the first thing about hockey, just that it involved enough hitting and running and practice to let their son let out all that pent up energy, so maybe, just maybe, he’d sit still and do his homework. While they attempted to sign him up at the local rink, he was already zooming out towards the benches to see the fabled giant block of ice his parents told him about. 

And there it was, just like in the movies, a giant expanse of ice that made him shiver even in his thick Winnie The Pooh puffer vest. There’s sounds, loud ones, of deep clacks that echo across the rink. It seems to be coming from the dozens of people skating on the rink, decked out in red gear. 

SVT, he reads on their jerseys. 

His mother chides him for straying when they finally find him near the gate, watching the team practice. The rink manager is there as well, showing his parents around. 

“The SVT’s practice here and have a junior league too, but I’m afraid it’s full. But our coach is great too, I’m sure he’ll do well.”

Seungcheol’s parents didn’t mind, but he wanted those jerseys, wanted his name in red splashed across his back as he glided across the ice. 

It didn’t take long for his coach and his parents to realise that putting him in a helmet was a good idea. He was smoking the rest of the kids from day one, his balance on the ice better than any other his age, his hold on a hockey stick like second nature, his aim as he hit his first puck, dazzling. 

As he got older, entering his preteen and teen years, he had another realisation. That he was as horrible at school as he was good at hockey. 

“Perhaps you should take a break from hockey,” his high school guidance counsellor had said. His grades were displayed in front of her like a case study, the hopeless clear in her intermittent sighs and the occasional purse of her lips. “Utilise that time to fix at least one of your grades. Pour all your eggs in one basket.”

The thought was absurd. No, he would not be dropping hockey when it was the only thing that pushed him to wake up in the morning. 

He’d felt the tremble of irritation rise in himself, sitting there in that office. It angered him, made him feel like his success was measured by a criteria not made for him. He had said nothing as he slipped out of chair and left the room. 

The day before his graduation, sweat dripping onto the ice as he sent free pucks into the net, he was missing more than he was getting in. It was making him more mad than it should, hands shaking with fury as he berated himself for not being able to succeed in something so simple.

His last puck was before him, and he swung his stick harder than ever and watched as it flew directly into the net. The sound is louder than usual, resonating across the rink. Seungcheol looked down at the detached pieces in his hand and quickly realised that he’d effectively broken his hockey stick.

It wasn’t expensive, so the quality wasn’t nearly what it should be, wasn’t nearly as durable. But this was new to him. He’d never broken a stick before. 

Anger. Perhaps that was what he'd forgone, perhaps that was what he needed. To get on his knees from his back, to get on his feet from his knees. 

When he graduated the next day, Seungcheol knew what he was going to do with his life. Finally had an answer for the infinite questions about his future. 

Hockey. Seungcheol was going to play hockey for the rest of his life. He was going to get into SVT, he was going to become the best player they’ve ever had. He was going to make more money than what he would have as a doctor or a lawyer or whatever else the entire world wanted him to do instead. 

Seungcheol was going to be on the ice wearing red if it’s the last thing he does. 

That’s what pushes him out of bed at 8:45 in the morning, his dream that was once in his hands now flitting through the gaps of his fingers. 

The anger that pushed him here, was now pushing him out. 

He packs his things and leaves the house, welcoming the cold of the outdoors. 

There’s the distinct sound of blade cutting through ice when he gets nearer to the rink itself, a shout of a shrill voice he can’t decipher. Official practice doesn’t start for another couple hours, and he doesn’t remember Coach Mason cutting the pitch in his voice for anything ever. There’s only one other person that could possibly be gracing the rink.

Seungcheol finds three people on the rink. The bright red curly mop of hair catches his eye first, her arms folded over her green puffer jacket, apprehension in her entire posture. He assumes this is your coach. 

There’s a blonde one breathing heavily as she straightens out of a spin, listening to the coach as she shakes her head violently as she speaks. 

Seungcheol finds you a little ways away from the pair, practising jumps. 

He doesn’t emerge into the benches, remaining in the shadows where he wouldn’t be so blaringly obvious. There’s no reason for him to hide, but he doesn’t think of this as hiding. 

Seungcheol watches for the next few minutes, watches you make most of your jumps, fall for some. Your coach shouts for particular names for jumps, something about axels and lutz’ that he can’t tell the difference from when put into action. At least he thinks that’s what you’re doing. 

And then he hears it as your coach moves closer to the barriers. “What’s gotten into you? Keep acting this stupid and I’ll excuse myself from the job, I have better people to coach.”

Her tone, her words, the sharp edge of her tongue, it’s all triggering a very specific part of Seunghceol’s brain. 

“Is it your ankle? Because if it is, then I’m here to tell you to get out of your own head. Your ankle is fine, you wouldn’t be able to get on the ice at all if it wasn’t.” 

There it comes. Those words aren’t directed towards Seungcheol, nor could they apply to him in any capacity. But the way this coach is speaking is making him irrationally angry. 

“Are you gonna keep pretending you have a handicap? Because if you are then I have no work here.”

“I’m sorry.” 

For whatever reason, the sound of you apologising makes the fire rage doubly. It’s enough to blur his vision, enough to make him question what on earth this coach could have on you to let her speak to you in that way. 

The choice words are already in his head as he claps back in his own head, like he was the one at the receiving end. 

He doesn’t stay, disappearing even further into the tunnel to where the locker rooms are. He doesn’t understand why he’s huffing and puffing as much as he is. All that occupies him is what possible reasons you could have to just take it lying down. 

Seungcheol’s phone vibrates in his pocket, slipping it out to realise it’s Jeonghan. 

He picks up, and barely has time to say hello before his voice perks up from the other line. “Where are you?” He sounds like he just woke up. 

“I’m at the rink.”

“Why is your angry voice on?”

“My angry voice is not—” he begins to grit, seething, but closes his eyes and takes a moment. “I’m not mad.”

“Do I need to sing?”

“No, you do not have to sing—”

“Everything is honey—”

“Jeonghan, stop!”

“—everywhere I see—”

Seungcheol hangs up before he can go on. To his utmost irritation, he feels significantly calmer. 

The rink is devoid of your red headed coach when Seungcheol makes his way there after a few minutes. The blonde one is nowhere to be seen, leaving you alone in the rink as you skated across the expanse. He only watches as you land the couple attempts at jumps, the ice breaking ground in a spray every time you put pressure on your blades. 

Seungcheol is just standing there, blank faced with an empty head. His mind was quiet for the first time since he’d woken up that morning. 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing there, standing idle as he follows your figure around the rink like a fixation point. 

The sound is more consistent, less of the loud jabs of hockey sticks meeting the ice, more constant lines of scraping as you migrate across the rink. The speakers boom no sound, but the musicality in the noise of the ice is enough to imagine a rhythm. 

No part of him desires getting on the ice to oust you out, no part of him wants to touch his hockey stick that sits in the locker room. He doesn’t need extra practice, not with hockey at least. 

And when you notice him, unmoving in the benches, he watches as something hard overcomes your expression. You skate over, and he keeps his gaze fixated on the ice.

Skating up to the gate, he sees in his peripheral vision as you slip on your skate guards, stepping out into the real world. 

“You don’t have the rink booked, I checked,” you huff, moving to find your things on the other set of benches. 

Seungcheol’s jaw tenses. “I don’t want the rink right now.”

“And yet the ghost loiters.”

“I’m here to tell you to start filling in the stupid craters your skates make in the ice. The guys keep tripping.” 

“You big hockey thugs getting defeated by a toe pick?” 

Seungcheol turns to finally look at you, and you look nothing as graceful as you did on the ice. He wants to scoff. 

You continue, “I have to deal with your stupid barriers fucking up my sound system. I think your guys can deal with a couple digs in the ice.” 

“Great, we’ll just lose a couple teeth, who really gives a fuck.” 

“If this is about giving fucks,” you get up from your water break, leaving the bench. “Do me a favour and forget your mouth guard next time. Let the puck punch you in the mouth if I can't."

Seungcheol’s entire being is ablaze. He reshuffles his footing. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem?” you repeat, voice moving a pitch higher. “My fucking problem is that you and your overgrown posse of baboons drop in here out of the blue and then act like you own the damn place!”

“Right, because it’s your name on the fucking lease. Excuse us for trespassing on public property!”

You’re yelling. Seungcheol is yelling. It’s either that or the hollow of the rink is now carrying your voices farther out. 

“I’ve had enough of you acting like you don’t take up this entire fucking space!” Your arms wave wildly, gesturing to the large area of the rink. “You’re everywhere, all the fucking time, it’s sickening!”

“Everywhere, huh?” He takes a step closer to you. And then another. He revels in the sight of your face turning a splotchy red. “Thought I was only a bother on the ice? Where else have I been plaguing you in mystic hallucinations?”

Seungcheol’s eyes give away nothing but provocation. He knows he didn’t start this, but in the true essence of who he is, he would be the one to end it. 

It’s clear you’re taken aback. At this moment, he’s the closest he’s ever been to you. But it’s for nothing if it isn’t to press on you further, to tower over you and your outburst. 

“Get your head out of the gutter, you brute.”

“Then is it not me taking up all your space?” he asks. “Because there’s three feet of air between us, and yet the least in our very short time together.”

He watches as you take a small step back.

“So where else have I been any closer, so consistently, if it wasn’t part of your imagination?”

There’s a certain kind of venom in your stare, in the sneer that lifts your mouth, enough to ensure that it’d render him six feet deep. But he lives in reality, so he deems it safe to take another step closer. 

“You’re a screw up,” you almost whisper. Appalled and scandalised. 

“So I’ve been told,” Seungcheol breathed. “But something tells me we’re not so different in that department.”

“You don’t know a thing about me.”

“I know that I’m all you can think about,” he says, eyebrows raised. “That feels like a lot. You’d agree, because everywhere, all the fucking time is a lot.” 

Seungcheol has hardly finished his sentence before he feels the light breeze of you gathering your few things, shouldering him hard and walking away from him. Into the tunnel, into the locker rooms, into hell, wherever it was that you ended up by the close of the day. 

He isn’t afraid to admit that he stumbled.

LORELAI HAD MADE IT quite clear that any figure skating talk was off the table, and talk surrounding Marina even more so. You tried not to point out the obvious predicament, but the fact that you lived with Marina did not affect her demand. 

Miraculously, not talking about skating or Marina was the most free you’d felt in ages. It was mildly embarrassing in the beginning, when on a run with Lorealai who was also helping out at the dog shelter, because you realised all you talked about was, maybe not Marina, but definitely a lot of skating. 

You slow down a little to give Kkuma a couple minutes to breathe, but Lorealai is still running at her pace with her significantly more energetic husky, Bennie. 

“Stay there, I’ll catch up!” she yells over her shoulder as she takes the left around the block to circle back. 

You oblige, moving to a walking pace as Lorelai appears from behind you after a couple minutes. She slows to a jog and loiters around you for a minute, you increase your speed to match hers. 

“Jeonghan…” she pauses to take a breath. But your interest is piqued, especially if she was talking about the same Jeonghan you were thinking about. “Jeonghan invited me to the game this weekend.”

Hold. 

“What?” you snap.

“Game. This weekend,” she huffs, still breathing heavily. 

“Like, a hockey game?” you ask, brows furrowed. 

“No, for disney on ice,” she announces. “They’re doing beauty and the beast, Jeonghan’s the beauty, Seungcheol is the beast. It’s a whole production, really. Real good stuff.”

You can only roll your eyes at the elaborate sarcasm. She continues, “Of course, it's a hockey game! What else do they do at that rink all day?”

“Gosh, sorry,” you frown. “Since when do you talk to Jeonghan?”

She looks over, wicked smile on her face. “Since I found him on Instagram.”

“You followed him?”

“No, why would I do that? Bumped into him at the gym a while ago, and we went out for coffee afterwards.”

Nothing of the ordeal is making sense, your brows still knit together and your mouth downturned in confusion. 

“Catch you in a minute!” she yelps as she takes off into a run again, Bennie right next to her as she circles round again. 

The few minutes that it’s just you and tiny Kkuma are flooded with questions. How did she just bump into Jeonghan? Lorelai hardly goes to the gym. Asking her to come to the hockey game? 

And then worst of all. 

Are they dating? 

By the time Lorelai is back, she’s out of breath again, and fully unequipped to answer all of the questions you shoot at her like rapid fire. 

“Why were you at the gym? He’s a junior league coach, he’s not even gonna be playing!”

“God!” she groans, heaving. “Slow…down.”

“Fine!” You stop in your tracks entirely, to which Lorelai is happy to oblige as she crouches with her hand on her knees. Bennie tugs at her leash, the big bounding ball of fluff ready to race the winds again. 

You count to ten, hands on your hips as Kkuma lets out a small, confused yip now that you’re completely idle on the track. 

“Talk.” 

With an all too dramatic flip of her short hair, she pulls herself up and into an explanation. “I couldn’t tell you because we weren’t talking when it all happened.”

It’s true, it did take a while for you to go back to normal after that run in with Marina in your bedroom. You suppose it won’t be happening again with the new no-Marina-talk rule, since she seemed to be quite the common factor in many of your rifts over the years. 

“I went to the gym to blow off some steam—don’t look like that, I’m being serious!” 

You make an attempt at fixing your face as she continues. 

“He saw me first and came up to say hi. Went our separate ways but once we finished up he asked if I wanted to grab a coffee since we were both done working out.” 

“And you said yes?”

“I said yes. Because he is cute, and I had been stalking his very public Instagram and it was just the perfect opportunity!” 

“So you’re dating?” you ask sharply. 

“I don’t know.”

“He asked you to the game?” you point out. 

“Well, yes, but he hasn’t asked me asked me.” Somewhere in her voice there’s the tiniest hint of disappointment. “Besides, he said to bring you as well.”

“Fuck no.”

“Come ooon! Jeonghan’s gonna be in the benches and I don’t know anyone else there!” she whines. 

“Hey, we should switch dogs!” you announce as you yank Bennie’s leash out of Lorelai’s hands, stuffing  Kkuma’s leash into her free hand. 

You take off into a sprint, and Bennie is happy to keep up with you as you quite literally run away from the situation. Lorelai is yelling your name, her annoyance abundant. 

Ignoring her is easy. Just the thought of walking into one of those games is enough to force a scoff, to watch your rink inhabited with like minded buffoonery as they ruin the bleachers and the ice. 

By the time you make it back, the hilarity of the situation hasn’t left you. And it seems neither has Lorelai, who remains standing with Kkuma at her feet, waiting to trap you. 

It’s the easiest thing to do, to turn right back around and circle the other way. 

“You can’t run away from me forever!” she shouts behind you as you disappear again. 

Maybe you couldn’t, but you wouldn’t go down without a fight. 

“You can’t run away from Seungcheol forever! Quit pretending like you aren’t dying to fall into those giant arms!” Lorelai has a very specific talent of injecting all the drama in the world in the tone of her voice. She’s sure to utilize that skill as she hollers after you. 

That seems to do it for you, slowing down, half ready to whip around and holler a profanity or two right back. 

You’re more triggered than usual, but mostly because all the jab does is remind you of the last time you saw him. The arrogance in his demeanor, the way he belittled you with just his eyes, the shadow of his towering frame, caging you like a lost animal. 

You hated it. Despised it. Despised him. His disgusting innuendos, the all so misleading innocence on his face as he cornered you with both his body and his words. 

Lorelai could deal you whatever card there was tied up her sleeve, but getting you anywhere near the rink for the game this weekend was going to require more than just dessert bribes and sweet talking. Dragging you by the ankles could be a possibility, but all for naught when you dig your nails in anyway. 

It was impossible. Not doable. Non-existent in the cards of your destiny. A repelling force. 

So why, would one ask, were you decked out in the most  heinous red scarf with the letters SVT stitched on like a warning, sitting in the bleachers and looking down at the same rink you practice your spins and jumps in everyday? 

Neither you or Lorelai could answer that question, both your stories as blurry as fog as to how either of you managed to get you in that fabled seat. 

You could see the exact place you and Seungcheol had your last showdown, the opposing team in black now occupying that side of the benches. The thought puts you in an impossibly sour mood. It’s not like Lorelai could say anything about it, half because she knows you’re one snide remark away from jumping into the merch table, and half because she was too busy making heart eyes at Jeonghan who’s just spotted her in her seat. 

“I’ll be back,” she informs haphazardly as she positively bounds down the steps to the end of the bleachers, where Jeonghan waits for her. The people in their seats shuffle, annoyed at the overenthusiastic fan who practically slides down in front of their legs towards the railing. But Lorelai couldn’t care less, not with what stood beyond that very railing. 

Tearing your eyes away from the lovebirds, you take in the hustle and bustle of the pregame happenings, most of the bleachers in disarray as they humour the merch stands and the food stalls. The rink smells different because of it, both the added number of food trucks and drink stands, but also with the amount of people that occupy the expanse. 

The only times you see the rink this packed is when you’re too wracked with nerves to notice anything other than your own two feet. Hands wringing and head spinning, the chaos of the world is nothing against the pandemonium in your mind. You’re usually wearing a sparkly dress that glitters even from the very last row of bleachers, hair taut and makeup caked on like a layer of icing. 

Taking your time, you let your eyes flit over all that you forgo the other times. The stands are a mix of red and black, and so are the benches and ice that are occupied by men in full hockey gear. 

You’re too high up to make out the names on the back of all those jerseys, let alone a face underneath the already concealing helmets. The problem is forgotten when you feel the weight of two hands slam against your folded arms, tugging you out of your seat like it was stolen property. 

“Jeonghan said we could sit closer to the benches downstairs!” Lorelai is frantic, like this wasn’t a matter of reserved seats but the last plane to leave hell itself. 

“Lor—” Finishing a sentence when she’s in this state is a luxury you learn quickly to live without, because all that concerns her right now is getting closer to the man that seems to have enraptured her like never before. 

It’s disgusting. But you follow her anyway, down the steps that you nearly eat shit on, gracefully of course, because what figure skater doesn’t fall with an epic crash worthy of an Expendables cameo. You stabilise yourself enough to get to the seats Lorelai is talking about, and sure enough, Jeonghan would barely have to get on his tiptoes to hoist himself into the bleachers altogether. You question the safety of the context but decide that it wasn’t your problem if someone decided to pounce on one of the players. 

Besides, you’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t revel in the absolute scene of Seungcheol getting jumped by an over-passionate fan. You’re suddenly very grateful for the front row seats. 

There’s a bucket of chicken tenders and fries in your lap out of nowhere, matching the one in Lorelai’s hands. “Also Jeonghan?” you hum as you inspect the sauce options. 

“Mhm, he’s friends with the vendor outside,” she grins. 

You narrow your eyes at the revelation, finding it utmost strange how close he seems to be with nearly everyone. “Why is he on the benches, again?” you ask. 

“Because—” she draws before you cut her off. 

“Friends with the coach?”

“How’d you know?!” she exclaims. Her attention is diverted as the speakers suddenly boom with something other than generic pop music. So is yours, when you hear a deep baritone of a commentator’s voice carries throughout the rink. 

The shuffle around you is suddenly doubling in speed, everyone getting into their seats. You look over in front of you, where the benches are in an equally panicked shuffle. You spot Jeonghan easily, mostly because he’s one of the few in the vicinity without a helmet or what looks like a giant space suit. The next thing you note is the person he’s talking to, his back turned to you, but familiar all the same. 

CHOI, 95, reads his jersey. Automatically, your jaw clenches.  “Don’t look over there!” Lorelai chides, grabbing your jaw and moving it to force you to rip your eyes away from him. 

“Lorelai, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but unlike your boy toy, he’s actually gonna be on the ice,” you verbalise through clenched teeth. 

“Don’t look at the ice,” she blurts. 

Rolling your eyes, you only listen as she realises what she’s said. “Okay, um, look at Jeon instead! Or Kim, or Boo, just. For god’s sake, there’s fifty other players on the ice, just don’t let one of them ruin your night!” 

“I’m fine,” you grumble, sinking into your seat. 

It isn’t long before your eyes trail over anyway, and Seungcheol still doesn’t have his helmet on. You can see his face now, and he looks like he’s mad at Jeonghan about something. 

Inevitably, your mind wanders to the fated article that somehow made its way into your recommended, the certainty it put in you that Seungcheol didn’t stand a chance in his team anymore. It seemed true enough, his anger, that he continues to display, seemed to be his default emotional setting. 

Your hockey knowledge was subpar at best, but one thing you did know was the aggression factor of the sport. Of all the things that could cut his career clean down the middle, this was the last of your guesses.  

Even now, as you watch him absentmindedly point and jerk like his supposed friend had managed to bring him something that was personally offensive, it’s all connecting too well. 

But when you snap into reality, you realise very quickly that he was pointing…at you. 

Seungcheol is mad that Jeonghan (effectively) brought you to the match. 

A chortle of disbelief is quick to make itself known, wanting to yell across the throng that you were every bit as upset that he was in your vicinity too. It also brings you satisfaction, a pure grain of hope, that maybe this would be enough for him to completely fuck up on the ice today. 

You say a quick amen before the baritone of the commentator makes itself known again. The echo is too much for you to decipher what’s going on, but you have your answer when you watch the reds and the blacks form what looks like a line across the width of the rink, right in the center. 

You don’t register when the puck landed, or if it was always there, just that the loud clacks and bangs are in tandem with the cheer from the crowds. The puck is an impossible commodity to keep up with, even with just your eyes. It appears for a moment before it’s lost again, shooting around in your peripheral vision like a pesky fly you can never get a hold of. 

“What is happening?” you whisper to yourself. 

Lorelai answers anyway, snorting, “Fuck if I know.”

The numbers on the lit screens are doing nothing to help out your predicament, too much happening for you to even begin to deconstruct. You choose to lay back and enjoy your chicken tenders and fries, complimenting the sauce choices to Lorelai along the way, who continues to calibrate her attention on the man that remains in the benches. Jeonghan looks over periodically to send her a wave and a blinding smile. 

You’ve made a good enough dent in your chicken and fries bucket by the time it’s intermission, about ready for a drink by now. Lorelai makes herself useful and runs down to get you both something, mostly because Jeonghan was now more focused on the team that’s huddled around one another, another man you assume is their coach huddled right with them. 

The scores are 2-2, as provided by the person behind you who was apparently sick of your placid obliviousness. It did feel slightly awkward to be the only person not as excited to be front and center, so you remind yourself to thank him profusely. 

Your attention drifts back to the benches, inevitably as you’ve been so unfortunately placed to be able to breathe down the player’s necks. They’ve dispersed from their huddle, but are not yet on the ice. They’re sitting down, catching their breaths, drinking from water bottles. On the other side, the opposing team, a sea of black and white flooding their own end of the benches. It’s a sinking colour, not an ounce of depth in the shade. It’s taking over the benches. 

Except it’s the players that are moving, like they’re diffusing into the scarlet territory. 

You watch, as one player in black moves his mouth, speaking, upturned and eyebrows cocked. It’s clear he’s gone well past enemy lines, the front lines suddenly at attention. There’s not much you can make out, nothing much besides the very haughty expression on the player’s face. His eyes are covered by the sweaty mop on his head, but you don’t need to see them to find the malice that infiltrates his entire stance.

The scene, where both sides seem to be closing in on each other, has you automatically sitting up straighter. The air is going static, especially as you realise the player's mouth is moving faster as he jabs at — Seungcheol. 

They’re fighting, only verbally for now, but it’s undeniable the way the heat grows by the second. All you can see is the back of Seugncheol’s jersey as he begins to step back from the ordeal, like he was fighting the urge to take a step forward instead. 

Jeonghan’s hand is on Seungcheol’s elbow, and one glance at the rest of the players on this side shows every last one on edge. Their coach is nowhere to be seen. 

But he doesn’t stop talking, still standing in their territory. He yells something loud enough to hear the pitch of his voice, but not nearly enough to understand what he’s saying. 

You could see it on the player’s face. Hook, line and sinker. 

It happens so suddenly. Seungcheol surges forward like a dart, something flies out and hits the player square in the face. 

Seungcheol had spat his mouth guard into his face. 

You gasp out loud as you register what’s happening. The player removes his hand from his face, and for some reason, emerges grinning. 

Seungcheol swings first, his fist rising and coming down on his cheek with a sound you can hear. You feel nauseous. 

It’s pandemonium. You can see Jeonghan practically on top of Seungcheol, a number of other players attempting to get him off the man he continues to grab and shake up like a fugitive. The other player is throwing his own punches.

For one, horrifying moment, the force of the punch pushes Seungcheol’s face towards the stands enough to let you get an eyeful. All you see is red, beyond just his jersey. His mouth is full of blood, the front of his jersey dripped with it, his knuckles clustered with it. 

The hand clasped around your mouth is your own, eyes blown in horror. 

All around you, the world has their phones out like it was some show meant just for them, like this was exactly what they came here for. 

It’s sickening. Sickening. 

You brave another look, and they’ve been yanked off of one another. Seungcheol is being pushed down the tunnel and away from sight. Jeonghan has his hands clutched around Seungcheol like he’s nearly ready for another outbreak, his face grim. 

Your eyes keep away from Seungcheol’s face on purpose.  “Goodness, what is going on, I could barely get through the crowd,” Lorelai’s irritated voice infiltrates your ears, and you’re immediately brought back down to earth. 

Arms full of more snacks and drinks, it only takes her one look at your rattled self to know. 

“What happened?”

“I…they were…fighting. I don’t know, it just—Seungcheol was throwing punches and there was…blood, so much blood.”

She’s gotten a grip on your hand, her fingers warm under your cold, shivering ones. “Do you wanna leave?” she asks slowly. 

One look over her shoulder is enough to tell you it’d be impossible. Everyone was too excited to care to cater to two people going in the opposite direction of the action. So you tell her there was no point, and you attempt to calm your racing heart as she sits next to you. 

Snagging one of the packs from her mountain of snacks, you rip it open and let the sickly sweet smell infiltrate your nostrils. Popping one of the confections in your mouth, it’s hard to not make a face. It’s the sourest thing you could’ve picked, the tartness enough to distract you from the outside world. Eyes scrunched closed, you swallow the rush of saliva to ask Lorelai what the fuck she brought.

You chortle, and it has Lorelai looking over. “Whoops! That one’s mine.”

She snags the bag from your loosened grip, replacing it with a tamer bag of original flavoured potato chips. The chips are trying, but there’s not much you can do besides wait for the residues of the godawful candy to subside. 

The ordeal seems to have calmed you the slightest bit, finally able to turn back to the ice. The rink is back to being occupied, players from both ends pouring onto the ice. You note a minor shoulder shove at the gate, but look away like it’d stop the calamity from intensifying. 

The game ensues as normal, but you note the blatant absence of CHOI in the sea of red and white jerseys. You don’t mention it, and neither does Lorelai. 

You’re about to burst by the time the finals moments are upon the game, the overtime minutes beginning to tick as the crowd grows restless by the second. With the little you’ve managed to grasp, you’re sure that SVT is only one goal away from the overtake. It’s making you nervous, like you’re waiting for your own score to be announced after a free skate. 

The puck is a mere percentage easier to navigate after a couple hours of keeping after it; it skips between players you’re beginning to recognise from the back of their jersey. Kim, Boo, Wen, Kim, Lee. The opposing team intercepts for a moment, and you find yourself letting out an irritated shake of the shoulders. Back to Kim, Lee, Lee, and then, right into the net. 

The jittering crowd suddenly went so silent you could hear a pin drop. 

And then the world around you erupts. It’s impossible to classify the sound as cheers when racketeers off your entire being like an unearthly sound, the stands on their feet hollering and screaming and yelling at their players that are fighting to keep their new overtake in the final seconds before the game officially ends. 

And when it does, you’re sure you need to get your ears checked out. 

Looking over, you catch Lorelai’s eye, and you can’t help but laugh. A delightful laugh that releases itself in the midst of the chaos of red, scarlet and cherry. Somebody’s thrown a red blanket over you, another has begun to hand out congratulatory cherry lollipops (you pass, but Lorealai would be damned if she did), people are hugging each other so tight and you get the inkling they’ve only met each other today. 

The ice is one giant dogpile, red on red as they suffocate one another in celebration. 

Perhaps you didn’t realise how important the game actually was, or maybe every game is like this, loud, proud and exultant. You find yourself imagining how they feel. 

The lost feeling of bouquets and flowers whisked in your direction, stuffed animals and hundreds of other things that scream adoration as your performance comes to a close. It’s a physical manifestation of an adoring crowd, as though making it tangible makes it a little more real. 

The rush, you can feel it resonate off of the scarlet side of the benches, and it’s enough for you to realise that yes, this was an important match. For them anyway. 

The way out of the rink is reasonably packed, but you manage to squeeze through the doors and towards where Lorelai had parked with fewer than expected obstruction. “Thought you might wait to see Jeonghan before we leave,” you hum as you walk to the parking spot. 

“I was going to, but he’s probably dealing with what happened,” she utters slowly. A flash of red at the mention, gone as soon as it came. Lorelai adds with a little extra pep to her voice, “It’s okay! I’ll send him a text, we were planning on dinner tomorrow anyway.”

The side eye you send is met with a light shove. “This one seems serious. Dragging me here for his sake and now dinner with him?”

Lorelai was infamous for taking it excruciatingly slow, the time between the talking stage and the first date stretching for months. She claims it’s to make sure she's not roping herself into something she’d regret, which you’ll admit has seemed to work out in her favour. Her last relationship lasted years before Josh had to move away. 

Jeonghan seems to have her under some warped spell, because Lorelai was hurtling into this relationship like a too compressed cannon ball. There was nothing you knew about Jeonghan other than his friendship with Seungcheol, his position as junior league coach and his habit of loitering on the ice; which means there wasn’t much opinion to be had on the whole conquest. Regardless, you decide to caution her some other day, when she’s not glowing and over the moon like a robust teenager. 

Slipping into the passenger seat, you slump like never before, already dreaming about the bedrotting session you’re about to have; glorious enough for the books. 

“Do you wanna grab food and rot on the couch?” she asks. 

“You’re still hungry after all that?” you huff, your mouth still flavoured with artificial sweetness paired with the savoury of the chicken and fries. You pull out your phone for the first time in nearly three hours, the home screen alarming full of missed notifications. Text messages, mentions and phone calls. For whatever reason, you swipe right past and open your browser. 

“It’ll take about an hour till we’re settled, should be hungry enough by then,” she comments, a gentle growl coming from beneath you as the engine comes to life. 

Somewhere between the lines of the seatbelt sign pinging, and the radio blaring itself into the space, you’ve read a headline that’s enough to halt your world. 

“There’s this new Chinese place that opened nearby here. Or this Persian restaurant but it’s like 20 minutes in the other direction. Or do we just do soup—”

“Lorelai.”

She turns to look at you in the passenger seat, seatbelt alarm still dinging as you remain with your seatbelt off as she pulls out of the parking space, like the official soundtrack to your doom. She brakes, hard. Lorelai is always Lorry with you, her full name only ever when you’re feigning irritation. 

There’s nothing irritating about the situation, but everything is wrong with it. 

It’s like you were in the benches, taking punches while simultaneously throwing a few yourself. You’re out of breath still seated, your skin tingles like a million arachnids crawling under your skin under your layers. You’re in the eddy of a horrifying whirlpool, that’s pulling you down, down, down, down, down, down—

!HOT TOPIC!

FIGURE SKATER OR FIGURINE? NOTHING GRACEFUL ABOUT Y/N L/N’S FALL FROM THE PINNACLE OF THE SKATING WORLD. Read from the Source!

From a pocket princess, to a rising star. From a rising star to the top of the world. From the top of the world to… a bottomless hell? How did Y/N L/N end up here? 

It’s nothing new that L/N’s presence was notable during the flashy ISU Grand Prix held in Beijing last year, the podium notably shuffled as a result. The skater’s ankle injury was never awarded a career ending title, but with the way her comeback remains as foggy as it did since the initial announcement, one must begin to wonder if we’ll ever see L/N on the competitive ice again. 

Or perhaps she’s simply lost her spark? 

Trusted sources report that L/N’s sponsors are growing weary of her extended vacation, and are just about ready to pull the rug! In addition, sources also report her floundering lack of consistency in practice sessions on the ice, her condition beyond someone as onerous as even Isabella Carroll to manoeuvre into success. Talk about futile! 

Now, we’re all hoping that our glittering gold medalist is only a victim of mindless chatter, however, we must concede, neither we nor our sources are holding on to too much hope. 

Keep on the lookout for more updates from us on our fallen (?) star!

[a/n]: hehehehehe remember to reblog and tell me your thoughts

[celestialgalaxyglow]

Batfam and Danny, part 4

Later that night.

Bruce: Everyone, we're almost ready for patrol, the only thing still pending is Danny's route.

Dick: He can go with me.

Jason: Umm, no he's my sidekick.

Tim: I don't care, he's going with me.

Duke: You three are too chaotic, he's coming with me.

Cass: No, he's with me

Steph: No, he should be with me.

Dick: Well I'm the oldest, so he's with me.

Jason: No, he's with me, he's my son.

Danny: I'll like to go with Damian.

Everyone: What!?

Danny: He's cool.

Tim: I'm 10 times cooler than him!

Danny: Whatever helps you sleep at night, Tim.

Tim: I- you really are Jason's kid...

Bruce: Damian?

Damian: I'm ok with it.

Bruce: Then it's decided, Danny will be with Damian until I can give him is own route, keep in mind this will require moving some of you around, and no I will not take any requests, you get what you get. Now go!

Everyone leave the batcave and head to their respective routes. Danny flew behind Damian as he jumped from building to building.

Damian: You picked me so I could teach you swordsmanship didn't you?

Danny: Yup!

Damian: Very well, we can finish our route and the our lesson can commence.

Danny: You got it boss!

Two hours later, Danny and Damian, finished their patrol and sat on a rooftop.

Danny: Are nights normally this slow?

Damian: No, tonight's rather quite, unfortunately.

The two continue to look at the city.

Damian: Danny what is your impression of me?

Danny: What?

Damian: What do you think of me in the short time we've known each other?

Danny: Well before arriving at the manor, Jason, gave me a rundown of everyone.

Damian: Oh...

Danny: No, he spoke highly of everyone, especially you.

Damian: He did?

Danny: Yes, you're the youngest Robin there's ever been, but you don't let that stop you. You're always training, learning new fighting techniques, you're a great fighter, and very compassionate, even if you try to pretend you're not.

Damian: ...

Danny: And I saw that today. You're a great person Damian.

Damian: ...In the League of Assassins my grandfather taught me that emotions were a sign of weakness. So when my mother left me with Bruce I was shocked on how freely everyone expressed their emotions. I was jealous of how close the others were to Bruce. Something which I saw as my birthright as his biological son, to the extent that I refused to acknowledge my siblings as my siblings for over a year, simply calling them by their last names. Yes, now I see them as family, and I'm tying to show emotion more freely, but it's still hard sometimes. You're the second person to join the family since I arrived, when Duke joined I was still in my "I hate you all" phase so I didn't make what I would now consider a good first impression. So when Jason introduced you to us I was focused on making sure you felt welcomed as part of our family, guess I'm a little nervous on how I did in that endeavor.

Danny: Well you did great.

Damian (smiled): Thank you. They sat in silence for a few seconds. Danny I'm going to ask you something, but you're not allowed to tell anyone.

Danny: Sure, what is it?

Damian: Can we hug?

Danny (happy): Sure.

They hug.

Damian (standing up): Alright that's enough of that, like promised I shall teach you proper swordsmanship nephew. We will start with you learning the parts of a sword, followed by the proper stance you must take, then you may start to wield a sword.

Danny (standing up and saluted Damian): Yes sir!

(Master Post)

[yardsards]

i think i've said it before but. as a professional caregiver it rubs me the wrong way how our field (and pretty much any field that involves caring for vulnerable people) is venerated

like don't get me wrong i am all for appreciating blue collar type professions, employees that are underpaid and overworked and vital for how our society functions

but it's a specific flavour of treating us like martyrs that doesn't show up when people appreciate construction workers or garbage truck drivers or janitors or fry cooks or whatnot.

it's a specific flavour of acting like we're doing a huge selfless favour for our clients that doesn't show up when people appreciate customer service workers or housekeepers or whatnot.

what's really ironic there is caregivers have far more power over their clients than customer service workers or housekeepers have over their clients.

and it just leads to so much shittiness in the industry. it's bad for patients cuz they don't feel like they can speak out when a caretaker is mistreating them (or even just doing something they don't like, even on accident), cuz they're expected to feel grateful for what the caregiver is doing for them. and it enables some shitty caregivers to get a complex about how their patients owe them gratitude for doing their jobs. isn't good for non-shitty caregivers too cuz sometimes the good ones then feel obligated to overextend and sacrifice themselves to be worthy of that gratitude.

just like yeah idk appreciate us but don't appreciate us any differently than you should appreciate any other worker i guess idk

[void-speaks]

🌧"Hm, we don't really have those kind of luxuries nor the necessity for them, so I just dive head in even if its pouring. I do enjoy rain quite a lot. It's refreshing."

🍳"Well, I'm not exactly the best, but I do know how to make the most basic of things. Sigh, I do wish I had the chance to learn how to cook something more cool and interesting, but oh well. Oh, surprisingly enough, I do. I used to hate any and all kind of chores before, but now it's just something you can shut off your mind for and do on autopilot. Mmm, probabaly omelets. No particular reasons, I just think it's neat."

🧼"It's not like we get much of a choice. In this economy, we shower whenever we can. I do enjoy showering, but I haven't gotten many chances to bathe before, so I can't really tell anything. Again, it's a miracle if we find gel in this situation."

❌️"Obviously I would. It does depend on who is telling me what, but just in general, I would. Hmm... Probabaly Crane. He's seen some shit and has a good base of knowledge about the world, more than me and Aiden have."

🏳️‍"Well, it's hard to say right now. I can't really imagine anything that would make me give up, but there's probabaly something. Like, maybe if I was in complete despair? I don't know, hard to say."

📖"Gosh, don't even get me started on books! I really, really love books. I've always loved reading books even as a child. I mostly favored fantasy and detective novels and sometimes romance I suppose. Queer romance specifically because. Well. Guess. I wouldn't say I have a lot of opportunities to read in that sense that new books that I haven't read are a rare thing to find right now."

⛸️"I'm not... too into sports, to be fair. Would parkour count as a sport? Probabaly not right now. Hm... I guess Carnage Hall fights would be considered a sport? In that case, I don't really follow that stuff at all."

😷"I have an average immune system, so I don't get sick too much. Well, 'staying at home' right now isn't exactly an option, however, when I get sick, I tend to not overwhelm myself with chores, but don't stay in bed all day either. Well, medical masks are surprisingly hard to find, and just regular clothing pieces won't do much, so I tend to stay away from people or be very careful around them."

🥼"No, I don't. Hm, what kind of uniform... To be fair, and don't quote me on this, but Renegade uniform looks sick as Hell."

🥂"Huh, I never really thought about it. I guess I just pat myself on the back or don't really acknowledge them at all."

🛴"Parkour. It's probabaly impossible to get around on a bike in this environment, but it would be nice if I could. Traffic rules aren't really a thing right now, so eh."

🕰"Hm... Now that I think about it, we don't do that too much? Or I suppose we just use the sun as our guide most of the time. Or Peacekeeper sirens or church bells if it's in Old Villedor."

🥰"There's many things that can make me... Well, not happy, but bring some kind of positive feelings for sure. As for loved... I don't know how to answer that."

🐇"I don't. I prefer to live in the now and here. Believing in this kind of thing would be an escapism method for me, and I prefer not to do that."

🎺"I'm getting tired of saying it, but there's not much choice we have nowadays. I'm starting to sound like my grandma... I think. But, if I had to chose from all the songs I know, my current choice would be that tape that Aiden showed me recently. I don't know its name, but it goes like... 'Some people cheat, some people sin, but ohhhhh I play to win, tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-u-u-u-u-u,' and so on. Sorry, I'm not the best singer. Mm, no, not really. Never had a chance to learn. Probabaly the violin. I heard it's a difficult instrument, which is one of the things that intrigues me about it."

💽"Yes! I like collecting books, newspapers from the 'old times,' audio tapes and stuff like that. Really to collect information. But especially books. There isn't a particular reason, I just enjoy doing it. Or I suppose the reason would be that I want to know as much as possible about Villedor and its life and how life was for other people in the hot of the apocalypse."

🧋"Tea. By God how much I love tea. Especially black tea with thyme. I can't even explain it, I just do. My second top tea is from a specific brand, but it's also black tea with apple and... and some other berry. I don't know its name in English. Oh, that entirely depends on the season and how I'm feeling. But generally, I lean more towards warm or hot drinks."

🌻 random in-character questions

an ask game where, instead of replying from your perspective, you answer as if it's your original character/muse/self-insert/etc. answering the question ✨

🌧️ "When outside during the rain, do you use a raincoat, an umbrella, or something else? Do you enjoy rain?"

🍳 "Are you a good cook? Do you enjoy cooking? What's your favorite thing to cook?"

🧼 "Do you prefer to take a shower during the morning or evening? Do you like taking baths? What's your favorite scent of shower gel?"

❌ "Would you do something that someone told you not to do? Why? Is there someone you'd actually listen to more than everyone else?"

🏳️ "What will make you give up?"

📖 "What kinds of books do you read? Do you have a lot of time to read?"

⛸️ "What's your favorite kind of sport? Do you follow sports closely or don't care at all?"

😷 "How often do you get sick? Do you stay at home when sick or do you end up going outside to, say, get some groceries? If you go outside, would you wear a mask?"

🥼 "Do you have to wear a uniform somewhere? If yes, how do you feel about it? If no, what kind of uniform would you love to wear?"

🥂 "How do you celebrate you accomplishments?"

🛴 "What's your preferred way of getting somewhere - own car, public transport, a bicycle, or something else? How well do you follow the traffic rules?"

🕰️ "What do you use to check what time it is?"

🥰 "What would make you feel happy and loved?"

🐇 "Do you believe in other dimensions?"

🎺 "What kind of music do you mostly listen to? Do you know how to play an instrument, and if not, which one would you want to learn to play?"

💽 "Do you collect anything? Why?"

🧋 "What's your go-to thing to drink? Do you prefer cold or hot drinks?"

[ashegaby]

That was honestly one of my favorite season premieres eveeerrrr on the show. Lets unpack, because I have so much excitement and I need to go to sleep!

THE ROOKIE SPOILERS IF YOU HAVEN’T WATCHED YET.

It felt so fresh in my opinion. Wopez drama (jealous Wesley was up there with jealous Timmy, Angela “I will cut a bitch” Lopez), Nolan back to having funny dialogue (“Celina is doing great thank you for asking” lol), Penn and Ridley had really interesting back stories, like I actually got emotional over Penn sleeping in his car and Ridley talking about his gf ODing, and the action was actually great and easy to follow. I was kinda expecting at least Jason and Oscar to pop up because they hyped it up so much on the promos but I guess it is a two part premiere so that might be why. I did need more Nyla. Looking back at it, I feel like she had maybe 2 scenes. Also, Aaron was so missed 🥺. But I guess it’s better he transferred than being killed off tbh.

Now, CHENFORDDDDD MY BELOVED HOW I’VE MISSED YOU. They make me so happy, and I’m just so excited to have them back in whatever capacity.

The flirting right off the bat because it’s the only way they know how to be. She’s weary but she’s allowing them to thrive how they do best and, at least how I see it, how they fell in love. I feel like that conversation in the elevator last season let Lucy know he was putting in the work and maybe thats all she needs to at least be in a place where she can be his coworker. Tim knowing EXACTLY what buttons to push to get her to talk to him and make her agree to the bet. Jealousss Tim telling Penn he’s not fit to breathe her same air like sir 😫. And I love grumpy TO Bradford (sue meee) to then see him be so soft to Lucy in that parking lot. The promise of tomorrow is another day, and that he can’t wait. Him looking at her driving away and that gorgeous shot of her looking in the rearview mirror (I know thats about to be everyone’s header lmao). It felt promising and hopeful. I just pray to God they’re not playing us. Uggghhhh I honestly loved it. It didn’t feel rushed, it was organic and it feels like the beginning.

Anyways, I needed to ramble. Can’t wait for next week, that promo looked really good!

[urauntiefaye]

okay but we NEED more taki x chubby reader or maybe &team x chubby reader thoughts (nsfw and sfw) :3333

&Team With a Chubby Girlfriend 🔞+🌸

WC: 2270

TW: Includes Maki so if uncomfortable you can scroll away or not read his, chubby reader, description of the body, afab reader, Talks of body fat, smut, BDSM, nicknames, slapping/spanking, mentions of clothes, not proof read I think that's all let me know if I miss anything. 

A/N: As a short chubby girl myself this actually healed me in ways I didn't know could. Also added both SFW and NSFW parts in this. 

Kei-

SFW: Kei would always hype you up. For example when you're going shopping and buying new clothes you would be cautious of what to buy. Simple because the media and maybe even people in your day to day life always say how you should dress with your body size. Not to mention with the clothing market some clothes are literally just built to only look good on skinny girlies. Especially with shirts and let's say maybe you have a big chest. So you grow cautious of what to wear because of what people would say. But let's say there's a shirt or dress you really want, but it's body fitting. Second guessing yourself you'll put it back on the rack and when going to check out Kei would get confused because you looked really good on it and he knew that you really liked it. When you tell him why you didn't get it he will go back inside and buy it for you. He'll always tell you how much he loves your body and how beautiful it is, and that you shouldn't feel like you have to hide it. 

NSFW: Kei loves to slap you, not on the face(on the face too but) but your thighs, ass, just anywhere he can get his hands on simply because he loves the way your body reacts to it. I also feel like he's always squeezing your body and praising your body. Always talks about how much he loves your body. He also just fucking loves seeing you in lingerie, the way your body looks in it as it shows off your curves. The way how some parts squeeze into your body and causes parts of it to pucker out. He feels as if he could cum right in the spot just seeing you in it. 

Fuma- 

SFW: He saw no issue with it honestly. Your body type just didn't cross his mind at first because you're just so beautiful and he loved you so much. So the fact that you may be insecure because the thoughts of why he's with you when he could have a girl with a flat tummy and fit body just never clicked for him. I swear to God though once he finds out about it though he would feel so upset. But not angry at you, but because who the fuck told you your body wasn't beautiful? would pamper you so fucking much and if he EVER saw you eating less because of this he would have a very serious talk with you because wtf. 

NSFW: Has such a thing for you when you're wearing dresses that show off your body. Also expect him to use his strength kink against you. He'd want to pick you up and fuck you against the wall. But if you get worried or question his strength thinking you're too heavy for him to pick up. Boooooy oh my FUCKING GOD, he would prove you so fucking wrong. He’d so throw you over his shoulder or quickly pick you up and push you against the wall “think I can't lift you love?” AHHH 

Nicholas-

SFW: Loves to hug you and hold your tummy or your thighs. He loves your body so much and he finds you so adorable. He loves to squish your cheeks as well that makes your lips pucker out and will kiss them. He kisses your body all over but in a nonsexual way. Just peppers kisses all over you. You won't ever feel a moment of insecurity when with him. Like if an insecure thought starts to pop up it'll disappear instantly. Also, he's equally if not more pissed off about the fashion industry for catering clothes specifically for skinny people. And if you decide to start making your own clothes he would be so fucking supportive and also impressed. 

NSFW: H-hear me out guys 👉🏻👈🏻, Nico is obsesssssssed when you wear skirts and thigh highs. With the thigh highs he just can't stop staring with the way they wrap around your thighs and how the top part sticks out, just the way they're indenting(don't know if this is the right word) into your thighs. He loves fucking you in them too. He'll have you over his laps, ass up as he spanks you and gropes your ass and thighs. He loves seeing the way your body shakes and the fat jiggles. Is also addicted to the sight when he's fingers your so hard and fast that your body moves along with it. 

Euijoo-

SFW: Loves having you lay on him or sit on him. Like he just loves your body on him because it makes him feel so soft inside. If you ever tell him that you don't like sitting on him or laying on him because you feel bad with your weight. Thinking you'll crush him or something. Once he hears this he will instantly pull you down on him and won't let you up. His limbs would wrap around you, not letting you go until you take back what you said. Will also smother you in kisses. He loves your body so much and it hurts him when he sees you being insecure about it because he just doesn't understand how such a gorgeous person would be insecure. Really the type to be ‘if only I could leaned you my eyes so you could see how I see you’

NSFW: I've mentioned before that he has to have his hands on you at all times in a previous hard hour thoughts post. But if you're a chubby person it intensifies to an extreme. His hands are groping each and every part of your entire body. He can't help it, he's thinks the way your thighs and stomach jiggle with each of his thrust is so fucking hot. Cums on your stomach as well, he can't help it but the look of how it's all sprayed across your tummy makes him fall in love with you all over again. 

Yuma- 

SFW: He loves loves loves grabbing your thighs and just squeezing as hard as he can. He also loves slapping your thighs and seeing them jiggle her just can't get over it. At first having an issue with it you wouldn't say anything, as it didn't bother you that much at first. But let's say one day you're just not in the mood and you're feeling a little extra body self cautious. Not knowing this he would go up to you and do his usual with your thighs until you snap. He'd be startled of course but he won't get angry, he'd ask you what's wrong though. When you tell him he'd feel bad, because how could he not know that you felt that way. He'd hold you and tell you he loves you nonetheless and the only reason he does that is because of how much he loves your body. 

NSFW: Yuma+BDSM is already canon to me. But Yuma with Chubby reader plus BDSM? *Wipes sweat off my forehead ‘phew’* he's tying you up but he's tying the rope so tight that it's indenting into your flesh. He's also sooo using whips on you because of how your body reacts to it. When he's fucking into you he can't look away either. Just needs to keep his eyes on you at all times but doesn't know where to look. Also if you're a chubby reader with big tits expect titty fucking to be a regular occurrence in your sex life. 

Jo- 

SFW: Won't say shit at first. Like you'd never know how he felt because he doesn't say anything, but there will be signs. For starters he loves laying on your lap, and if you're insecure he KNOWS. But instead of saying shit he'd send you articles about how in ancient times being chubby was considered beautiful. Even art pieces like statues of Goddesses and paintings of chubby women/plus size women. So you ever start to rethink if he actually does love your body because you don't hear it, you'll need to focus on his actions. 

NSFW: THIGH FUCKING, Jo loves to fuck your thighs. Just the way your thick thighs wrap around his cock is intoxicating to him. It's his favorite thing in the world+cumming on your thighs. He also loves receiving nudes from you and loves taking them for you. You laying down in provocative poses showing off your body. Also expect him to have rose petals on you and around you during your little photoshoot. Keeps the photos in a little binder for his eyes only because they're his most prized possessions. 

Harua- 

SFW: LOVES cuddling with you, just being able to hold you close, his hands taking purchase on your stomach or thighs. He also loves snacking with you, you're his number 1 snack buddy. So when he goes to you with snacks and you refuse he'll low-key get petty but like not in a toxic way. But in a ‘how dare you not want to snack with me, you know this is my favorite part of our days together, and you dare deprive me of such happiness?’ yeah he gets dramatic about it…but if you explain to him it's because you're wanting to lose weight because you're insecure or don't like your body since someone commented on your body. He'll turn serious for like 30 minutes and cup your face and tell you how much he loves your body and you should never want to change it just because someone else said so. But would turn straight to being dramatic once again saying ‘who said it by the way? I'll have a talk with them AND their mother for making my baby feel bad because how DARE THEY” 

NSFW: Another thigh fucker enthusiast. Will fuck your thighs in any position, standing up, you laying on your back with your legs up in the air, on your side. Doesn't matter man he just wants to fuck them. Will cum so much on you too because of this. And then he will get hard AGAIN because of the sight. Speaking of cumming, he needs to cover every inch of your body with his cum. He can't get enough of seeing your body just covered in it. 

Taki-

SFW: Is borderline obsessed with your stomach. His hands have to always be on it, if they're not then he's resting his head on you. Another number one hype boy with your clothes especially when you choose to show off your body. He's also always telling you how much he loves your body. I swear to God guys. He also loves squishing the fat on your body, especially playing with your stomach and thighs. He can't help it. If you tell him to stop he'll be pouty all day. Literally if there was a challenge where he had to go a whole day without touching you he will literally break out into tears. If you ever get insecure about your body btws be prepared to sit through an hour if not longer PowerPoint on why you should love your body and why he loves your body and how he will literally fuck up anyone who tries to say otherwise. Plays with your cheeks the way others play with his. Y'all the cheek duo. 

NSFW: 🥹, hands on your tummy, he's squeezing it, holding it, anything he just loves holding it during sex especially when he's about to cum. He just knows you're going to hold his cum well. He loves squeezing your thighs and slapping them but not harshly in a more like love tap way just enough to get them to jiggle. He's also rotating between holding your thighs/ass to your stomach when eating you out. Wants you to wrap your thick thighs around his head too. 

Maki- 

SFW:  A mixture of Fuma and Kei. Like it's not that he didn't care? But like…it's also because he doesn't care. How do I explain this? You being chubby doesn't matter to him because he loves you and doesn't think it's that big of a deal. He won't make a big deal out of it and thinks it's so fucking weird when people do. He literally side eyes people who make such a big deal out of people who aren't skinny like the ones in magazines. And will get pissed if people decide to bring up your weight. Like if he saw a comment or overhears someone say something about you man's won't fucking HESITATE. Now, even though he won't make a big deal out of it he also just so happens to also subconsciously squeeze your body and slightly jiggle your thighs a little. 

NSFW: So, like I said in the SFW portion he doesn't make a big deal out of you being chubby. HOWEVER, he can't help but be so over you when he's horny. Def wants you to sit on his face, he just knows it'll be so hot. But if you're like ‘no, I'd literally crush you’ he would look at you as if you're fucking insane and once you finally do agree to sit on his face oh maaaaan. You'll hesitate a little as you straddle his face not wanting to sit all the way. So he'll grab your hips and pull you down. Because when he says he wants you to sit on his face he means he wants you to SIT on his face. He wants you to suffocate him. He's pulling and tugging and slapping your ass and thighs btws. 

[slickdickwitchbitchh]

Obx: After Dark

Chapter 1: Pilot

Summary: The roommates moved in full of hope and camaraderie, eager for a fun summer together, but things quickly soured when Rafe started stirring trouble. Tensions reached a breaking point, culminating in a heated fight between JJ and Rafe, leaving the group on edge and questioning the dynamic in the house.

A/N: the fight between JJ & Rafe is based on this fight from Vanderpump Rules, my favorite reality show i suggest watching because it’s hilarious.(i’m sorry the video is long i suggest starting at 3:05 that’s when the fight starts)

Masterlist

Pilot

Voiceover/Narrator: "The Outer Banks, a chain of islands off the coast of North Carolina, where the sun kisses the ocean, and paradise is just a few steps away... [Clip of John B.]: 'Paradise on Earth.' It's the perfect blend of wild beauty and untamed youth. Surfers, sun, and the sound of crashing waves—the OBX is a dream come true... for some. But for others, it's a playground for drama, secrets, and, well... revenge."

Cut to an aerial shot of a sprawling mansion nestled on a cliff, waves crashing beneath. The camera zooms in to the front door where the first cast member enters.

Voiceover/Narrator: "Tonight, we're taking a group of friends, exes, and enemies, and locking them together in a secluded mansion for one very special week. Why? To celebrate Y/N's 21st birthday, of course."

Cut to Y/N walking up to the grand mansion door, looking around in awe. She steps inside, and the camera follows her into the foyer.

Y/N’s Confessional Y/N is sitting in a chair with a slight smirk. "Hey, I’m Y/N. Just turned 21, finally legal. I just moved here six months ago, so I don’t subscribe to the pogues versus kooks rivalry. I’m my own person and I’m pretty much friends with everyone, as long as they don’t come for me."

Producer's voice from behind the camera: "How do you handle conflict?"

Y/N’s face hardens slightly as she thinks about it. "I mean, I have a mouth on me, I don’t take shit from no one. I’m not one to initiate a fight. I think it’s ugly and trashy, but if you’re gonna step to me, I’m gonna protect myself. What am I supposed to do? Take it? Are you kidding me?"

Producer's voice from behind the camera: "Are you a partier?"

Y/N grins and shrugs casually. "I definitely come home at six in the morning a lot."

Y/N walks into the living room, surveying the space with a smile, before hearing someone enter behind her. She turns around.

Cut to Sarah Cameron entering, her heels clicking on the marble floors. She pauses, looking around, and then the camera switches to Sarah’s confessional.

Sarah Cameron’s Confessional "I’m Sarah. I’m 22. It’s been a minute since I've seen some of these people, especially Rafe." A brief pause as her expression shifts slightly. "But what’s crazy is, my dad, Ward, he left us half of his fortune. So, I guess this trip’s gonna be... interesting. I’ve been dating John B. for about four months now, and I’m really looking forward to this week. Just... I hope nothing crazy happens. I’m all about peace and good vibes, but when it comes to Rafe and Topper... we’ll see."

Cut to Sarah entering the mansion. Y/N, excited, barrels down the stairs and jumps on Sarah, spinning her around.

Sarah: "Happy birthday, baby!" gives her a hug

They embrace for a moment before Sarah pulls back, her eyes narrowing slightly.

Sarah: "Okay, but Topper and Rafe are staying here too? That’s what he told me."

Y/N’s face falls into a nervous expression.

Y/N: "Fuck…" pauses "Well, that’s gonna be... interesting."

Sarah and Y/N lock eyes for a moment, then both spot a bottle of tequila on the counter. Without another word, they grab the bottle and each take a shot.

Cut to the front door, where John B. is struggling to carry two suitcases out of the car. The camera switches to his confessional.

John B.’s Confessional "I’m John B., 23, and I’ve been dating Sarah for the past four months. My best friends are the pogues—JJ, Pope, Kiara, Cleo, Y/N, and Sarah. As for the kooks... I don’t necessarily like them, but it’s not on sight if I see them."

Cut to John B. entering the house, dragging the bags in. He sees Sarah and Y/N laughing by the counter.

John B.: "Happy birthday, Y/N!" gives her a big hug

Y/N: "Thanks, JB! Where’s JJ?"

The camera cuts to JJ riding down the sun-kissed streets of OBX on his motorcycle. The sound of the engine rumbles as he speeds down the road.

JJ’s Confessional "I’m JJ, 23. Yeah, I don’t like kooks. And it’s on sight if I see them. I’ve got my squad—Y/N, Sarah, John B., Pope, Kiara, Cleo, and we all stick together." pauses "I’ve got a little thing for Y/N, but... it’s complicated."

JJ pulls up to the mansion on his bike, kicking the stand down. He walks inside, throwing open the front door with a grin.

JJ: "Papas home!"

The camera cuts to Sarah, John B., and Y/N rushing to greet him at the door. Y/N gives JJ a hug that lingers longer than necessary, causing Sarah to shoot John B. a subtle, knowing look. He gives Sarah a matching look, and together, they both simultaneously walk away, leaving JJ and Y/N still hugging.

Pilot (Continued)

JJ and Y/N finally pull apart, both grinning. JJ's eyes twinkle as he reaches into his bag.

JJ: "I've got your birthday gifts."

Y/N: "Gifts? Plural?"

JJ: "You know it."

He opens his tattered duffle bag, rummaging through it before pulling out a crumpled brown paper bag. He hands it to Y/N with a grin.

Y/N: She takes the bag, holding it up to her nose and sniffing it, jerking back immediately. "Woah."

JJ: "I know, right? Only the 'stickiest of ickies' for my girl’s 21st."

Y/N laughs, the excitement in her voice unmistakable.

Y/N: Loudly and dramatically, she yells "STICKYYYYY!" like Tyler, The Creator and Sexy Red's song.

She gives JJ another long hug, grinning from ear to ear.

Y/N: "We’ll save it for tonight."

JJ: "Bet. And I’ll give you your other gift tonight."

Y/N: Teasing with a smirk, she raises her eyebrows. "Oooo, my other gift at night? Sounds sexy."

They both burst out laughing, the playful tension between them undeniable.

Cut to the upstairs area where everyone is gathered around, discussing sleeping arrangements. Y/N and Sarah stand in a room with four queen-sized beds. Y/N quickly claims one of the beds while Sarah glances around, counting beds.

Sarah: "Ugh, I’m guessing Kiara is coming, seeing as there are four beds."

Y/N: Scolding, she replies "Sarah, please. Just be nice and cordial for me, okay? It’s my birthday trip."

Sarah: Rolls her eyes. "Fine, but if she comes for me, all bets are off."

Y/N sighs, shaking her head.

Y/N: "This is gonna be a long week."

The camera switches to JJ and John B., who are surveying the two rooms connected by a bathroom. One has a bunk bed and a single bed, and the other has two queen beds. They exchange looks.

John B.: "We should probably take this room so we can room with Pope."

JJ: "Right, but who are those other two beds in the other room for?"

John B. goes quiet for a moment, then sighs before answering.

John B.: "Sarah told me that Topper told her that him and Rafe are coming."

JJ’s eyes widen, and he immediately jumps off the bottom bunk with a start.

JJ: "What the—who the fuck invited them!?"

John B. immediately grabs JJ’s shoulder, manhandling him back onto the bed with a calm grip.

John B.: "Easy, man. We can’t get crazy."

JJ goes quiet, deep in thought. John B. watches him, concerned.

John B.: "You good?"

JJ looks up, his expression shifting from frustration to something more controlled.

JJ: "Yeah, I’ll be cool... as long as they’re cool."

John B.: "Okay, good. This is supposed to be a fun experience. Don’t let them ruin it."

John B. lies back on his single bed, closing his eyes in an attempt to relax. JJ stares at him for a moment, a devilish look on his face.

JJ: Leaning forward, he starts rummaging through his duffle bag. "And plus, I brought my backup."

John B. opens one eye, just in time to see JJ pull something from his bag. JJ holds it up with a triumphant grin.

JJ: "Aha!"

John B. immediately opens both eyes, his face dropping as he realizes what JJ’s holding. It’s a gun—his eyes widen in shock.

The camera focuses on John B.’s worried expression as he stares at the gun.

John B. (looking directly at the camera): Panicked, his voice shaky. "Uh, JJ, man, what the hell are you doing?"

The screen immediately cuts to static, followed by an error sound effect. The camera cuts to JJ, now walking into the confessional room, a cocky grin plastered on his face.

JJ (laughing): "Sorry, y’all, I didn’t read the contract before I signed it, and apparently, there are no weapons allowed [uses air quotes]—even BB guns."

Even the producers chuckle behind the camera.

JJ: "I’m on strike one already, and we’ve only been here for 40 minutes... so... yeah, it’s gonna be a long week."

The screen fades to black, teasing what’s to come next.

Scene: Topper and Rafe’s Arrival

The sound of an engine rumbles as Rafe’s F-150 cruises down the sunny streets of the Outer Banks. The truck gleams under the sun, a reflection of Rafe’s personality—flashy, over-the-top, and unapologetic. Topper rides shotgun, sunglasses on, leaning back casually. The coastal scenery whizzes past as the two make small talk.

Topper: "Man, I can’t believe we’re doing this. A whole week in that house with them."

Rafe: Smirking, eyes on the road. "Yeah, well, free booze and drama? I’m in. Plus, I’ve got a few... loose ends to tie up."

Topper: Chuckling. "Loose ends? More like bad decisions."

Rafe: Laughing darkly. "Touché. But you know me—I make things interesting."

Topper: Glancing at Rafe. "You do realize Sarah’s gonna be there, right? And John B?"

Rafe: His smirk widens into something more sinister. "Please. Like I’m scared of them. Besides, I’ve got better things to focus on."

The truck pulls up to the secluded mansion, the ocean shimmering in the background. Both men step out, their confident strides and designer clothes immediately setting them apart from the laid-back vibes of the Outer Banks. They exchange a look, smirking as they grab their bags and head toward the house. The front door swings open, and the energy shifts as they enter, their presence palpable.

Rafe’s Confessional

Rafe leans back in the confessional chair, an unlit cigarette dangling between his fingers. He smirks at the camera, exuding cocky arrogance.

Rafe: "Name’s Rafe Cameron. Twenty-four, born and bred Kook royalty. If you don’t know what a Kook is, let me educate you. We’re the elite, the ones who run this place. The Pogues? They’re the bottom-feeders. The ones who clean our boats and beg for scraps. It’s not a rivalry. It’s reality."

He pauses, his smirk turning colder.

Rafe: "My dad, Ward Cameron, recently passed. Rest in peace, Dad." He presses a hand to his chest mockingly, then lets it fall. "Left me a fortune, so, yeah, life’s looking pretty good for me. Oh, and as for this week? Let’s just say I hooked up with Y/N last week, but I’m keeping that little detail under wraps for now. Timing is everything."

He leans forward, staring into the camera with a look that’s both charming and unsettling.

Rafe: "This week’s gonna be fun—for me."

Topper’s Confessional

Topper sits in the confessional chair, his posture relaxed but his tone serious.

Topper: "Topper Thornton. Twenty-three. Born and raised in Figure Eight. Some people think I’m just a trust-fund kid who parties too much, but there’s more to me than that."

He adjusts his sunglasses, sighing.

Topper: "So, yeah, Sarah and I broke up six months ago. It was mutual, but honestly? I think it’s the break we both needed. That said..." He pauses, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I’m here to win her back. I know she’s with John B, but let’s be real—what they have isn’t serious. It’s a phase. She’ll come around. She always does."

He leans back, smirking faintly.

Topper: "This week’s about showing Sarah who she really belongs with. Me."

Back in the house, Rafe and Topper walk into the main living area, their presence impossible to ignore. Y/N and JJ are still joking by the staircase, while Sarah and John B stand off to the side, their conversation interrupted by the new arrivals. Everyone goes quiet as the tension in the room skyrockets.

Rafe: Grinning as he surveys the group. "Well, well, well. Looks like the gang’s all here."

The camera pans to Sarah, her jaw tightening as she glances at John B. Y/N’s eyes dart between Rafe and JJ, sensing the brewing storm. JJ’s posture stiffens, his eyes narrowing at Rafe, while Topper’s gaze zeroes in on Sarah, his confident smirk unshaken.

Topper: Casually, with a slight edge. "Hey, Sarah. Long time no see."

Sarah: Her voice tight, controlled. "Not long enough."

The tension is thick, the air charged with unspoken words and unresolved history. The camera lingers on the group, capturing the shifting dynamics and subtle glares before cutting to black.

Y/N’s Secret Gets Hinted At

Upstairs, Sarah closes the door to their shared bedroom and leans against it dramatically.

Sarah: "Okay, bestie, what’s up? Why are you dodging Rafe like he’s a pop quiz?"

Y/N: "What? I’m not dodging anyone."

She starts unpacking her bag, purposefully looking down to avoid Sarah’s gaze. Sarah raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms.

Sarah: "Girl. You’re giving off major 'I did something dumb' energy. Spill."

Y/N groans, dropping onto the bed.

Y/N: "It’s not even a thing, okay? It happened once, and it was a mistake."

Sarah gasps, eyes wide.

Sarah: "Wait... are you telling me you hooked up with my brother?"

Y/N quickly shushes her, frantically waving her hands.

Y/N: "Keep your voice down! Do you want them to hear?"

Sarah flops onto the bed beside her, looking both shocked and intrigued.

Sarah: "First of all, ew. Second of all, why didn’t you tell me?! Third—wait, no—why Rafe?!"

Y/N: "I don’t know, okay? It was tequila, bad decisions, and... I don’t know. He was just... there."

Sarah sits up, giving her a pointed look.

Sarah: "That man is like a walking red flag, Y/N. Does JJ know?"

Y/N: "No, and he’s not going to. It’s not like it meant anything."

Sarah squints at her like she doesn’t quite believe her but eventually sighs.

Sarah: "Alright, fine. Your secret’s safe with me. But if this blows up, don’t say I didn’t warn you."

Y/N buries her face in her hands.

Y/N: "It’s my birthday. Can’t the universe give me a break?"

Kiara’s Arrival

Their conversation is cut short by the sound of a car door slamming. The camera cuts to Kiara stepping out of her car, her vibe effortlessly cool in an oversized hoodie, ripped jeans, and sneakers. She waves at the camera with a cheeky grin.

Kiara (Confessional): "Sup, I’m Kiara. I’m 22, full-time Pogue, part-time shit-stirrer. I’m here to celebrate Y/N, keep it chill, and maybe bring some chaos. 'Cause, let’s be real, what’s a trip without a little drama?"

Back at the house, Kiara pushes open the door and shouts:

Kiara: "Where’s the birthday girl?!"

Y/N and Sarah head downstairs. Y/N grins, running over to hug Kiara.

Y/N: "Kiara! Finally, someone I actually like."

Kiara: "Happy birthday, babe! Ready to make this week unforgettable?"

Kiara’s gaze shifts to Sarah, her smile turning into a tight-lipped smirk.

Kiara: "Sarah."

Sarah: "Kiara."

The air thickens as the two exchange icy nods. Y/N sighs, stepping between them.

Y/N: "Okay, can we not? It’s my birthday. Please just act like adults for one week?"

Kiara shrugs, throwing an arm over Y/N’s shoulder.

Kiara: "Fine by me. As long as she doesn’t start anything, we’re good."

Sarah: "Trust me, I was about to say the same thing."

Y/N groans, muttering under her breath:

Y/N: "Y’all are exhausting."

The camera lingers on the tension as Kiara grabs her bag and heads upstairs to claim her bed. She passes by Rafe and Topper in the kitchen, pointedly ignoring Rafe’s cocky smirk. The scene ends with JJ watching everything from the corner, his fists clenched as the tension in the house continues to rise.

Pope and Cleo’s Arrival

The camera cuts to Pope and Cleo arriving in a sleek black SUV. Pope gets out first, adjusting his backpack with a confident but relaxed smile. Cleo follows, hopping out and glancing around curiously.

Pope (Confessional): "Hey, I’m Pope. I’m 21, and I’m here to keep the peace... or at least try to. I’m in college at USC on a full scholarship, which is where I met Cleo. She’s my ride-or-die. Bringing her along is kinda like introducing my family to my friends, so... we’ll see how that goes."

The camera shifts to Cleo, tossing her long braids over her shoulder and grinning mischievously.

Cleo (Confessional): "Hi, I’m Cleo. I’m 22, and this is my first time meeting Pope’s OBX crew. I’ve heard some wild stories, so I’m excited—and a little nervous—to see what the hype’s about. Oh, and yeah, I go to USC too. Go Trojans or whatever."

Inside the house, the group hears the door open, and Pope’s voice echoes:

Pope: "What’s up, OBX?!"

Y/N rushes to greet them, hugging Pope tightly before turning to Cleo.

Y/N: "Cleo! Finally, someone I’ve been dying to meet."

Cleo smiles, pulling Y/N into a warm hug.

Cleo: "Happy birthday, girl! Pope’s been hyping you up nonstop."

Pope grins, slinging an arm around Cleo.

Pope: "I only tell the truth."

JJ (from the kitchen): "Yo, Pope! About time. We were starting to think you bailed."

Pope: "Wouldn’t miss this for the world, man."

The Birthday Shot

The group gathers downstairs at the dining room island, where JJ has lined up tequila shots. Y/N stands in the middle, glowing as everyone crowds around her. JJ grabs his shot glass and clears his throat.

JJ: "Alright, alright, everyone shut up for a sec. This is for Y/N. The realest one I know, the only person who can put up with all of us, and... the birthday queen. Cheers to 21!"

The group cheers, lifting their glasses, but before anyone can drink, Rafe cuts in.

Rafe: "Wait, hold up. I gotta say something too."

Everyone groans, but Rafe smirks, holding his shot glass like he owns the place.

Rafe: "To Y/N. The baddest in the room. The only person who’s ever been able to handle me, and trust me, that’s no small feat. You deserve everything good in life, even if you make... interesting choices sometimes."

His gaze lingers on Y/N, a smirk playing on his lips. The group exchanges awkward glances, sensing the weight of his words. Before anyone can react, Kiara steps in.

Kiara: "To Y/N. The real MVP. The only reason I’m putting up with all these people. Here’s to a week of unforgettable memories, good energy, and no drama."

The group laughs and cheers louder this time, finally taking their shots. The camera pans across everyone’s faces, capturing the tension that still lingers despite the toast.

Y/N’s Confessional

Y/N (Confessional): "Yeah, so that toast? A little cringe. Rafe just loves to stir the pot, and I already know he’s gonna push someone’s buttons. I need to talk to him and make sure he’s on his best behavior because I swear if he starts something, it’s not gonna end well—for anyone."

The camera cuts back to the group as they finish their shots. Cleo nudges Pope, whispering something that makes him laugh. JJ eyes Rafe from across the room, his jaw clenched. Meanwhile, Sarah is scrolling on her phone, clearly trying to ignore Kiara’s presence. The tension is palpable, and the week is just getting started.

The next scene opens with the roommates lounging around the kitchen, debating what to barbeque for dinner. The countertops are scattered with an assortment of snacks, condiments, and grocery bags.

Pope leans on the island, surveying the options. "Alright, we’ve got burgers, chicken, hot dogs, and veggie burgers. What’s the move?"

"Veggie burgers, obviously," Kiara interjects with a raised eyebrow.

"I say wings," Sarah suggests, holding up a pack of chicken. "I’ll whip up a marinade."

"I got the grill," JJ announces, puffing out his chest. "It’s basically my calling."

"Yeah, right," Kiara snorts. "You’re banned after last summer. Remember? You almost burned my dad’s dock down."

"It was windy!" JJ shoots back, hands up in defense.

Rafe, leaning against the counter, smirks. "I’ll handle the bonfire. At least I know what I’m doing."

"Yeah, ‘cause playing with fire is your whole personality," JJ mutters, his voice low but cutting.

Before Rafe can respond, the kitchen door swings open, and the producer steps in, casually dressed but commanding attention with a loud clap. "Alright, everyone, can I get you to meet me in the living room? We’ve got a quick meeting."

The roommates exchange puzzled looks but shuffle into the living room, taking their spots on the oversized sectional. JJ quickly slides into the seat next to Y/N, throwing his arm casually over the back of the couch. Rafe, arriving a second too late, lingers behind them, his jaw tightening as he glares at JJ. The camera lingers on Rafe’s expression, emphasizing the tension.

The producer stands before them, clipboard in hand, his tone both cheerful and authoritative. "Okay, so here’s the deal. This week is all about bonding—getting to know each other in real life, without distractions."

"Distractions?" Y/N tilts her head, already suspicious.

The producer smirks. "Yup. That means we’ll be taking your phones for the week."

A chorus of groans ripples through the group.

"You can’t be serious," Sarah complains. "What am I supposed to do without my socials?"

"It’s for the experience," the producer explains. "No texts, no calls, no social media. Just you, your roommates, and the art of conversation."

JJ slouches dramatically, crossing his arms. "This feels illegal."

"You’ll live," Pope quips, shooting JJ a teasing grin. "Just pretend it’s the '90s."

Kiara rolls her eyes. "Or the 1890s. Back when people had actual survival skills."

"Yeah, great sales pitch," Rafe deadpans, crossing his arms behind Y/N and JJ.

The producer chuckles. "Trust me, it’ll be worth it. You’ll get your phones back at the end of the week. For now, just focus on each other. Deal?"

Y/N sighs theatrically. "Fine, but if I miss an important text, it’s on you."

"Noted," the producer says with a smile. "Alright, everyone, hand them over."

One by one, the roommates reluctantly deposit their phones into a box held by the producer. The mood is a mix of resignation and apprehension.

As the producer exits, the camera lingers on the group’s awkward silence. JJ taps Y/N’s shoulder playfully, breaking the tension. "Alright, so... who’s ready to bond without Twitter?"

Rafe’s sharp gaze on the two of them doesn’t go unnoticed as the screen cuts to black.

As the group gathers around the grill, a warm glow from the setting sun reflects off the ocean, casting a serene atmosphere over the beach. The bonfire is set up in the distance, ready for the night ahead. The sound of sizzling meat on the grill fills the air as everyone chips in to help with the cooking.

JJ is the first to take charge, tossing some burgers on the grill with exaggerated flair. "Whoever says you can’t cook a decent meal on a beach is seriously underestimating the power of my grilling skills," he declares with a grin.

Sarah, handing over a platter of veggies, raises an eyebrow. "You sure about that, JJ? You nearly set the kitchen on fire last week."

Y/N chuckles, tossing a bottle of ketchup at him. "If I end up with a burnt burger, I’m blaming you."

JJ catches it effortlessly and winks. "Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered. You’re gonna love it."

Meanwhile, Cleo is in charge of setting up the drinks by the bonfire. "Who’s in for a drink? I’ve got the good stuff!" she calls out, her voice full of mischief. "But remember, it’s a limited supply."

Kiara, having a blast as she passes a bowl of chips to Pope, leans over. "Do you think the producer’s gonna try and turn us into a drama show with all this phone confiscation nonsense?"

Pope shakes his head, laughing. "If they do, they’re in for a surprise. None of us are easy to manipulate."

Rafe, though quieter, catches Pope’s comment with a smirk, the glint in his eyes giving away his amusement. He cracks a beer open, eyeing the group as if evaluating the situation. "I think this whole thing’s gonna get real interesting," he mutters, almost to himself.

nside the small, dimly lit confessional room, John B sits in front of the camera, a relaxed grin spreading across his face as he leans back slightly in the chair. The soft hum of the room’s air conditioning is the only sound for a moment, before he starts speaking to the camera, his voice light but sincere.

"Alright, so... it’s been a bit of a weird start, not gonna lie," he begins, running a hand through his hair. "Phones? Gone. But honestly? It's kinda been a blessing in disguise. Everyone’s tipsy, everyone’s laughing, and the vibes are... good, you know? Like, there’s definitely some tension, but right now? Everyone’s chilling, having a good time. It’s like we’ve already forgotten why we were even bothered in the first place."

He pauses for a second, smiling to himself. "I just hope this keeps up, honestly. I mean, we’re all stuck here for a week together, and if we can keep this... positive energy going, maybe this trip won’t be so bad after all. But, who knows? In reality TV, things can change on a dime." He shrugs, giving the camera a playful smirk. "Fingers crossed it stays this way."

John B leans forward, his grin widening. "Anyway, I’m here for the good times, and right now, we’re definitely having those. Let’s just hope that lasts." He winks at the camera, and the screen cuts back to the group enjoying themselves around the bonfire, the sound of laughter carrying over the breeze.

Back by the grill, the laughter continues as Sarah expertly flips a couple of burgers, teasing JJ. "See, I told you I could do this better than you."

"Okay, okay, but only because I’m distracted by someone," JJ responds, glancing at Y/N with a playful wink.

Y/N rolls their eyes, not able to hide their smile. "Sure, blame it on me. You’ll be the one running for seconds once they’re done."

The group continues to laugh and joke around as they serve up the food, the mood lightening with every passing minute. As they gather around the bonfire, drinks in hand, the initial tension begins to dissolve. They all settle into the warmth of the fire and the flickering light, realizing that this trip might not be so bad after all.

John B glances around at the group, nodding to himself. "Yeah, this could be the start of something... interesting."

And as the camera pulls back, the sounds of laughter and lighthearted banter echo across the beach, the night just beginning.

Just as the laughter dies down, Topper stands up from where he’d been lounging on a nearby log, holding up a bottle in one hand. He flashes a mischievous grin.

"Alright, alright, enough with the Pope stories," he says, his voice carrying a playful tone. "How about we spice things up a little with a game? Truth or drink, anyone?"

The group exchanges amused glances, intrigued by the suggestion.

Rafe chuckles, leaning forward. "Now we’re talking. This is how you get to know people."

Kiara, already sipping from her drink, raises an eyebrow. "Oh, this is gonna get interesting."

"Alright," Topper continues, settling back into his seat with the bottle. "I’ll start. Y/N, truth or drink?"

Y/N looks around the group for a moment before deciding, "I’ll go with truth."

Topper’s grin widens. "Alright, spill. Which roommates have you kissed?"

The group falls silent for a second, the tension hanging in the air as all eyes turn to Y/N, who takes a slow sip from their drink. They set the glass down, not missing a beat.

"Well," Y/N begins, a teasing glint in their eyes, "I’ve kissed all the boys at some point... except for you, Topper."

A collective laugh erupts from the group, some people shaking their heads in disbelief, others just enjoying the unexpected honesty. JJ raises his glass with a playful grin. "Guess I’m the favorite," he says, leaning back confidently.

Topper shrugs, clearly amused. "Alright, I’ll take that as a compliment. But now it’s your turn, JJ."

The playful mood shifts slightly as Rafe suddenly leans in, an eyebrow arched, his tone a bit more pointed. "So, JJ," he starts, eyes locking onto him, "who was that one girl you hooked up with last month? You know, the one you’ve been dodging talking about."

The air grows a little colder, the group sensing the shift. JJ’s smile falters for just a second, his eyes flicking toward the bottle of liquor.

He takes a deep breath, then grabs the bottle and pours himself a drink, not saying a word. His eyes briefly meet Rafe’s, but instead of responding, he tips the bottle back, taking a long swig.

The room falls into an awkward silence for a moment, the tension between the two palpable. Finally, JJ slams the bottle down on the ground with a lighthearted chuckle. "Alright, moving on," he says, clearly avoiding the question. "Who’s next?"

The group hesitates for just a moment before the tension begins to dissolve. Kiara nudges Pope, forcing a smile. "Okay, Pope, truth or drink?"

The camera lingers on the group, their laughter hesitant but building once more as the game continues, the vibes slowly lightening again, despite the brief awkwardness that lingers in the air.

The scene opens with the group gathered around the bonfire, now buzzing with activity as they begin the task of cleaning up after dinner. Plates clink together, and the smell of grilled food still lingers in the air as everyone works together, washing dishes and tidying up the space. There's a lighthearted mood—until Topper, wiping his hands on a dish towel, casually leans back and says something that cuts through the buzz of conversation like a knife.

"You know," Topper says, his voice a bit too loud for the moment, "Sarah and I used to do this all the time. You know, go on trips like this. Good times."

John B freezes for a split second, his hand tightening around the dish he’s drying, his jaw clenching visibly. The smile on his face falters, replaced by a tight-lipped grimace as his eyes flick toward Sarah. He says nothing, but the tension in the air is palpable.

Sarah, still focused on drying a glass, suddenly goes rigid, her face hardening. She doesn’t even look at Topper when she snaps, "Topper, shut up."

The words hang in the air, cutting the moment short. The group falls silent for a heartbeat before the sound of dishes clattering resumes, but the mood has shifted. The easy camaraderie is replaced with an uncomfortable energy, a quiet discomfort that seems to settle over everyone.

As the group begins to move on with the task, Rafe sees an opportunity to stir the pot further. Watching the tension play out, he casually gets up from the table, a sly smile tugging at his lips. He looks toward Y/N, who’s distracted by the cake preparations. Slowly, he approaches them, his voice smooth as he addresses them in a low, almost conspiratorial tone.

"Hey," Rafe starts, leaning slightly toward Y/N. "You seemed a lot happier last week when it was just... us." His eyes flicker knowingly, leaving the implication in the air without outright saying it. "It’s kinda funny how things change, huh?"

Y/N, caught off guard by his insinuation, stiffens for a moment, but quickly recovers. They force a smile, unsure of how to respond. "What’s your point, Rafe?"

Rafe shrugs casually, his smile remaining almost too sweet. "Just making an observation. You looked like you were having a good time back then. I wonder what changed."

The weight of his words hangs over Y/N as they try to ignore the growing unease bubbling inside. The tension between the group is palpable now, and Rafe’s subtle mind games are only adding fuel to the fire.

The camera captures the way Y/N’s gaze darts around the group, noticing the lingering discomfort, especially between John B and Sarah. They feel the weight of the situation bearing down on them, and despite the surprise birthday cake still in the works, it’s clear that this vacation has become anything but relaxing.

As the group gathers around the table to set up the cake, the atmosphere is thick with unspoken words and unresolved tension, leaving everyone wondering just how much longer the fragile peace will hold.

The scene cuts to the afterglow of the birthday celebration. The group is gathered around the bonfire, the flickering flames illuminating their faces as they finish singing "Happy Birthday" to Y/N. Laughter fills the air as Y/N blows out the candle on the cake, the group cheering and clapping. But despite the cheerful atmosphere, Y/N feels a sudden urge to step away, to get a moment of peace.

She makes her way inside the house, finding the hallway empty, the sounds of the party fading into the distance. Leaning against the wall just a few feet away is Rafe, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, as if he’d been waiting for this moment. Y/N stops in front of him, and for a moment, the only sound is the distant hum of the party.

Rafe pushes off from the wall, standing so close to Y/N that she can smell his cologne—deep and musky, with a faint hint of something else that makes her heart race just a little faster. His presence is magnetic, and for a split second, it’s easy to fall back into their old rhythm.

"You look good tonight," Rafe says with a smile, his tone smooth, almost too casual. He steps a little closer, his breath almost brushing against Y/N’s skin. "It’s funny, you know? I never forget how easy it is to fall back into this." He gestures vaguely between them, the unspoken history hanging heavy in the air.

Y/N glances at him, her heartbeat picking up speed, but she’s careful not to let it show. She crosses her arms over her chest, a slight frown pulling at the corners of her lips. "I’m not doing this with you, Rafe," she says quietly but firmly. "I don’t want any drama."

Rafe’s smile falters just for a moment, but he quickly masks it with a shrug. "Drama?" he repeats, almost mockingly. "Come on, we both know what we’ve had before. It’s nothing but fun, right?" His gaze never leaves Y/N, and there’s an intensity in his eyes that only adds to the tension. "I was just saying, I’ve missed this—us."

Y/N swallows, resisting the pull of his gaze. "I really like JJ," she says, her voice softer, almost apologetic, but steady. "I’m not going down that road again with you."

Rafe doesn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening just the slightest bit. The words sting more than he lets on, but he keeps his cool, a forced smile creeping onto his face. "JJ, huh?" he says, the hint of sarcasm in his voice, though the bitterness remains hidden. "Well, I guess you’ve got your type."

There’s a flicker in Rafe’s eyes, something dark and possessive, but it disappears just as quickly as it appears. He tilts his head, his voice lower now, teasing. "It’s not like it ever stopped being easy between us. You sure you want to play it that way?"

Y/N stands her ground, feeling the weight of the unspoken things between them. "I’m not playing games with you, Rafe," she replies, voice firm but with a quiet undercurrent of frustration.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The air is thick with tension, the past between them lingering, but neither one willing to push too far. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Rafe lets out a breath, his expression unreadable.

He steps forward, closing the small gap between them, and pulls Y/N into a hug, brief but tight. It’s almost too easy to fall back into this—into the familiarity of his touch, the weight of his body pressing against hers. Y/N hesitates for a moment before returning the hug, her arms encircling his waist, though it feels almost instinctive, like it’s something they’ve done a thousand times before.

Rafe pulls away slightly, looking down at her with a faint, almost sad smile. "You’re not gonna tell him, are you?" he asks, his voice low and casual, but with an underlying question that hangs between them.

Y/N just shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak. She can feel the tension building again, the space between them filled with a thousand things left unsaid.

"Guess we’ll just have to leave it at that," Rafe murmurs, his voice quiet, eyes lingering on Y/N a moment longer before he steps back. His expression is unreadable, but the distance between them feels heavier now, like something is shifting, something irreversible.

With a final look, Rafe turns and walks away, leaving Y/N standing in the hallway, her thoughts swirling. The hug lingers in her mind, the heat of Rafe’s presence still pressing against her skin, and she realizes that while the conversation is over, the complexity of her feelings is far from simple.

The camera lingers on Y/N as she stands in the hallway, her thoughts still heavy after the conversation with Rafe. A moment later, Rafe walks past her, heading back to the kitchen with a purposeful stride. He doesn’t look back, but the smirk on his face suggests something is brewing, and Y/N can’t shake the feeling that something's off.

Inside the kitchen, the group is still buzzing with energy, the sounds of laughter and playful banter drifting through the house. Meanwhile, Rafe pulls Topper aside, his voice low but urgent.

"Hey," Rafe starts, his gaze scanning the room quickly before he locks eyes with Topper. "I’ve got something that’ll make the night a little more interesting. You in?"

Topper, looking intrigued but cautious, raises an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"

Without another word, Rafe motions for Topper to follow him, and they slip out of the kitchen, walking down the hallway towards the bathroom. The sounds of the group in the next room grow fainter as the camera follows them, the atmosphere in the house shifting as they enter the bathroom.

As the door clicks shut behind them, the camera’s angle shifts slightly, picking up the faint sound of sniffing through their mics—enough to hint at what’s really going on inside. The camera lingers on the bathroom door for a few seconds, allowing the tension to build before cutting back to the rest of the group.

Meanwhile, the roommates in the living room are oblivious to the shift in energy as they continue playing a lively game of Uno. Everyone is laughing, teasing one another, and the playful arguments escalate over who’s cheating and who’s got the best hand. JJ is animated, gesturing wildly at Cleo as she steals another card, while Kiara gives Pope a look of mock suspicion, accusing him of stacking the deck.

The room feels light and carefree, but then the door creaks open, and Rafe and Topper return, both of them noticeably jittery, their energy somehow more frantic. The camera catches Rafe’s eyes darting around the room, his smile a little too wide, while Topper shifts uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

Y/N, sitting across from them, catches the odd behavior almost immediately. She narrows her eyes, side-eyeing the pair as they try to blend back in with the group. Something about their sudden restlessness doesn’t sit right with her.

"Everything okay with you two?" Y/N asks, her voice casual, but there's an edge to it. She watches them both closely, her intuition already on high alert.

Rafe’s smile falters for a fraction of a second before he grins again, but it’s a bit too forced. "Yeah, just a little… bathroom break. You know how it is," he says, his words coming out too quickly, and Topper nods in agreement, though he looks less convinced.

Y/N doesn’t buy it. Her gaze flickers between them, but she says nothing more, instead focusing on the game at hand. Still, the unease she feels lingers in the back of her mind, and she can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted in the atmosphere, something no one else has noticed.

The group resumes their game, but the tension is palpable, the playful mood slightly dimmed as Y/N glances from one of them to the other, trying to ignore the growing suspicion gnawing at her.

The evening grows late, and the atmosphere is electric with tension and laughter as the group continues to play games. Music plays softly in the background, but there’s a palpable shift in energy. Everyone seems to be loosening up, the drinks flowing freely, but Y/N can feel the weight of the subtle animosity building between Rafe and JJ.

At one point, JJ, clearly trying to lighten the mood, hands Y/N a drink, flashing her a smile that feels a little too friendly.

"Here you go," JJ says, holding the drink out to her with a playful grin.

Y/N reaches out to take it, but before she can, Rafe steps in, leaning casually against the arm of the couch and holding up a drink of his own. "Actually," he says, voice dripping with smugness, "I made this one. It’s better."

Y/N hesitates, glancing between Rafe’s drink and the one in her hand. JJ’s eyes narrow as he steps forward, his tone sharp. "Oh yeah, definitely trust a drink from this guy," he sneers, a hint of sarcasm lacing his words.

Rafe smirks, never one to back down from a challenge. "Jealous much?" he taunts, his voice smooth and mocking, the edge of competition clear in his words.

The group falls silent for a moment, the tension palpable. Y/N can feel the heat rising between them, and before she can even respond, JJ throws a quick, biting remark. "You’ve always been a joke, Rafe."

Rafe’s smirk falters, the jabs hitting harder than expected, and before anyone can intervene, the argument escalates. JJ steps forward aggressively, his face reddening with frustration. "You think you’re so much better than everyone else," he spits out, his voice low and dangerous. "You don’t even belong here."

"You don’t even know what I’m capable of," Rafe retorts, his eyes flashing with anger.

Without warning, JJ’s fist flies through the air, connecting with Rafe’s jaw in a brutal punch that echoes through the room. The impact sends Rafe stumbling back, but he doesn’t fall. His bloodied lip splits open, a trickle of red staining his chin. The room erupts into chaos, everyone scrambling to intervene as the physical fight between the two men intensifies.

Y/N watches in shock as Rafe wipes the blood from his lip with a slow, almost amused expression. The fight spirals out of control, but Y/N steps forward, her voice cutting through the chaos. "Stop it, both of you!" she demands, her tone harsh as she locks eyes with Rafe.

The camera focuses on Rafe’s face, his bloodied expression somehow matching the twisted, dark smile creeping across his lips. He looks at Y/N, his voice low and mocking. "Really? You’re disgusted by me, but you came twice." His words cut deep, and the room goes silent, everyone holding their breath as the weight of what he just said hangs in the air.

Y/N’s face flushes with anger, her eyes flashing with pure disgust. "You sicken me," she spits out, her voice trembling with fury.

JJ, enraged by the comment, charges at Rafe again, but Pope and Kiara are quick to grab hold of him, holding him back with all their strength. JJ struggles, fighting against their grip, but Pope and Kiara are firm, keeping him from lunging at Rafe once more.

Rafe stands there, his bloody face a picture of sick satisfaction as he watches JJ struggle to break free. His smile widens, a cruel, almost victorious look in his eyes as he surveys the chaos he’s caused.

The camera zooms in on Rafe’s face, bloodied and twisted with that unsettling grin, while Y/N watches him, still seething, her hands shaking with the anger she can’t quite release. The fight, though momentarily halted, lingers in the air, the tension so thick that it’s impossible to ignore.

The group remains frozen, the weight of the unspoken words hanging between them all as the night feels like it’s teetering on the edge of something far darker.

Next time on OBX: After Dark...

The screen fades in from black, showing a quick montage of the tense aftermath from the night before. Each roommate speaks in their own confessional, offering their thoughts on the explosive events.

JJ’s Confessional: "Man, things got way too heated last night. Rafe’s just... a walking headache, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep my cool with him around."

Kiara’s Confessional: "Honestly, I’ve never seen the group like that. I thought we were here to have fun, but now it feels like a ticking time bomb."

Pope’s Confessional: "It’s getting out of hand. We’ve gotta stop this before someone gets seriously hurt. I mean, JJ throwing a punch—what’s next?"

Cleo’s Confessional: "I hate that I’m caught in the middle of this mess. I just wanted a good time... but I don’t think anyone’s having fun anymore."

Sarah’s Confessional: "Rafe and JJ… that was wild. But if I’m being honest, I’m kind of over the whole drama. Maybe I should’ve never let it go this far."

Topper’s Confessional: "Yeah, last night was intense. But honestly? It’s just gonna get worse from here. I’m not here to play nice anymore."

Rafe’s Confessional: "Everyone thinks they can control the situation. But I’ll tell you one thing—nobody gets to call the shots but me. This is just the beginning."

The screen flashes forward to the next day, showing Topper and Rafe exchanging sly grins as they invite a group of girls into the house. The camera zooms in on the shocked faces of the other roommates as they watch from the kitchen, their anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Y/N’s Confessional: "Topper and Rafe really think they can just bring people here like that? It’s like they don’t even care how the rest of us feel."

John B’s Confessional: "This isn’t a frat party. What are they trying to prove? We don’t need more chaos."

The screen cuts to Kiara and Sarah in the middle of an intense argument, their voices raised.

Kiara (yelling): "What, that you're a liar?"

Sarah (snapping back): "No, that you’re a shit-talking bitch!"

The room goes silent for a moment, followed by an exaggerated "Oooh!" from the rest of the group. The other roommates exchange shocked glances, their eyes wide at the sudden escalation.

Pope (whispering to Cleo): "Did that just happen?"

Cleo (eyes wide): "I think we’re about to see a whole new level of chaos."

The camera zooms in on Kiara and Sarah, both standing with fury in their eyes as the tension builds. The other roommates exchange nervous glances, unsure of how this argument will play out.

Coming up... The screen cuts to black as the voiceover echoes with suspense.

"Who will be pushed to their breaking point? And will the tension finally explode?"

taglist: @mymadokamagica @izurelia @davinashifts333 @hello-therree @cyberkitty1

[lolo3h]

Okay I was a little busy with college classes but new update video!

This video was crazy but I wanted to share my appreciation for the snakes because I really like them, and also some of my additional thoughts below the cut

I like the black/blue checkered pattern

This one appears to have eye patterns, shadow milk's eye motif is showing through

The one on the title screen is eating sheep. SInce pure vanilla is often associated with sheep, I'm assuming the symbolism is shadow milk 'devouring' pure vanilla in darkness

On the update title text, there's also the snake. I really love the illustration here, it just looks so pretty and how it wraps around the ribbon

Okay in other news, do yall actually think we're getting a corrupted pure vanilla?

Because yall... that's the silhouette from the korean livestream in December talking about the future updates

Shadow Milk's words are especially haunting: "It's time to accept the truth you like SO much! You are merely following in my footsteps. Oh but it's inevitable... In the end, YOU will become ME!"

And as I was rewatching the video for the 6th time, this cookie near the beginning caught my eye

That robe and dough color resemble pure vanilla, right? Or am I just imagining things?

But I guess whatever happens, pure vanilla isn't going to have a good time.

Edit: I may be looking into this too much, but the description of the video says “A world where Deceit. Comes Truth and Truth becomes Deceit…”. Pure vanilla’s ‘truth’ becomes ‘deceit’ by his corruption?

Also at the bottom left corner of the title screen there’s a crossed out portrait of the blueberry yogurt academy headmaster. I don’t really know what it means but it suggests shadow milk really has some deeper connection with pure vanilla’s past

[rowie264]

Councilors vs Chem-Barons

Remember that creators wanted to "show there is merits and flaws on both sides"? While I still feel that agenda in the first season, the second season is... well.

The easiest way to see that creators wanted you to be more sympathetic to Piltover is to look at the rulers of both cities. The Council is flawed but mostly fine, while Chem-Barons are purely bad.

You can protest that 'wait, but in s1 we saw that the Council is corrupted' and... i agree with that. But let's take a closer look at all members with information from both s1 and s2, hmm?

Torman Hoskel was portrayed as silly and easily manipulated person. He is the worst among them.

Salo makes the same appearance as Hoskel in s1. But in s2 he becomes disabled. This is the easiest way to manipulate you into sympathizing him. Of course, this wouldn't change your view of him completely, since his personality remained the same, but you can understand his anger (his suffering is shown on the screen). Besides, later when Viktor heals his legs, Salo changes, losing his arrogance and becoming a good person.

Irius Bolbok is strict, composed and slightly harsh ruler (remember him saying to find the culprit no matter what). But he isn't shown as bad as Hoskel and Salo in s1. He is quite decent.

Shoola was portrayed as reasanable ruler from very beginning. She was the first who said "They [zaunites] may not be your preferred consituents but they're still our people." She was the first after Mel who voted for Zaun's independance. In s2, we see how she cares about people rather than acting in the interests of revenge like Salo.

Cassandra Kiramman was also showed as good person even in s1. She might not be active Zaun's simpathizer but she did schedule an audience for Caitlyn and Vi giving them a chance to change Councilors opinion about Zaun (ofc it's bc Cait is her daughter but Cassandra could just deny her). Also in s2 we learn that she built a ventilation system which makes her the only Councilor (beside Jayce) who actually did something for Zaun.

Mel Medarda is shown as a woman who does things for her own benefit, manipulating others. But she still did vote for the independence of Zaun (albeit for personal reasons). You also can't say that she's a bad person or that she's done really bad things for her cause (like Silco for example).

Jayce is a bad politician and has made few mistakes, but at the end of the day, he is a good man.

Heimerdinger is portrayed as good person as well.

Even though we know that all of them are corrupt (except Heimer) and that they have ignored Zaun for decades, only one of them has no good traits and completely unlikable (Hoskel).

But what do we have with Chem-Barons?

Finn is an idiot and power-hungry.

Rennie is too. She lost her son, which to some extent makes you understand her attacks on memorial (not justify, just understand), but the show itself does not even focus on this fact, ignoring that little nuance.

Chross's goons force children to work in the mines. He also fights for Silco's chair to gain more power.

Smeech's business is connected to shimmer (i guess he provides it after Silco's death?). Only, unlike Silco, Smeech isn't shown as someone who uses shimmer simply as a tool to achieve a higher goal (nation of Zaun). He is just power-hungry like others. Also s2 shows that he doesn't value his own people.

Margot is unloyal as well. "I'd rather favor my chances with Topside". She fights for power like others.

Silco is the only one who commits bad deeds for a higher purpose. All he wants is an independent Zaun, not power itself. We see his positive traits such as dedication to his city, love for Jinx and others, which makes him the only really likable among other Chem-Barons.

Of course the government doesn't represent people themselves. We saw that there are good people in Zaun and there are bad people in Piltover. But you know what it does represent? Creators' true view of Piltover/Zaun conflict.

Despite everything Piltover was ready to grant Zaun independence. The Council was shown flawed but the characters themselves were not completely bad persons. You, as a viewer, can understand and sympathize them. Creators made sure you will sympathize them.

But Zaun? Bandits and criminals who don't think beyond their pockets. The only person who did and tried to do something good for Zaun was wrong, bc s2 promotes us "violence is not the answer" and "power of forgiveness" agenda.

So where are the "merits and flaws on both sides" again?

[hayleythesugarbowl]

I was really inspired by smoshs most recent video where they go back and rewatch their first video appearances so here is a request!!

this does not have to be based on a specific video but just more of an idea.

I would love an ian x reader who is on the crew but makes appearances here and there like spencer. where they react to a compilation of them basically being in love because they are a really huge ship in the fandom, and it makes them realize feelings, and you know how it goes from there!!

Shipped || Ian Hecox x reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ masterlist • smosh masterlist  ⋆˚｡⋆୨୧⋆

summary: when you and ian watch fan compilations of yourselves for a video, you realize how much you actually like each other

word count: 2.4k

warnings: swearing

a/n: ahh this is such a cute idea! i’m so sorry it took me so long to get to love, hope you enjoy 💌

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~°~❦~°~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     “Hey guys, today (Y/n) and I are going to be getting married!”

     There was a chorus of laughter from the crew as Ian went off-script. 

     “That is not what’s happening,” you said, in your best news anchor voice. 

     “She said no, cut the video,” Ian joked, spiking the camera.

     You laughed, rolling your eyes at him as he continued the intro.

     “But seriously, it is Valentine’s Day and to show you all how much we love and appreciate you, we’re going to be reacting to some fan compilations. Specifically compilations of us, because apparently, and Erin would be so proud of me for using this phrase, you ship it.”

     Ian gestured between the two of you. It was true. You’d started out at Smosh as an editor but after appearing in a TNTL Crew episode, the audience loved you and you kept making more and more appearances on camera.

     You were almost a regular cast member at this point. The new Tommy, people called you. And ever since you had begun appearing more regularly, fans had started shipping you with Ian immediately.

     It helped that you two were good friends and that most of the videos you were in, he was in as well. You and Ian had been close for a while now, ever since you’d started at Smosh a few years back.  

     You’d never thought of you guys as anything more than that though. Friends. But it was fun imagining the fans analyzing your interactions and making more of them. You couldn’t wait to watch the compilations.

     “We have compiled some edits and videos that you guys have made that are apparently about me and Ian,” you said. “I guess now that Shayne and Courtney are married and there aren’t enough clips of Angela and Mater, we’re ‘the ship’.”

     Ian nodded, laughing. “We haven’t watched these yet but I can’t wait to get started so let’s jump right in, shall we?”

     “We shall. This first one is called ‘ian and (y/n) being endgame for 17 minutes straight’ by rogertheredditor. Do we need to give a definition of endgame for Daddy Ian?”

     “Hey!” Ian protested. “I watched avengers.”

     That got a laugh from the crew and you put a hand on Ian’s shoulder.

     “Ok,” you said. “Let’s dive in.”

     You pressed play on the video and watched as clips of you and Ian came on the screen. Most of them were from videos you were in together, Reddit stories and TNTLs and challenge pit. You leaned your elbow on the table, giving the laptop all of your attention. 

 ───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     “Oh my gosh, Ian you can’t say that on camera!” You exclaimed as Shayne laughed, the iPad almost falling out of his hands. 

     “Well if James Charles didn’t want me talking about it, then he shouldn’t have done it,” Ian defended. 

     You smacked Ian on the shoulder as you laughed and he shoved your hand away yelling ‘cooties!’

     This only made you giggle more and you threw a pillow at him. He caught it, pretending to repeatedly hit you with it.

 ───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     You pressed pause. “I don’t even remember what you said. I just know we had to bleep it out.”

     “Oh I do,” Ian said, laughing. “It was—”

     “Next clip!” You interrupted him, pressing play.

 ───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     “Watch this” you told the camera, glancing at Ian in the stool. “This is about to be the fastest bit in TNTL history.”

     Ian looked at you with confusion in his eyes as you walked towards him, leaning in to whisper something in his ear.

     He immediately spit his water and you clapped, feeling triumphant. Ian choked on water as he lost it. 

     “Wait, now we have to know what you said!” Courtney exclaimed, coming out from behind the divider.

     “Inside joke,” you informed her. 

     “Wait, (Y/n),” Ian said, gesturing to you to come closer, a mischievous smile on his face. “Remember…”

     He leaned in and whispered something in your ear and you both started laughing again.

    “Get a room!” Angela called from off camera. 

───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     “Dude, I remember that,” Ian said, stopping the video. 

     “And we did get a room after that,” you joked. You remembered that moment too, you and Ian laughing over something no one else would’ve understood. You didn’t realize there were so many of these kinds of clips of you and Ian. 

     “(Y/n) stop! They’re gonna believe you and then this clip is going to be put in edits.”

     “You’re welcome Ian and (Y/n) shippers,” you winked at the camera.

     “Wait, we need a ship name,” Ian announced.

     “Put our ship name on the comments,” you said, starting the video again.

───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     “Oh my gosh, I’m gonna puke.”

     You waved your hand in front of your face as you tried to swallow—whatever was in your mouth.

     “What you are eating—or, drinking—is called ‘The Birthday Smoothie’,” Courtney read from the card. “Anchovies, birthday sprinkles, spice drops, and cream of wheat.”

     You gagged and Ian put a hand on your back, laughing. 

     “Can we fly in the puke bucket for (Y/n)?” He asked, looking at you in amusement as you grabbed on to the table, covering your mouth. 

     Courtney handed it to you and you turned, emptying the contents of your mouth into the bucket. Ian rubbed your back as everyone reacted. 

     “You’re ok,” he chuckled.

     You came up a moment later, wiping under your eyes and fixing your hair.

     “That was disgusting.”

     “You’re so dramatic,” Ian rolled his eyes. “It couldn’t have been that bad.”

     “Oh yeah, tough guy? Care to try it then.” You gestured to the smoothie still sitting on the table.

     “I would but—I’m on a diet so…”

     You giggled, rolling your eyes. 

    “Oh, you have a—” Ian trailed off, reaching to carefully pull a strand of hair off of your mic, tucking it behind your ear. “There.”

───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     And that was the end of the video. You sat there for a moment. You of course remembered that Eat it or Yeet it—in fact it was only filmed a couple weeks ago.

But you hadn’t realized how sweet Ian had been.

     You couldn’t get the image of him rubbing your back out of your head. Of him tucking your hair behind your ears.

     You turned to Ian now, only to find he was already looking at you. 

     “Um—well that was the first compilation. What did you think Ian?”

     “I think I looked good in all those clips so I’m not complaining.” Ian shrugged.

     “Ok Buddy,” you teased. “On to the next one. This one’s called ‘more ian and (y/n) clips that make anthony jealous’ by amangelalover9. Let’s jump in.”

     This video had some of the same clips from the first one but others were ones you hadn’t seen yet. A lot were times you and Ian shared the screen but others were simply moments where one of you mentioned or talked about the other one. 

───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

    “I was with Ian the other day…”

     “You know who would think this was so funny? (Y/n).”

     “Wait let me text Ian and settle this.”

     “Bro, (Y/n) said the most wild shit last night…”

───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     You watched with Ian, laughing and remembering each part that came on.

     A clip appeared that was older than many of the others—one of your earlier videos, judging by your hairstyle.

───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     “Hey guys, welcome back to challenge pit!” Keith announced. “Today we’re going to be competing to see who can win at doing household chores—but with a twist. I’m talking swords and shit.”

     “Swords and shit? Title of your sex tape.” Ian leaned over and mumbled to you.

     You busted up laughing and everyone else turned to see what was so funny.

     “Sorry Keith,” you wheezed. “Keep going with the intro. Please finish.”

     “Also the title of your sex tape.”

───────↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺───────

     Ian reached forward pausing the video on the laptop. “I remember that day.”

     “It was at the end of a shoot week, right?” You asked.

     Ian nodded, looking wistful. “Yeah. I remember it was the first time I made you laugh.”

     “Must have been the very end of a shoot week and I was delirious,” you teased, but your mind was on his words.

     Ian clutched his chest in mock offense. You giggled, nudging his shoulder as you pressed play again.

     As you watched more of the video and laughed with Ian, you couldn’t get his words out of your head. 

     I remember it was the first time I made you laugh

     He kept track of that?

     Eventually, the video ended and you moved on to the final one. 

     “That was so good,” Ian chuckled. “We are so Shourtney coded. Like I feel like if we announced that we were secretly married, no one would be shocked.”

     “Again with the marriage? Is this whole video a secret proposal or something?”

     “Only if you’d say yes,” Ian countered. 

     You knew he was joking, but something about his eyes—about the way he was looking at you—made your heart beat faster. It was probably just the effects of being in a video about you and Ian being in a ‘relationship’, but you found yourself imagining what it would be like if it was real.

     You had a sudden image of leaning across the table and bringing your lips to his. 

     You shook it off. “The jury’s out on that one. Meanwhile, our final video is titled ‘ian and (y/n) putting kelce and taylor to shame and giving us more feels than that one scene from marley and me’ and this one was posted by pandalover717.”

     The crew laughed at the long title and you kept talking. 

     “This is a shorter one—”

     “Shayne,” Ian coughed. A loud ‘hey!’ came from off-camera. You ignored them.

     “—so we’ll see what it entails. Let’s go.”

     You started the video and a Taylor Swift song started playing, dramatizing shots of you and Ian talking or hugging or falling on each other as you laughed.

     I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings

    Darling, you’re the one I want 

     Was this how everyone saw you and Ian? You had always been close but—had you been missing something.

    I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this 

    Darling you’re the one I want 

     How did you see you and Ian? How did he? You tried to think of your relationship from the perspective of these edits and fan videos.

     I want to drive away with you 

     I want your complications too.

     You tried to stop your heart from racing. You were starting to see Ian in a whole new light. 

     I want to drive away with you. 

     I want your complications too.

     Seeing all of these moments that you’d had with Ian—you were beginning to form a clearer picture that you hadn’t been able to see before. 

     I want your dreary Mondays 

     Wrap your arms around me, baby boy 

     Maybe one you hadn’t let yourself see before.

     Because you and Ian were friends. Best friends. 

     But what if you could be more than that. 

     You were lost in your thoughts as the video ended and Ian tapped a button on the laptop.

     “That song slaps every time,” Ian announced, turning to you. “What’d you think of that one?”

     You shook yourself out of it, answering Ian. “I love a good edit. These were all so good and it’s so much fun to see how you guys interpret interactions and find little hidden meanings in things.”

     “Or not-so-hidden meanings,” Ian said. He sounded so sincere that it threw you off.

     “What?”

     “Nothing. What—what was your favorite moment from all of those clips? Personally mine is when you lost your lunch after that smoothie.”

     You smacked his arm and he ducked away from you, holding up his arms in surrender. 

     “Not funny Ian, my stomach wasn’t right for a week. And I don’t know if I have a favorite, there were a lot of good ones. By some crazy coincidence basically all of the videos I’ve been in have been with this guy.”

      Ian was silent a moment.

     “And—and what if it wasn’t?” He finally said. “A coincidence, I mean.”

     “What?”

     “It was at the beginning but then I, um, might’ve asked to be put in every video you were going to be in,” Ian admitted, running a hand along the back of his neck nervously. 

     “Why?” Your voice came out breathless. “Why would you—”

      “Well,” Ian started, crossing his arms over his chest. “For starters, how else would people have enough content to make edits about us?”

     “Ian.”

     “Fine. At first it was just to hang out with you more,” Ian said, “We were such good friends and—and then it was more than that. Y’know, once I, kind of, fell in love with you.”

     You could’ve sworn your heart stopped. The room was silent. As far as you were concerned it was just you and Ian.  

     “Is this some bit for the video or—”

     “It’s not a bit,” Ian confessed, smiling ruefully. “I wish it was, because that I’d be good at. I’m not good at this. At emotions and feelings and—”

     But he never got to finish that sentence because you leaned over and kissed him. He kissed you back, his lips crashing into yours with an intensity you’d never seen from him. 

     When you broke apart, the entire room erupted into applause and shouts of ‘oh my god’ and ‘guys!’ and ‘pay up shayne, where’s my 30 bucks?’. That last one was Chanse.

     But you hardly heard any of it. You could only smile at Ian as he smiled back at you. 

     “Wow,” you said. “That was not how I imagined this video ending.”

     “Me neither,” Ian said. “But a guy can dream.”

     You smiled, thinking about how Ian had felt about you all this time. How you felt about him now. It would be a miracle if you could stop smiling.

      You looked away from Ian and towards the camera as Spencer spoke from behind it. “I think I speak for all the fans when I say we are going to have a field day with this video in our next edits. This is straight out of a Lynn Painter book”

     “We?” You asked, intertwining your fingers with Ian’s at the same time as Ian said,

“You read Lynn Painter books? 

     “Yeah,” Spencer shrugged “They’re dope as hell.”

     You giggled as he continued, a small smirk on his face. “And as for the edits…

Who do you think pandalover717 is?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~°~❦~°~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ˋ°•*⁀➷ hope you enjoyed babes, lots more smosh fics coming soon!! also if you caught my b99 reference ilysm 💋

[floraleevee]

Caveats/notes:

Many growers have reported success with “ZeroWater” filters. Not recommended if you have a lot of plants, as you’ll burn through filters quickly (but if you do, you probably already know all this). Additionally, ZeroWater filters have a tendency to FLOOD your water with nutrients when the filter is old (like, higher TDS than normal tap water). So highly recommended to have a TDS meter to make sure it’s still good. Tbh I’d just get distilled at the store, but some growers prefer this option 🤷

There are cheap RO systems that hook up to sinks. I’ve used an RO Buddy for over 5 years without having to replace any of the filters. Since I used to have hundreds of carnivorous plants for the majority of that time, that’s pretty dang good. I think I was going through ~10 gallons a week during my peak years, though am down to 4 gallons a week now. iirc it cost about $60. I don’t use the optional 4th filter, as it’s unnecessary and is so fine that the flow rate is reportedly abysmal. I will say the RO Buddy is fairly slow when using a sink - I get about 1 gallon every 15 minutes. The RO buddy generally can hook up to kitchen sinks in the US just fine, but idk about outside the US. Additionally, I’ve found it doesn’t work on bathroom sinks. You can get a cheap adapter at a hardware store for like $5, though, and then can use your bathroom.

Deionized water is good too. Most people probably don’t have access to it, which is why I’m guessing bogleech didn’t mention it. But if you work in a lab you may have access to deionized water.

Some people collect the condensation from their a/c units. Don’t ask me how, I don’t know.

Be careful with rainwater. Some roofs are treated with chemicals that over time begin to leach out. Nothing too terribly harmful for the native plants around your house, but can reportedly kill carnivorous plants.

I just want to reiterate bogleech: Not all wetlands are equal! Even if you do have a bog nearby, I highly recommend not using that water. For one, bogs are extremely sensitive and it’s generally recommended you don’t step in one if you can avoid it. I’ve done conservation research in bogs and had to submit my plans to the land manager, who came back to me and said “you’re permitted to access this small portion of the bog. That’s all I’m willing to sacrifice for research”. Because, yeah, they are THAT sensitive. Also, there are gonna be potential pathogens in the water that you don’t want on your plants.

You actually can get away with tap temporarily. If the options are “let my plants dry up and die of thirst” or “water with tap water”, give them tap. As soon as possible, flush their pots/soil with DI/RO water. If your plants are in trays/nested pots, don’t let the water collect in them when flushing. Growth will likely be stunted for several weeks/months as the plants work to regrow their damaged roots, but stunted growth is better than dead. This is highly variable between taxa, with at least one study showing Sarracenia having some of the most resilient roots (though anecdotally I’ve heard Nepenthes hold up fairly well as well).

Related to the last point: some people live in areas with really low TDS tap water. Generally, this seems to be from people that use well water rather than city water. Again, TDS meters (total dissolved solids meters) are a handy tool. The lower the TDS the better, with consensus being that ~50 ppm* is the upper limit (again, anecdotes from growers report Nepenthes can actually handle a bit higher, but those are circumstantial and I wouldn’t risk it) * it might actually be parts per thousand. My TDS meter is already set to the units I need, so I don’t remember which. Sorry 😅

I highly, HIGHLY recommend anyone looking to grow carnivorous plants read The Savage Garden by Peter D’Amato. There’s a good chance you’re going to mess something else up with your plant(s). Carnivorous plants are extremely sensitive to other factors, such as soil type and (in the event of pathogens) fungicides/pesticides/miticides. Most want more sun than you think they do. Peter’s book is incredibly well detailed and organized, so you can easily find whatever info you need. I’ve also found most libraries carry it both physically and digitally, and both types of copies are generally not checked out.

Every day in carnivorous plant groups someone asks why their carnivorous plant died and reveals that they used pond water, or filtered tap water, or mountain spring water.

Carnivorous plants cannot adapt to anything but water with the properties of fresh condensation. This is ABSOLUTELY INFLEXIBLE, there is no wiggle room, you cannot get away with giving them the wrong water, not temporarily, not even once!

The only sources for this water are:

Bottled water with "distilled" on the front label, and no other different wording, no "purified" or "spring!"

Water from a reverse osmosis filter. Not a brita filter or any other filter! A reverse osmosis filter is a large expensive system, so no filter you just plug onto your tap will count.

Fresh rainwater that has not touched soil, ie collected in a plastic tub.

Water from a natural bog, which is a very specific type of wetland and very rare in most of the world!

[kathlare]

threads of the past

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amelie reflects on the success of her performance at the Greek Theatre, surrounded by friends and family in the aftermath of the event.

Wordcount: 1.1 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

April 20th, 2023 - Los Angeles, CA

The applause still echoed in Amelie’s mind as she stepped out of the shower, her body finally relaxing after the high of performing at the Greek Theatre. It had been a career milestone, one she had dreamed about for years, and she had given everything she had to the performance. The crowd had been electric, and seeing her friends and family scattered among the audience had made it even more special.

She slipped into a pair of comfortable sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, her damp hair tied back into a loose braid. The glamour of the stage was behind her now, replaced by the quiet comfort of being surrounded by the people she loved. The catering team had set up a cozy dinner spread in the backstage area, and she could already hear the chatter and laughter from the next room.

When she stepped into the room, her heart swelled. Her parents were there, her sister, Rodrigo, and a handful of her closest friends. But her gaze instinctively found Charles, Alex, and George, who were sitting at a table, waving her over. The three of them had flown out to see her perform live for the first time, and their enthusiasm throughout the night had been infectious.

She greeted everyone warmly before grabbing a plate of food and settling at the table with the boys. Rodrigo was deep in conversation with her parents across the room, giving her a rare moment alone with the trio.

—You were fucking incredible out there,— Alex said, shaking his head in disbelief as he shoveled food onto his fork. —Like, I knew you were good, but seeing it live? Insane.—

—Agreed,— George chimed in, raising his glass of water. —That voice... You’re a star, Amelie. No doubt about it.—

Charles, always the most reserved of the three, gave her a small smile. —You’ve worked so hard for this, and it shows. We’re proud of you.—

Amelie blushed, looking down at her plate. —Thanks, guys. It means a lot that you were here. Really.—

The conversation flowed easily as they ate, their banter reminiscent of the countless nights they’d spent gaming together during the pandemic. It felt almost normal, like a slice of the life she used to have before everything got complicated.

But the knot in her stomach wouldn’t loosen. The presence of Charles, Alex, and George made her think of someone else—someone she hadn’t spoken to in months but couldn’t seem to shake from her thoughts. She hesitated, the words forming in her mind before she could stop them.

—So... how’s Lando doing?— Amelie asked casually, keeping her voice light, but her eyes flickered between her friends, trying to gauge their reactions.

The three of them paused mid-bite, and Amelie immediately felt a shift in the air. They exchanged looks, but none of them seemed uncomfortable—more surprised, like they hadn’t expected her to bring up his name.

—Lando?— George echoed, a confused smile tugging at his lips. —He’s good, I guess. You know, always up to something. Same old, really. You’d have to ask him yourself, though. You guys don’t really talk anymore, right?—

Amelie forced a small laugh, nodding as nonchalantly as she could. —Yeah, I just... I don’t know. He’s been kind of off the radar lately. And with everything that’s been going on, I’ve sort of... I don’t know. Just curious, I guess. You guys still hang out with him, though?—

Alex chewed thoughtfully before replying, his voice casual. —Yeah, of course. We still see him at the races and stuff. And when we’re all in Monaco, we hang out sometimes. Honestly, though, he’s been kind of... well, distant lately. Not really his usual self. But I think that’s just Lando being Lando, you know?—

Charles nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he was pondering something. —He’s been fine, I guess. A bit off, but he always is. You know how he is, he’s kind of... unpredictable. One minute he’s fine, the next he’s rolling his eyes at whatever random thing Magui says. It’s like... he’s not even interested in her, to be honest.—

Amelie’s heart skipped a beat at Charles’s words, and she couldn’t stop herself from leaning in, her voice dropping slightly. —Magui? Is that... is that still his thing?—

George shrugged, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. —Yeah, I mean, she’s always around. I don’t think it’s anything serious, though. He’s not exactly head over heels for her. It’s more like, I don’t know, she just... fits the role of whatever distraction he needs. But it’s definitely not what it looks like.—

Alex chuckled, shaking his head. —Yeah, it’s actually kind of funny to watch. Like, he’s just going through the motions, but you can tell he’s not really into her. You can see it in his face. He’ll roll his eyes at something she says, or he’ll look off into the distance when she talks. It’s like he’s physically trying to avoid her. It’s hilarious.—

Amelie felt a strange sense of relief flood through her, though she hated that it came with a twinge of bitterness. —So... nothing serious, then?— she asked, trying to keep her tone casual despite the flood of emotions rising within her.

Charles raised an eyebrow, clearly picking up on the underlying tension in her voice, but he didn’t comment on it. —No, nothing serious. He’s just... I don’t know. Lando’s always jumping from one thing to another. But that’s all I can tell you. You’ll have to ask him yourself about anything more.—

Amelie forced a smile, though her mind was racing. —Right, right... I guess I’ll have to do that.—

The conversation shifted after that, the boys easily returning to their jokes and casual chatter, but Amelie couldn’t shake the feeling that they were all skating around something they didn’t quite understand. They didn’t know the whole story, of course—they didn’t know how badly things had ended between her and Lando. They didn’t know about the texts Magui had sent, the angry messages that had shredded her already fragile confidence. They didn’t know how much she had cared, and how much she still missed him, despite everything.

As the night wore on, Amelie smiled and laughed with her friends, but inside, she felt like a different version of herself—someone who was trying to convince the world, and maybe even herself, that she was okay. But deep down, she knew she wasn’t.

The more she thought about Lando, the more the anger and hurt that she had buried beneath her professional life bubbled back to the surface. She didn’t want to feel this way. She wanted to move on, to let it all go. But every time someone mentioned him, every time she thought about what had happened, the raw pain returned in waves.

But for tonight, she could bury it, just for a little longer. Tonight, she had her friends, her family, and the music that had been her escape for so long.

The conversation shifted again, and Amelie tried to focus on the now, letting her friends bring her back to the moment. Still, in the back of her mind, Lando’s name lingered, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking of her, too.

But no matter how much she missed him, no matter how many times her heart screamed at her to reach out, she knew it was too late for them.

[cha-melodius]

May I ask you about your writing??? First of all and possibly most importantly, how do you do it? How do you find inspiration and such? How do you make it happen? Because I sat down with a really juicy idea not long ago and I was excited and it was incredibly hard. I deleted it, I was embarrassed. So how do you first, come up with a great idea (which you do you write such cool stuff!) and then bring it to fruition? I’ve always been a decent writer but I was really frustrated with the fic I set out to write!!!

Hey anon! Sorry for sitting on this for a while but it came in the night before a big academic conference for me, so I've had almost no time for anything, sadly.

First off, thank you so much for the compliment on my writing! A lot of the direct answers to your questions are not very satisfying, tbh. Ideas come to me from everywhere—things I watch, read, random internet things—and how I bring it to fruition mostly involves a lot of planning. I got a lot happier with my work when I started making outlines for my fics, so I always know where I want to go with the story and how I'm getting there, versus meandering around aimlessly.

I'm guessing that there was something about your idea that was particularly challenging, since you said that you've always been a decent writer but found what you produced frustrating. Since I don't know the details I'm gonna give some advice that will hopefully cover a few different aspects. And first, a short list, and then the details under the cut because I'm a wordy bitch.

Just keep writing. It can take a while to find your voice.

Get help. Seek out 'subject experts' and people who you think are good at writing the kinds of stories you want to write.

Read a lot, and broadly, especially in the genre you want to write.

1. Just keep writing. It can take a while to find your voice.

I started writing fanfic (or, re-started, because I wrote when I was young and then took a looooong break) to get the stories out of my head, and my first fics were not great lol. They were also for a rarepair and approximately 5 people read them, so there wasn't much pressure I suppose. I was just putting them on AO3 because I figured why not? And then I just kept writing, off and on for different fandoms, until the writing bug really caught me and I started producing a lot more, about five years ago. But it probably took me ~20 fics (several of which were quite long) before I'd consider my stuff to be decent. Whether you share your early works or not is up to you, but in general I'd recommend it because there's a good chance someone will love it (even if you consider it to be substandard) and that can help you feel better about your own writing. I didn't start out good at writing action, but I wrote (and read, see below) consistently in a lot of action-heavy fandoms, so I got a lot of practice. I also feel like the more I wrote, the more ideas I got, and the more unique ideas I got.

You occasionally see someone in fandom who's like "this is my first fic!" and it gets really popular or and lots of hype or whatever, but that's not the typical experience. Most of us start out writing like crap. It's ok. It gets better.

2. Get help. Seek out 'subject experts' and people who you think are good at writing the kinds of stories you want to write.

Ok, so you wrote a first draft you were disappointed in. Ask yourself what was disappointing about it? Do you feel like the beats aren't hitting, or the action is wooden, or the language is awkward? The great thing about fandom and fanfiction is that there are so many people that are willing to help out as beta readers or even just someone to talk to. I understand that getting a beta reader can seem daunting. You don't want someone to criticize your work, or it might seem embarrassing to show someone else a work you feel bad about. But if you get someone else to read it, you'll have the chance to both hear good things about it and also get advice about things you're uncertain about. People come to fandom from all walks of life and I'm a big fan of asking for help if you're writing about something you're not super familiar with. I've never actually been to therapy, so getting help from @celeritas2997 was absolutely critical for me to feel good about my couple's therapy AU. Also you can ask people for advice if they write the kinds of fics you want to write—I've had multiple people ask me for help with their action scenes, and I'm always happy to lend an eye and give advice.

Also, related to this: it's ok if you don't like your first draft. But don't delete it! Put it aside, whether you ask someone else to look at it or not, and come back to it a while later with fresh eyes. It may not be as terrible as you thought! Or maybe there are parts you still hate, but there are other parts that you can work on and revise.

3. Read a lot, and broadly, especially in the genre you want to write.

Want to write sci-fi? Read a lot of sci-fi novels. Read a lot of sci-fi AUs. Break out of your fandom and read fics in fandoms you don't know—I used to do this a lot and it was one of the most important steps in my process of finding my own voice as well as understanding how stories are built. When you read in only one fandom, you get used to a lot of the same voices and types of stories, but there is SO MUCH out there. I've been known to scroll through the 'Enemies to Lovers' tag on occasion, but also I will go into fandoms for media I know but have no strong connection to, don't want to write in but know the characters, and read those. I spent a lot of time reading X-men, Good Omens, Witcher, even MCU juggernauts like Stucky even though I don't really ship them. I know it probably sounds crazy to tell you to go read other fandoms when (I'm assuming you're RWRB) there's so much in this one, but I do think it's valuable. This one is not only for getting exposed to a lot of writing styles, but also lots of ideas. I've definitely gotten a lot of ideas that spun off from something else I read.

I feel like none of this is particularly revolutionary advice, but I hope it at least gives you (and anyone else who manages to read this far lol) some confidence to keep going and go after those stories you want to write. Everyone—me, popular fandom writers, professional authors—started out just writing a lot, and they improved over time.

Most importantly: just keep going. You can do it!!

[100frogsinatrenchcoat]

FUCK IT. DRAWTECTIVES FANFIC.

I haven’t seen any of these yet, and as they say, write the fanfic you wish to see in the world, so:

Eugene has a breakdown which leads to his Zesty Blonde Era <3

Eugene stared at himself in the mirror feeling nauseous. Feeling like a monster.

It wasn’t his fault. Everyone said so, they all agreed. It wasn’t him — it was Leland. Eugene had meant well. He had just wanted to help.

God he had just wanted to help.

Still. Eugene didn’t like himself very much right now.

People had been hurt. Because of him. Their afterlives had been taken from them. Eugene had worked so hard and this was what he had achieved — pain, confusion, and even more problems he couldn’t solve.

Eugene should be asleep right now. Trying to clean up the mess that the Celestial Spear had caused was taking up almost all his free time. He should be sleeping while he had the chance.

But free time led to thinking and thinking led to grief, and so instead of sleeping Eugene stood in the bathroom, staring at his reflection, and trying not to cry or throw up his meager dinner.

“Eugene?” came a voice from outside the door.

Eugene jumped, startled out of his thoughts, “Oh! Hi Felix” Eugene wiped the tears that had started forming in the corners of his eyes, “You can come in. Did you need something?”

Felix pushed open the door, shuffling his feet awkwardly, “Um, no but, uh… do you? It’s late, and you’ve been just sort of…standing there?Looking in the mirror I guess? Are you okay?”

Eugene forced a smile and nodded. “I’m okay Felix. I’m just… thinking I guess.”

“Oh! Well that makes sense! You’re pretty smart so you think a lot! You just don’t usually do it while staring in a mirror at one in the morning.”

Eugene sighed, exhausted, but pat Felix’s head affectionately. “Yeah, I just- I’m thinking about myself, sort of. I don’t know. Maybe I could be better.”

“Better how?” Felix asked with concern, “I like you like this!”

Eugene smiled. That made one of them at least. What had he ever done to deserve such a sweet friend?

“Thanks Felix. And I don’t know really. It’s just- things are kinda hard right now. I messed everything up. I feel like-“ Eugene’s voice broke, the emotions he tried to control pushing through as he talked, “I feel so useless. How could I have messed up so badly? I need to fix it but I can’t I messed it all up and now I’m not even good enough to fix it, I-“

Felix pulled him into a hug. It was awkward and clunky with Felix’s animatronic body, but the show of comfort and affection broke the walls he had built up and made Eugene start crying in earnest.

“I just- I need to change.” Eugene mumbled “I don’t think I’m good anymore”

Felix hummed thoughtfully, holding Eugene tighter. “Well… I think you’re good still! But if you wanna change, maybe just change a little bit? I don’t want you to change too much… I like you right now!”

“Thanks Felix… I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I can do, I just need to change. I don’t like being like this.”

They stood like that in silence for a bit, before Felix exclaimed “oh! I have an idea!”

Not too much later Eugene was looking at himself in the mirror again , this time with blonde hair, and Felix chattering excitedly behind him.

He smiled. It was small, but for the first time in a while, it wasn’t forced. Dying his hair had helped - in a way. It wasn’t the hair itself, so much as the process.

Because it meant he wasn’t standing alone in the bathroom hating himself. He was running out with Felix to buy hair dye, and listening to Felix read the instructions while the cat chose music to listen to, and he was talking about something that wasn’t death and money.

And when it was done and he went to bed, he was so tired he slept through his alarm, but he couldn’t bring himself to be upset.

Because looking in the mirror, the first thing he saw wasn’t a fuckup- it was just him. Someone who had spent the night doing something stupid with his friend.

[beef-brisket]

Michael chuckled and sat in a nearby chair. He was obviously too tall for it, and the size difference was almost comical.

Michael: Now now, brother. Where's the fun in that? Besides, I doubt you'd hear me all the way up here.

Adam tensed as Michael's gaze shifted from Lucifer to him.

Michael: Adam. I like the new look. I had a feeling you'd be more bird like, it suits you.

Qdam: I- really? You think so?

Michael: Oh, definitely. And I see I have more nieces and nephews. I would have appreciated a card to inform me of their birth, but I don't expect such things of you anymore, Lucifer. Too used to your own company to remember anyone else.

Lucifer glared: I like to keep these things private, Michael.

Michael: Oh yes. I know. I trust the pregnancy wasn't to rough on you, Adam.

Adam: Uh- this litter was a bit bigger, so that was a struggle. But Lucifer was a big help.

Michael: As he should be. Well, now. Looking at your size, you should more than be able to carry a full litter. I'm assuming you two are far from finished populating the earth.

Lucifer: Brother, please-.

Adam: Far from it!

Michael smiled: Very good. I'm pleased to hear it. Your children are always so darling, aren't they? Now, brother. I've heard a few rumours through the grapevine I'm sure you would like to hear about.

Lucifer raised an eyebrow: Oh? What rumours?

Michael: ...Father is up to something.

Lucifer sighed: When isn't he. Is that really it, Michael?

Michael smirked: Aren't you impatient. And here I thought you'd want to know every detail and whereabouts of the man who wants to turn your children and mate into fertiliser. But no, I guess not.

Lucifer growled and crawled over to Michael, getting into his face. He rose himself to his full height, trying to intimidate his older brother.

Lucifer: Watch what you say, brother. Now, tell me what he's up to.

Michael smiled up at his brother, clearly not intimidated. Adam remembered that the first time he met Michael. As he left, his form changed into something more monstrous. It sent chills down Adam's spine just recalling it.

But he thinks there's more to Michael than he shows. He tries to appear more human, but Adam knows better. He always has an uncomfortable feeling looking at him. He's kind enough, but Adam can't help but feel there's something else just beneath the surface.

Michael: Oh, calm down before you make a fool of yourself. I believe father is planning on putting an end to your union with Adam. I've noticed a few things in the forest. The animals had disappeared a few weeks ago, like they knew something was here. Then, a few days ago, they returned.

Lucifer: How interesting, anything else?

Adam: Lu. Let him speak.

Michael: Thank you, Adam. As I was saying. A few days ago, the animals returned. Mainly deer and boars. Some rabbits. But their different. Their like a cheap mimic, and that mimic doesn't know how these animals moved or walked. I hunted a deer a day or so ago, and it attacked. It even started to change, but I killed it before that happened. It's not safe here, Lucifer. I believe father is making this location as deadly as possible, so when the time comes for him to strike, you and Adam will be outnumbered.

Adam: I'm one of you now- I can protect them, your dad shouldn't hate me now, right?

Michael sighed: I'm sorry, Adam. But father... he knows you were human. He'll see this as a mockery of our species. He's even gathering out siblings, Lucifer. Telling them lies about Adam, deadly lies. Turning them against him... Azael and Uriel are already geared up for a fight. A big one. They wouldn't tell me what was happening. It seems I've been shunned for the most part.

Lucifer: Shit... what do you suggest?

Michael: Well, that's the smartest question you've asked all year! You run, brother. Take your children, and run... but, at this stage, you'll be a danger to them.

Lucifer: I'm not leaving him.

Michael: I know. I wasn't directing that to you.

Lucifer slowly turned to Adam who was staring at Michael.

Adam: ...I'm the danger. I'm putting them in danger.

Michael: ...Unfortunately.

Monster under the bed au where Lucifer is a monster and "terrorizing" Adam?

And by terrorizing, I mean fucking. Grossly. Disgustingly.

Complete monster porn.

Oh no, are my kinks coming out again? Oh well 😉

🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵

Don't tease me with a hot au lol

Oh, what if Adam bought a new house and that's when it starts?