#when there are SO MANY characters to work with

[inthelittlewood]

Questions about Eyes And Ears AU

I had somebody ask for a brief interview regarding my storytelling for their university project and thought I'd lend a hand.

I thought those of you that follow the story might like the insight too, so here ya go:

When you first introduced the Listeners in Evo SMP, did you have a broader narrative or concept in mind, or were they more of an atmospheric element at that point?

The honest answer is that I didn't want to write too much about somebody else's character(s), that being Grian's Watchers. If I could write the conflict from the side of the Listeners then we could continue the narrative with a pre-designed opposing force but have them be relatively mute for the most part. Partly to build anticipation of when they might act or retaliate but it also worked for behind the scenes purposes too. If the series hadn't slowed/stopped as suddenly as it did, I definitely would have poked Grian to pick his brain about what story elements fit his original imagining of the Watchers. So it was mostly narrative reasoning but they also served a mechanical behind the scenes purpose of transporting us to a new area which was necessary due to bugs we'd encountered with world gen etc.

What inspired you to flesh out the Eyes and Ears AU more in recent years? Was that mostly a personal creative decision, or was it influenced by fan interest?

Honestly I hadn't premeditated too much their reintroduction into anything that I was working on. Sure I'd seen a little chattering here and there about the Watchers but I honestly just wanted to write an individual story beat (albeit a tropey one) of c!Martyn snapping and turning on Ren but that never came to fruition due to Scar taking us out. The plan was always to backstab Ren then say a cool line like "Red Winter is over, Red Spring has begun" or something else punny. Seeing the fevered reaction of the audience though gave me some confidence that I could try my hand at some layered or entirely post-production storytelling, so heading into Last Life I was all guns blazing.

The Eyes and Ears AU is quite open-ended — do you intentionally approach it with the idea of leaving narrative space for fan interpretation?

It really is right? Yes, it's a very mindful decision to leave it open-ended but not so much for the audience's benefit or interpretations, but to give myself creative freedom to take the story wherever I'd like to. Committing to too many power scale, multiverse or narrative shackles early can really strangle stories I've noticed (from reading comics and manga) meaning back pedalling or aggressive retcons are required to explore certain paths, which is rarely a good experience for the reader. I do enjoy their versatility and capability to be applied to any Minecraft or adjacent story too. Some might call it too broad, I call it malleable.

How do you feel about fans expanding the lore through headcanons and theories? Have any fan interpretations stood out or surprised you?

I think it's brilliant! People inundate my inbox on Tumblr seeking permission to write stories or create characters / AUs but I've literally no authority on that. I suppose it might be a different conversation if they were profiting off of those works, but 99% of people simply want to write for fun which I highly encourage!! I'll be honest that I haven't read a great deal of AUs or headcanons, my exposure to them is mostly via chat messages during lore talk streams or questions that come through regarding the Eyes And Ears AU. As a general rule I try to avoid reading too much of other people's works on the topic because I worry I'll accidentally regurgitate it in some way then stumble into plagiarism, you know? It's why I focus more on digesting stories outside the fandom whether it's manga, Sanderson books, reading old Japanese folk tales and the like. I can source inspiration from those on how to weave narrative and execute plot twists without having to glance in my front yard.

Has fan content (art, theories, animatics, etc.) ever influenced how you think about or approach the AU?

Oh for sure they have. It's literally why after every season we'll do a sit down stream and talk about the lore in detail. Figure out the puzzle and potential trip wires of plot points from the episodes and how we can neatly pack them into the pre-existing story. A lot of people wouldn't do that as they'd be precious about their work and believe their opinion is th only correct one, but I looooove soundboarding with the audience on it. I also take that mindset in game and sometimes think about the scenery of an impactful moment whenever I'm able to control / design it. I'll have little quips or quotes cooked in my mind for how I'd ideally deliver a blow or plot twist, buuuuut given the nature of the Life series you very rarely get to execute things how you'd like haha! I definitely wouldn't have done as many of the poems had their not been such a positive reaction to those. I often see individual lines or entire passages make their way into art pieces as typography or highlighted in animatics which is really gratifying. It's why I also put such an emphasis and priority on audio production in my editing. If I can craft something that feels atmospheric, driving and punctuating with music, staggering vocals or sound effects then the auditory portion is already done, they can focus solely on the visual aspect of things. I try and be as cinematic / TV like as my skillset allows for that reason.

You’ve mentioned trying not to fully canonise the AU, but still referencing it consistently — how do you balance telling your own story effectively, while trying not to involve other creators, particularly on the Life Series, when a lot of your time is spent in a group?

The easiest way to do this, is to not do it. For the most part the only storytelling done with the AU is done in post-production. I never name drop the Watchers or Listeners in world (believe me, I was as surprised as all of you when I saw that Secret Keeper statue in Secret Life!!) and in recent seasons they haven't even reared their head as an influence whatsoever. They're on holiday, they deserve it. But when they do whisper in my ear, they're motivated decisions that I would likely make as a player/character anyway because the win objective is always the thing I'm striving towards. I can just pepper angst around it to make things seem more manipulated rather than selfish ha. I think that's why the open ended nature of the Watchers has served me well because as much as they have a singular motive which is to feed on negative emotions, that can be achieved in so many ways ranging from bloodlust to deception, heartbreak to panic. It's versatile for storytelling. It can be in your face, or a slow burn.

What do the Watchers and Listeners represent to you, symbolically or narratively? Do they serve a specific function in the stories you tell?

The Watchers used to represent the audience when Grian first introduced them, but after departing EVO I've definitely breathed more of an egotistical and sinister air into them. They're very much a unique entity / faction now, they in some ways represent gluttony, selfishness and neglect in achieving their goals. The Listeners on the other hand, are a lot of the opposite traits, but I'm still wanting to explore how being the hard end of most conflicts can be dangerous. I want to explore that at some point, whether it be with infighting or failures. They shouldn't be seen as simply bad/good, they're just, different. It shouldn't be too hard navigating that nuance but I want it to reflect elements and motives that we find in our own lives.

[lostwrlds]

WITH LOVE, ON YOUR BIRTHDAY ── NAGI .ᐟ

( 📡 ) summary; picking out the perfect gift for seishiro nagi was no easy feat, but after flying a thousand miles to surprise him on his birthday – you discover the only present he really wants is you. 11K

✩ lost notes ! happy birthday to my glorious king seishiro nagi !! my goat fr !! also if ur reading this thank u for supporting the first fic on my blog, i'm excited to share more with u soon !! sorry 4 any typos & enjoy international nagi day mwah ⋆˙⟡♡

✩ warnings ! minors, blank & ageless accounts do not interact. fluff & smut, female reader, pro player nagi, characters are adults. long-distance & newly established relationship, unprotected sex, clothed sex, dry humping, oral fixation, somnophilia, overstim, coercion, breeding, creampie, praise & pillow talk.

── © LOSTWRLDS ╱ 2025.

you would think that seishiro nagi would be any easy person to buy a birthday gift for. 

whilst in your eyes, he’s far from plain and simple, the white-haired striker takes pleasure in the things that come easy. like naps on sunny afternoons and golden rays that filter through half-drawn curtains to kiss at your skin or rainy nights curled up on a cosy couch, blankets pulled over your head as your breathing syncs up. he likes the nothingness of quiet, downtime and alone time away from the hustling bustling world that roars his name whenever he makes a powerful or unpredictable play. 

to you, seishiro nagi is extraordinary — in every possible way. not only is he extremely gifted and a natural at the sport he plays, but he is sincere. when he’s out there, he’s got his heart on his sleeve with the intention of pushing himself beyond his own limits. he takes on the challenge, the adrenaline and the rush not just for himself but for his team. he moves with purpose, revitalised energy like he’s more than just the title bestowed on him. seishiro is not just the lazy genius to you. perhaps you’re a little biased, because you find yourself lucky enough to be his girlfriend. to be the one thing that motivates nagi aside from the tase of a freshly formulated goal. 

but he truly is beauty personified to you. not just fresh snow white hair, calming pools of grey for eyes, and a tall yet muscular physique. though bonus points, he is everything. your own personal drive to do and be better. 

that’s why you feel as though he needs the perfect gift, so you can show seishiro that he motivates you to succeed just as much as you motivate him. most of what he does is for you, not just his ego. 

it’s only right that you treat him the same way.

so a video game for his birthday could suffice, but as a big time soccer player earning big time money — he practically owns almost every game to have ever existed. there’s not a piece of jewellery in the world that might ignite a bit of passion in him, except for the black studs he wears when he’s not on the pitch and even then, nagi never changes them. he’s a creature of habit, he likes things the way they’ve always been and disturbing that would be less than an ideal present. you’d go for more little homely house plants, but between his hectic schedule and the sleep he craves when not working, you think the white-haired striker would struggle with raising a high maintenance army of greenery.

everything seishiro nagi usually wants and typically likes… they aren’t things that you can wrap up with luxury paper and a pretty silk bow — they’re circumstances caused by a butterfly effect starting many months ago. you can’t put a perfect day into a box and call it a gift, no matter how many times nagi tells you that all he wants is you. you’d feel bad if your presence was his only present, what would you have to show for as his girlfriend? 

compared to the likes of other bluelock wags, stags and partners…you find it hard to come up with something that will prove your worth. diamonds and flashy cars, expensive trips and gourmet foods aren’t something you can afford out of your own dime and you’re not even sure seishiro would care if he wasn’t able to share these experiences with you. but that doesn’t stop the nagging, itching feeling that peels through the layers of thick skin like a bug that bites. this would be your first time celebrating nagi day with him as a couple. you at least want to make it special.

it would be the perfect time to prove yourself worthy of every little drop of love he so tenderly showers you with — almost as though you’re one of those mini cacti he raises back home.

an opportunity arises once the bluelock team departs the country for an away game right around the time of the genius striker’s birthday, meaning that you wouldn’t be able to celebrate with one another in person. in a way, you were relieved — the time apart would give you more time to search for the right gift but being long distance was never easy. not for the two of you, so used to being wrapped up in one another’s arms and scents. and when seishiro’s teammates insist on flying you out for his birthday; to cheer him up between practises and matches — that gnawing sensation you’d been feeling, the dire need to prove yourself as the perfect footballer’s girlfriend dials back. just a touch. 

he’s been missing you, he always does. it’s evident in the way that his plays become more sluggish and his mannerisms grow dazed and drowsy —  like he’s out of it. sometimes, seishiro can’t function without you there, up in the stands to cheer him on — it’s too much of a hassle to be his best when his girl isn’t around. who is there to show off to? who is there to make proud? without you, there’s barely any motivation to win.

so maybe that’s what he needs… to touch you, feel you, kiss you again. instead of a ridiculously fancy gift. maybe you’ve been selfish, ignoring the one simple desire your boyfriend had for a day dedicated solely to him rather than choosing to focus on how that would make you look in the eyes of world, instead of how you looked in his eyes. 

no insecurity of yours is worth the cost of his happiness.

therefore, on the eve of seishiro nagi's birthday ( may 5th and not the 6th ) with a prepaid ticket from isagi in hand, you nervously board a plane set to land halfway across the globe in a matter of hours. and hope in your heart that your arrival is enough to satisfy the genius striker’s birthday wishes. 

you’re quiet when opening the door to seishiro’s hotel room — instinctively flinching until your  shoulders are raised high enough to level with your neck at the offensive buzz it makes upon scanning your keycard for entry. it’s a spare from swiped from yoichi, you shove it into your back pocket with baited breath and pray that it hasn’t roused your sleepy boyfriend.

the room itself is shrouded in darkness, inky black painting the contours and corners from where the curtains are drawn to their max and every light switch is turned off. you can just about see your hands in front of you, deciding to shrug off your backpack and leave it by the door with your suitcase to avoid stumbling over it while your vision is impaired. after a few moments of blind feeling, you adjust to the dimness around you — guided by the familiar scent of baby-safe detergent and the sound of soft snoring towards the luxurious king size bed where your sweet boyfriend snoozes soundly.

it’s crazy, how your mind and body works to find him even when your other senses are down. nagi’s calm and safe aura lulls you into his orbit and you don’t ever seem to find yourself fighting it. perhaps he feels the same way about you. drawn to you like a moth to a flame, dying happily by it’s light.

your gaze lands on him, curled up in a heap under high-thread count bedsheets and blankets. comfortable. safe. you’re desperate to be near him after time apart, eager to inch past the barriers of his skin and make space for yourself in his rib cage right next to his heart because you cannot believe that you convinced yourself to stay away from him in the name of gift wraps and tags. kicking your shoes off at the foot of the bed frame, you crawl onto the mattress, hands and knees sinking into its plush memory foam like quicksand.

sitting back on your knees whilst hanging over the sleeping striker, your brain is able to piece together the truth in the meaning of his name. calmness. the sensation washes over you like the gentle lap of waves against a serene, picturesque shoreline — seishiro nagi looks so calm while he sleeps. as though he’s an angel resting or passing time on the fluffiest cloud in heaven. the thought makes you smile softly to yourself in the dark, a hand moving to brush stray strands of snowy locks away from his pretty face. 

“sei,” comes your attentive whisper, hidden beneath the quietness of night. your boy. all yours. so beautiful like this, you’d hate to interrupt his sweet dreams. “baby, wake up…” he keens into your touch even under the guidance of sleep, lifting silvery locks splayed across crisp, flat-ironed pillowcases to nuzzle against your palm. the sound of your voice fails to rouse him, and for a moment you contemplate slipping behind him and joining his deep slumber… but you just want to see his eyes.

see them and know that you’re wanted. 

so you try again, raking your nails through the shaggy roots of his hair and scratching at his scalp. you miss his voice, his scent, his touch. this is easier than forcing yourself to stay away from him, much less of a hassle to desire nagi’s proximity than to deny it. 

“seishiro…”

this time, his body answers your call and the mattress squeaks under the weight of his stocky frame rolling over until his back hits the sheets. still, though, he doesn’t wake. moving quickly, you seize the opportunity to clamber into the lazy genius’ lap — straddling his hips, pelvis to pelvis, as you admire him from above. “mph…baby?” he grumbles at the familiar, pressure of your body on his, still constricted by the misty fog of sleep. he reaches for you because he knows it’s you, instantaneously and it’s cute how even then he searches for you, like you would him. 

he likes your warmth, the smell of the shea butter lathered onto your skin, the closeness — like a safety net. the world is so bothersome without you, that’s why he can’t help but react to you even while he rests. not that you mind and even though you really should sleep after such a long flight, surprise him in the morning, everything within you is screaming at you to take more. give more.

“it’s just me, sei,” you coo and swallow down the ardour that begins to mount in the depths of your throat, like soot from the fire of lust sparking in your lower belly. “don’ worry,” exhaling sharply, you swoop down to press the wisps of a kiss to the tip of his nose — more so to calm yourself down, distract yourself from the desire that you unwillingly allow to spread through you, than anything else.

you can’t control your hips, the way they subtly grind down on seishiro’s lap while he snoozes away so preciously. he’s too pretty, too soft, too warm. he makes it unable to resist. a craving for more spreads across your brain like a sheet of rain during a storm, slipping into the deficits and dips of your brain — clouding your mind with lust. you act on the feeling tingling just beneath the surface of your skin, pushing the heat between your thighs against the subdued hardness trapped behind signature grey sweats that hang low on the striker’s taut hips.

the soccer star visibly relaxes as a result of your subtle affections and sinful movements, the uneven crease between his brows fades into nothingness whilst his adorable pout does the same — only, rather than going back to sleep, seishiro’s ashy grey eyes begin to flutter open and you’re soon face to face with the man you love more than anything in the world. “‘m not worried,” he quips quite directly, the baritone notes of his voice caked in a layer of exhaustion. nagi’s back bows from the bed, his cruelly slender waist jutting upwards to match your pace. “what are you… what are doing here?”

he’s breathless beneath you; lines of sleep still caressing the prettiest patches of his soul, already ready to give himself to you despite just barely returning to the real world. the sight of him sends an unbearable ache down the segments of your spine, crackling at your pelvis and shooting to clit nestled against his crotch. “it’s your birthday, sei,” you whisper, feeling shy as if you weren’t just intent on using his body tonight. not that nagi would mind, it was something he loved. being close to you without asking. “i flew in to surprise you…”

large, veiny hands land on your hips causing goosebumps to rise across their expanse like chicken skin, not guiding you but simply holding you in place — stopping you from retreating into your shy little shell away from your boyfriend's moonlit gaze. nagi raises a brow, quickly checks the date on the digital clock banished to the night stand, and then exhales deeply through his nose — expression vacant and tired but eyes swirling with a bout of mischief. 

hidden desire contrastingly dances through the smoke screen flecks dotted around his pupils too, telling you that his touch isn’t as innocent as one may first think.  “oh… yeah, it is,” his thumbs slip under the loose hem of your shirt, a comfortable one from your apartment back home with his scent intertwined with each little stich and loose thread. a pleased hum rumbles from the depths of seishiro’s chest once the pads of his thumbs make contact with the marred surface of your skin, drawing lazy circles against it. “flew all this way f’me, huh?”

“always for you.” 

“what a hassle.” there’s no malice in his tone and when he licks his lips, wetting them from where they’ve dried up during sleep, and basks in the way your line of sight instantly drops to his tongue — pretty pink darting out and swiping over micro cracks and crevices in otherwise plush, fleshy lips. seishiro appreciates…you. only his girl would fly across the globe to be with him on his birthday, that’s the kind of love and passion that motivates him to be better. good.

everything has a point when he’s with you.

“it’s not, i mean, it wasn’t,” your breath hitches as nagi’s gentle touch coasts over your skin whilst it warms, turning to an almost bruisingly tight grip that allows him to  pulling you back and forth over his lap. the white-haired striker knows exactly what he’s doing, lazily building up an undeniable tension that coils in your stomach and muddles up all of your thoughts.“anyway…i know it’s late a-and we should probably sleep,” incoherent musings come out as a rush, tangling with the heated particles that buzz in the night air — so full of mounting lust and kinetic energy. 

you’re rambling, you’re turned on and you’re flustered all at once. 

but that’s just what he does to you, and it’s so much worse when you’ve been away from each other for too long. seishiro hardens between your supple thighs before either of you can realise it, his erect and pulsating cock nestled between your clothed folds — catching on the hood of your clit through even layers of pure cotton and polyester. the feeling of him beneath you, so ready and so giving, has your steadiness swimming — the strength to keep yourself up already faltering to the point where you need to rest your hands against his firm chest. “but i was wondering… what you wanted for your birthday?” 

he hums at your dizziness, pushing your shirt up further. “nothin’ special,” comes his half-hearted reply, focus landing on the subtle rise and fall of your chest — trailing down to the softness of your tummy that he exposes to the word. “just you. like this.” nagi’s eyes darken, a storm brews within them — you can see the cogs whirring in his tired mind almost as if he’s calculating something. 

the white-haired soccer player bucks upwards experimentally, only once, pressing more of his girth against your pussy as it slickens with anticipation and you realise…

he’s measuring just how much of himself will fit inside you. 

the thought makes you groan with your  lips caught between your teeth — biting down hard enough to draw blood. flavours of iron would be enough to distract you from your aching clit and the soaked through gusset of your panties, but it wouldn’t take away how much you want him in this moment. “sei…” using a warning tone, you paw at his pecs and lean down to hide your embarrassed face in his neck — ragged breaths tickling the milky skin there.

just the mere implication of nagi comparing his size to you, imagining how he’s going to fuck you has you panting like a puppy in heat.

you’ve taken him many times before, in plenty of different ways… that doesn’t mean you’re not shy about it. nagi could have anything he wanted today — you may be new to this girlfriend thing ( girlfriend of a football star no less ), but you know that the world is at his fingertips. so, to think that your boyfriend, as handsome and as desirable as he is, can only think of fucking you for his birthday, it messes you up. does something to you. flusters you until you fall apart and your pieces are beyond repair. 

“i mean it, don’ want anything fancy. just you. on top of me like this. feels good…” seishiro continues to rasp, shaking out his pearlescent bed hair that seems to catch the light of the moon in the dark. something about his laziness is so sexy to you and you’re sure there’s a dark spot on the front of both of your sweats from how much his deep, sleepy voice makes your cunt gush and contract around nothing. “please, baby. you’ll do that for me, yeah?”

“yeah… yes, i can.” you’re nodding your head eagerly before the words have even been strung together — gasping shakily against seishiro’s skin as his hands trail down to your ass to squeeze fleshy cheeks, using them to pull you down against his prominent bulge. he slots between your legs perfectly, like he belongs underneath you or you on top of him. you hardly hold back the moans tucked into his neck, your fingers wrapping in silverdust locks while you hug his head — wanting to be impossibly closer to him.

whilst he appears to be in more control, nagi is no better than you are. he feels like he’s on fire, burning up with the feverish need to fuck you, make you his, fill you up. oh god, how he’s missed this. the adrenaline pumping through his veins, swirling around in the blood that rushes through his ears and down to his cock as it oozes against your covered cunt. there’s only two things that have ever gotten seishiro nagi this rilled up — one of them being you. his beautiful fucking angel; a simpering mess above him, clinging on him and depending on him for pleasure. “mmph, good girl,” his praise runs like molten sugar right through you, sugary enough to make you feel like you’re high despite the late hour. “want you to ride me. will you do that f’me too?”

seishiro squeezes your ass between deft fingers as if to ground himself. they feel so good on you, his lips pressing open mouthed kisses just beneath your ear lobe feels even better. nagi won’t let you go when you’re like this — so sweet and on the verge of collapsing on top of him. he has to soothe you because it soothes him, as if touching you and holding you and kissing you is the only thing that could possibly make him feel alive.

“anything you want, sei.” you reply weakly, lost  under the blanket of the night, you rut and grind against one another like two lovers leading each other blindly. you’ve hardly even started and you’re already close to tears just from having the striker’s sweatpants rub your clit until it’s raw and sticky. 

“i want you.” he murmurs firmly, his cadence still rough with sleep. you barely register his next movements, your entire thought process and any feedback turned to sluggish mush when your boyfriend suddenly pushes you both to sit up — his mouth slothenly finding yours in a languid lip lock. it’s slow, sexy and all-consuming, as if seishiro is trying to make you a part of him. his tongue licks into the crevices of your hot, wet mouth as you pour delectable, dulcet whimpers and whines into him. 

your breath tastes like spearmint like you’d brushed your teeth on the plane, but still has underlying notes of you. all he wants is to swallow you down, never come up for air no matter how your lungs may burn and beg for oxygen. nagi has missed this. he needed this. you find yourself chasing his mouth, his sinful tongue as it rolls over yours — wetly whining between pecks because you need nagi so bad you can hardly put it into words. fingers comb through pure white hair, noses knock against each other and become neighbours, whilst hands grow bolder and finally tug more forcefully at your clothes — impatient, ready to free you and expose you to possessive, fluttering sleepy grey eyes.

eventually the need to breathe outweighs the need to kiss each other and your lips glisten with sweat once you finally manage to pull away from the striker’s greedy grip on you. “arms up, angel,” blue lock’s lazy genius commands under his ragged breath, his tone firm but laced with affection. nagi lifts the hem of your shirt once you do what you’re told, throwing the article of clothing into the abyss of his hotel room. your bra receives the same treatment, exposing your nipples to cool-ish air.  “let’s take these off, they’re in our way,” a beat of silence passes, most spent on ogling the goosebumps that form at your chest like pin pricks — your boyfriend pings the elastic of waistband, causing you to yelp in surprise. “what a bother.” he pacifies you by rubbing cruel circles around your areola until reaching the hardening bud in the middle and pinching it.

in a flurry of fabrics, your own sweats are tugged down and tossed away with your panties — leaving you completely vulnerable and bare to your boyfriend’s manic, starved stare. he drinks you in like you’re the first woman he’s ever seen, the first glass of water to be found in a never-ending stretch of desert sand. before you can even make a move to cover yourself, wrap your own arms around the swell or your breasts — seishiro grasps your wrists a little too eagerly, nearly startling you out of your feverish skin when he pulls them down to have your palms resting on his chest. 

only after he’s sure you’ll be a good girl and stay in place, does he release his hold on you. but it’s far too late for that, by now your soul is tethered to his by strong ropes of longing and lecherousness.

“don’t forget what you promised me,” lifting his hips, nagi repositions himself on his back and yanks down his sweats  — moaning loud at the dark patch you’ve left on his crotch. tucking the waistband of both his pants and his boxers under heavy cum- filled balls — too drained to take them off properly. only then does his cock spring free, slapping sloppily against his toned abdomen, abs prominent through his light sleep-shirt. the lazy genius’ size is just as impressive as he is, where he is long and curved, he is also thick. idiotically pretty, his tip a delicious rose pink shade which might as well be vermillion red from how sore he is — oozing a viscous stream of cream from your earlier ministrations. pale blue gradienting to purple veins wrap around his cock like delicate ribbon on the perfect present, kicking to life as dopamine and other happy hormones rush to his shaft. 

the sight of him is hypnotic, calling to you like a siren’s song and you feel all of your self control slipping away when your hips jump forward — encasing his milky-tipped cock between your syrupy folds, rocking yourself back and forth. back and forth. back and forth over him — driven by the spark of ecstasy pulsing at the sticky sensitive pressure nub hidden between your puffy pussy lips every time his bulbous cock head nudges against it. you’re like a puppet on strings and seishiro your puppeteer, his pillow soft mewls and breathy, pleased laughter leading you through this impure performance. 

claggy, cloying sounds reverberate between your sweltering sexes that rub salaciously against each other — ad-libbed by the gentle sighs the two of you share. echoing in a sweet symphony of love making that only serves to dizzy you and make the world spin on its axis. all you feel, smell and taste is as him. all of him mingles with the air fizzling in the intimate night and all of you is put on display for his viewing pleasure. you are his present, his reward for working so hard. his everything.

eventually, a shaky hand reaches between your intertwined mess of half-dressed, half naked limbs to gluttonously grasp at the lazy striker’s chubbed up cock. you’ve had enough of grinding and humping at him, your whole body is aching for more. there’s a twinge of pain that blossoms in your lower belly and spreads throughout your sopping mound because she’s oh so desperate to be filled. 

you need him inside or you feel like that flickering wildfire of unadulterated lechery raging inside might burn you alive. blacken your organs and taint your soul with sin. you’re rushing, to put it simply, hotly pressing nagi’s mushroomed, pitifully creamy and red tip against the tight ring of your entrance as it flutters around nothing. squeezing droplets of your arousal onto him which helps act as the perfect form of lube.

nagi tuts at your impatience, he’s never liked to rush, always taking his time to make you fall apart but it’s so entertaining to see you crave him like this. so badly that your pretty face crumples above him like your world is falling apart and you’re about to shed some of those precious angel tears for him. “e-easy, angel,” he voices quietly, soft spoken words quickly turning into a hiss as your spasming hole easily circles and glides over the tip of his dick. “my birthday’s just begun…” from there, those very same comforting, warm palms from earlier take hold of your ass — pulling you forward as the white-haired soccer star aligns himself with your entrance and rolls his cock up into you. 

you do the rest of the work, it is his birthday after all, and push down to meet him halfway — burying your face against his stardust freckled skin and biting shoulder to cope with the delicious stretch as his weighty, viscous girth bottoms out inside of you. “slow… go slow, baby. want this to last. wanna feel you…” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, when you’re finally, finally fully seated down on him. though, it’s not long before seishiro throws his head back into the lush hotel pillows with an alluring whine — lips parting wide enough for you to see the strings of saliva that connect the roof of his mouth to his strawberry tongue, drool sloshing across its surface. “hah…mmm, angel. you’re so, m’fuck, you’re s’fucking tight.” 

if you had the brain cells to function, you’d agree. say something dirty in return, but you’re so exhausted from your flight and too worked up to even process full sentences — you’re just about conscious enough to relish in the feeling of his cock nestled perfectly along your rippling wet walls. almost as if they’re welcoming him home. “s-sei,” you whinge all babyish against his neck. “missed how you feel…” a displeased huff from him coasts along your skin as you pull back, but now you’re able to look at him with those beautiful, shiny bambi eyes that make his gut twist and his thick precum to pool deep inside of you. “‘s so big. feel so full.”   

“you can take it. yeah, pretty thing?” he coos; oxygen escaping from his lungs as if the air he breathes is thinned from how high he is — like it would to at a mountain top. because he is. high. high on you like you’re some kind of class A drug. high on the way you feel, wrapped around him so warm and wet — hugging him close, cunt locking around him to keep him inside. he’s high like he’s an addict and he never wants to give you up, never wants to go to rehab to get over you. so he trains you, makes you work for your own high to ensure that you’ll never ever leave him. “you promised me, s’my birthday.” 

a shaky sigh lays wet on your lips, your lashes fluttering against the exposed parts of his skin.  “uhuh… promised.” 

with that, you sit up straight and dig your knees into the crumpled duvet half discarded on the bed — peeling your salt-licked skin away from nagi’s so that you can lift and drop your syrupy cunt down on him steadily. you move up and down, up and down — picking up more momentum each time your pussy goes from suctioning around the swell of his base to just barely squeezing his miry tip. at first, you’re slow, sensual — just like he asked, airily squealing like a lamb at the slaughter house with each thrust. skin sluggishly slaps on skin, accompanying the glacé gripes clawing their way out of the inside of your throat whilst his deft digits splay out against your bare back — fingertips tucking themselves into the divot where your spine is. seishiro strokes along the length of it, sending an electrical current straight up to your brain, causing you to short circuit. 

again, despite his hands exploring and touching you, he does nothing to guide or help you navigate magnetic push and pull between you both as you make love — he’s leaving that all up to you, you are supposed to be spoiling him on his birthday after all. you’re too buzzed off him, too hooked on seishiro nagi to mind that he’s laying still beneath you, only pushing up when you’re too shallow when pushing down. instead, you savour the feeling of his thick cock and it’s prominent veins dragging against your soft, silken walls. 

creamy strings of your arousal cling to each blue ridge that spirals down his shaft, the probable cause of the lewd, squelch of your sex when you grind down on him — let him fill you to the brim once more. “angel,” he simpers, swollen lips escaping the prison of his perfect teeth just for a second as he inhales the waves of lust radiating from your pores. “do you know how wet you are? how good you feel…?” his praise runs like honey through your system, urging you to move atop him with more vigor — your grinding increasingly impassioned as you ride him feverishly. nagi’s rough palms become hot and tacky against the slope of your back but he refuses to let go of you — holding you there, making sure you can’t pull too far off him because he feels like he might die if his dick isn’t safely tucked inside your dripping cunt.

“yes,” you say without really understanding what you’re responding to, your own hands slipping up to shimmering milky-toned shoulder blades and the base of seishiro’s throat — not squeezing. just grounding yourself and reminding him to keep his hazy, stormy eyes on you no matter how blurred his vision may get. “s’all ‘cause of you, sei. o-only you get me like this…” you manage to cry out, but now you’re crying in two different ways. through your voice and your cunt as it bounces on nagi’s drooling cock. you just want to make sure that he sees it, the way your seams start to loosen and the threads of your sanity unravel because it’s his fault you’re like this. 

“not fair, angel. fuck, y’not bein’ fair…” he pants in reply, gaze dropping from the twist of your face to between your glistening thighs; enamoured by the way his chubby cock rhythmically disappears into your swollen pussy. you have no idea how much seishiro needed this, how his fist and pretty pictures of you just weren’t enough to keep him going. he wonders if you know the effect you have on him, shattering the pieces of his soul with you being the only person able to put him back together again. “won’ be able to function without your pussy on me…wanna stay like this forever.” 

nagi’s focus flickers back up to meet your line of sight whilst his slender fingers dance across your body, swallowing down a thick whine when he uses them to spread your nether lips — showing off small waves of your sweet nectar as it glazes his thighs and shaft. “fuck, dont you want that too, angel? keep you full of me forever. like this…” he comments avidly, grinding up into you for a moment furthering your pleasure by jamming his cockhead against your g-spot just to prove his point. “would be such a hassle to do anythin’ else. you could just be with me…”

you tremble and your muscles tense at the new sensation, you blossom under his words and observation — drowning in the storm of his hazy eyes whilst blood dotted with lustful hormones course through you rapidly, stinging right at your exposed clit. every drag of his length against your salacious insides ruins you for everyone else, you could imagine a world where you’re fucked and ruined by him every day and you like it — the idea goading you to ride him faster, harder, clumsily slamming yourself down on him to your heart’s content. 

even from underneath you, relaxed and only lazily bucking up into you on occasion ( when he thinks you need it or deserve it ) — seishiro has so much power over you. he’s the only one able to make you bounce on it until there’s a dulcet crack in your voice and white hot tears are stinging at your waterline — your bodies in a dance together in a way that only lovers know, making you both experts in tangled limbs heaving moans. such levels of intense passion and intimacy have your sodden mound seizing around the white-haired striker, causing a hiccup in the way he lovingly and slowly begins to pound away at you from below.

to be fair to him, you’re very motivational. those dreamy sighs you let out and those  bedroom eyes you look down at him with. those lush lips that you lick in concentration... the list goes on. each little thing about you is like another carrot in front of a prized horse; you’re something he wants to chase after, someone he yearns for. being with you is just as thrilling as the soccer he plays for a living, every time your bodies touch and connect like this, accompanied by a sense of vulnerability that trickles into the humid air — nagi is reminded of how lucky he is to have all of you. you’ll forever be his greatest gift.

in the dead of night, mere hours into his birthday, you give yourself up for him — rip open your chest and bear your heart all for seishiro nagi, the muscle beating rapidly behind your breasts as they sway from the force of your hips crashing down to match your boyfriend’s pace. “wan’ that, wan’ you,” you bleat, sounding so much needier and aroused than ever before — your sugary voice layered over musical tracks of sweat-drenched skin slapping wetly on skin. “please… need more. more of you always. don’ wanna be without you ever again…” 

“mmnn, pretty thing. you’re so perfect,” the striker groans low and sexy, sending a rush of hot dopamine over your tired brain and arousing it further. “want s’much more but you’re not even done riding me yet,” seishiro cocks his head to the side, moonlight locks spreading out across the pillows like refracted pattern from a gem that’s caught light. if he shimmers, then you shine — glowing in the dark from the sex and light sheen of sweat clinging to your naked flesh. “gonna kill me with how pretty you sound ‘n how needy you are…” his hand that once parted your folds now dances its way up your pelvis, traces over the chub at your waist and smooths over your soft tummy — feeling for how deep he’s gotten, churning up your guts while you languidly roll your clenching cunt over him.

next they toy and tug on your hardened nipples, circling your sensitive areolas just to make you twitch whilst the supple mounds of flesh bounce with every thrust. collar bones, the base of your throat, the tip of your chin — they all end up grazed by an adoring touch, acting as checkpoints in your boyfriend’s whistle stop tour of his favourite parts of you. of course, he continues his trek until he’s reached up high enough to brush a thumb under the curve of your bottom lip. 

“open up, sweet thing,” nagi taps his fingers against your mouth and if you focus enough through the fog of your mind — you can even smell yourself on his fingertips.

obediently, your lips part — warm breath coasting along the pads of nagi’s digits before you take them into your greedy little mouth. you happily suck on what your boyfriend gives you, two fingers pressing down on the drooly palette of your tongue, your frenzied emotions become subdued like someone has wiped you mind and you’ve become a clean slate — where all that remains is the white-haired striker pumping up into your hot, juicy pussy each time you slam it back down on him. 

a quiet ‘fuck’ drifts from seishrio’s open mouth, drawing your attention to his strawberry tongue poking at the inner epithelium of his cheek as he sets his mirthy sights on you while your hips roll like a rushing river over him – occasionally pulling his throbbing, seedy dick from the snugness of your creamy cunt. the striker admires you like you belong in a museum. as though you’re a flawless piece of oil-painted art or a perfectly smooth marble statue – even with all the parts of you that you pull to pieces or despise. the view from where he is, down there, is one he tries to sketch into his brain for all of eternity… because he doesn’t want to forget and he wants something to remember you by when the time comes for you to leave. 

you’re so beautiful, licking between his fingers, thick globs of frothy spit seeping from the corners of your mouth. he has to fight the urge to sit up and taste it on you – instead choosing to fuck your mouth like you fuck his cock. the striker presses down on your tongue to make you writhe in his lap, and although he’s the one technically in control, you are the reason for the gentle thrum of ecstasy vibrating through his lean, athletic frame. “you like that? does that feel good? sucking me in from both ends…” the player asks, his voice shaky and increasingly husky from how lovestruck and turned on he is. 

having him pressed up against the walls of your blisteringly hot slit, nudging against that one special spot deep inside your swollen pussy fries your brain – causes your jaw to slacken while you sleepily suck on his digits. your poor pussy even trembles around him, catching on the ridges of his length that plunges in and out of you. “feels s’good, sei… so, so good–!” your words are muffled by the way he strokes at your tongue, drowned by spit, because you really do feel like you’re about to see the pearly gates of heaven. its evident in the way your eyes roll back into your skull and sex squelches at every thrust. 

yet, it's not enough for him, seeing you like this is still not enough to appease nagi’s ever growing appetite. like the egoist within him on the pitch, he has a sickly urge to devour you – especially when you lean away to sit back on your haunches, using your grip on his thighs as leverage to keep working yourself down on his thickness – cunt locking and unlocking around his frothy base that stretches your little hole. you don’t stop, shifting your hips in slow sensual movements to help him sink deeper into you and pulsing against hot, viscous and squishy pleasure spots dotted along your insides. spots that only he can reach. “love the way you fuck me, pretty girl,” seishiro feels like he’s losing his mind underneath you, stuck between chasing the sweltering heat of your insides and kicking back to enjoy the show entirely. “but ‘good’ isn’t good enough…need you to feel like heaven. make it even better, baby.”

he groans lowly and relishes in the feeling of your warm wet walls tightening around his erection, pulling his digits from the splashy cavern of your mouth – seishiro drags them back down your body, leaving a tacky wet trail in their wake to reach between your doughy thighs for what lies between your fat pussy lips.

with your hips rocking together fluidly, your boyfriend is careful when letting the pad of his thumb graze your aching clit as it rears its adorable little head between your nether lips. frantically, you grind against his digit and stain it with your thick, trecaly essence. everything is coated in everything that you leak, the mess worsened by the tiny spurts of precum nagi rewards you with. although, it does help his impressive size glide through your sugar-coated lining of your gushy walls. every time his fingers flick against your puffy pleasure pearl, you’re one step closer to crumbling above him.

something. you need something to ground yourself. overwhelmed by exhaustion and love and desire. “g-god, s-sei!” squealing like a lamb being taken to the slaughter house you lift a hand from his clothed leg, over his knee and reach for the bottom of his sleep shirt. “please…pleasepleaseplease – need more. wan’ more. a-anythin’ from you. for you,” you’re babbling brainlessly with no idea of what you’re begging for – the delicious burn of his girth against the tiny, tensed rim of your entrance distracts you from even thinking straight. “wanna feel you, sei,” you add onto the tail end of your mewled words whilst you continue to paw at his last remaining article of clothing. fishing for his stupid shirt. still, you remain timid and shy despite how you moan like seishiro’s perfect, personal little whore.

that’s okay. your boyfriend likes that look on you. stupid, dumb and sleepy on his cock. his heart roars in the left side of his chest but circulates passion and excitement through the rest of his body. you turn seishiro nagi on in more ways than one. physically and mentally — he can’t help but get all worked up around you, even in the dead of night.  “you want this off? can you ask me nicely, angel?” he chuckles leisurely, mouth falling open to mock your seraphic moans whilst he relentlessly toys and pinches and draws shapes on your viscid clit.

“c-can you take it off, please sei. been good,” you drawl, all high-pitched and whistle-toned like a puppy begging for the treat in its owner’s hand. seishiro has you on a tight leash, his little well trained pet – even if he doesn’t mean for things to end up that way. neither of you really mind it, though.

a bemused, fond smile tugs at the seams of his lips because you really are so perfect for him. the perfect gift. he’s thought about it about a million times tonight. it all rushes to his head, messing with the sleepy tendrils curled around his consciousness; the way you claw at him, the way the silverness of the moon catches on the saltine-perspiration on your skin and your glistening slit that leaves webs of slick on his sweats and pubes. he tortures you for a little bit longer, signing his signature against the most sensitive part of your sex for a few seconds longer – happy to see you jolt, hear you practically sob above him before he relents. “yeah, yeah… been so good f’me, sweet angel,” nagi releases your poor clit and then uses his arousal painted fingers to remove his shirt. he takes the fabric hem between his pearlescent teeth – revealing exquisitely carved abs shaped by his soccer career to your delirious gaze. “always gonna give my pretty girl what she wants…”

your lungs threaten to explode as your gaze rakes over him and oxygen in them fades to nothing when your boyfriend tugs the article of clothing the rest of the way off. you choke on a moan, the fluid motions of your doughy hips faltering for a moment. the second his chest is laid bare to the humid, sex struck air you’re immediately jumping forward to press your naked chest to his. now, you feel complete. content. with your hearts beating against each other in sync like a promise of loving each other eternally, made in the depths of the dark. you feel fully connected, skin on skin, nipples brushing against each other – it makes you tingle, makes your pussy drip down his balls like a never ending tap in this new position. you’re so shamefully wet that crude slaps drown out the sounds of your shared laments.

“want you. only you, sei.  h-hah, fuck!” you simper softly, the sound warbling with the threat of crying. “love you s’much, i love you.”

just as your tears start to spill over the edge and flow down the apples of your cheeks, strong and safe arms wrap around your shoulders – anchoring you to seishrio’s lap and cock, giving him the leverage to pull you up and down on him in a nasty, passionate manner. you’re so close now, impossibly so, and you love it because you get to hear the striker in ways no one else ever will. his deplorable, breathy whimpers coast along the shell of your ear heatedly and pick up when he begins to jackhammer into you with levels of motivation he dedicates only to you.

you make seishiro nagi want to do the unthinkable. the unspeakable. he would move mountains for you if you asked, if it were possible. he’s never wanted to do that for anyone other than himself when playing soccer.

you may be falling apart on top of him… but you’ll always be able to control him as much as he does you.

the bed below, as expensive and sturdy as it may be, begins to creak beneath the weight of it all. squealing louder than you do into the crook of seishiro’s neck as you dampen it with moist moans tears. he’s angling his hips up to press directly against your g-spot, grey eyes wild like an uncaring hurricane whilst he taps into his ego to make you see stars. and you take it, no matter how brutish his sluggish thrusts are, pussy eagerly swallowing him down. “love you, angel. my perfect angel, huh?” he grunts slackly and in restraint. you love him and if you say it again, especially in that voice, he’ll break in ways that only men in love will know. you just… do that to him. make it so he could cream your insides before he’s ready to. “you… y’really do it t’me, baby. can’t help it when ‘m with you… jus’ end up going crazy.”

his eyelashes flutter against your damp cheeks and his voice begins to wander into a dark slur that you willingly sink under the surface for. it brings you closer and closer to the edge, and you’re so tired from the flight out here and the work you’ve put into fucking your white-haired soccer star that you’re not sure you can hold it back. “y’make me crazy too,” you pant, too out of your mind to say more, muttering praises into his skin, clenching down on him to the point where your arousals mingle and foam at the thick base of his pulsing length. you hug his head, intertwining your fingers in his sweat-locked silver hair and tug on it as if it’ll keep you tied to earth instead of floating out of the atmosphere from the pleasure. “a-are you close? need you to cum inside… been waitin’ for it. missed it…” 

oh, how he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss the idea too. filling you up with a hot round of his seed until it was practically pouring out of you. breeding you. the two of you aren’t strangers to the dangers of him cumming inside – nagi hardly ever pulls out if he doesn’t have to. most of your intimate moments end in that way, with a spent cunt and a drooly cock, the result of many lazy early mornings started by the kick of his morning wood against your backside and nights like this. it's too much of an effort and too much of a mess if he cums anywhere else. and also, it’s much more a plus to focus on watching your face as he pumps you full and feels you struggle to keep it all in. 

“need it that bad, huh? so soon?” he’s being a little mean without really meaning to, licking over the front of his teeth and grunting as he increases the weight behind his thrusts – eager to push you as close to the edge as possible. his dick throbs in the embrace of your deliriously addictive walls from where you’ve got him fucked up beyond imaginable, but he keeps it together, long enough to ruin you and hear you sniffle from the overstimulation. “almost, angel. almost. can you hold on f’me?”

you said you’d do anything for seishiro and at the time, you’d meant it but now your muscles are achingly wary and your eyelids are growing heavier, and heavier by the second. just as you shake your head ‘no’ a loud and childish sob bursts from between your lips, wet and whiny while your hole flutters loyally around his drippy dick. no, you don’t think that you can hold back, not like this, not when it hurts so good and he’s fucking you numb and dumb. 

all you can do is reply in a pitchy squeal, nearly missed by the wet sounds of you dowsing him in your sweet nectar, soaked sex slapping down on him in an uncoordinated manner. “‘m close…c-can’t–!”

still, you squirm about and you do your best to catch up with nagi’s new insane pace, his unrelenting stamina… even the backs of your thighs start to burn from the exertion — a subtle stinging tingling sensation underneath the supple flesh  from the friction against seishiro’s sweatpants and its waistband.

“‘course you can, always do,” white starts to froth at the entrance of your ravaged pussy, a mix of his precum and your juices bubbling up to leave opaque milky streaks along the length of him – clinging to the veins decorating his shaft. “c’mon, s’too much of a hassle for you to give up now, thought you wanted to be my present? make me feel good?” his words are breathlessly patronising, causing your body to jolt and jerk above his own, your hips fumble in their rhythm but that doesn’t stop you from gushing about the place either. “or is it that my poor baby is gettin’ tired…”

keening hoarsely, his voice still under the authority of sleep – nagi’s gaze slowly but surely hones in on the point at which your bodies join, taking in the sight of his pre-cum coated cockhead disappearing in and out of your puffy pussy repeatedly. his sights trail upwards to where your tummy bulges from the sight of him and he imagines how beautifully you would swell with his seed – he can’t wait any longer, not for that. 

in response to his speculation, you nod this time, desperate for relief or second to relax since your limbs are on the verge of giving out – head flying back as a result of the formidable momentum nagi uses to pummel your pretty pussy. “y-yes!” you damn near scream, not caring how loud you sound nor how late it is. “sei i-i’m… ‘m too–!”

you don’t get the chance to finish your hiccuped and heaved words, not that they make sense in between your shrieking and pleasure-filled cries, only because your loving, lazy boyfriend is snaking his bulking arm around your waist in addition to the one around your shoulders. all so that he can keep you tucked into him whilst he rolls you both onto your sides. “you’re that tired, baby? you don’t wanna fuck me anymore?” seishiro is teasing you of course, a tender smile splitting across his sweaty face whilst he fixes you both in this new position. with your calf now thrown over his slender hip and your head safely nestled into a pillow, nagi captures your lips in a searing hot and sloppy kiss before you have a chance to cry or whine about how mean he’s being. consoling you in a way as he assumes control. “s’okay, angel. don’ worry, i’ll got’cha. ‘m gonna take over, take my present now…”

only then do you remember how large seishiro is. how the sheer size of his frame is able to manhandle and dominate you. how small and safe you can be with him. you suppose he likes it too, where he gets his motivations from… the ability to commandeer you.

whatever he had commented to you had been all the reassurance you needed to hear before losing all sense and control and coordination – going limp in seishiro’s consoling hold. between your cute little please and airy, dreamy wails your lips smack against the soccer player’s – in tune with his measured grinds and ardent stream of lunges into you. his grip on you barely gives him the room to pull out from your tight, blistering mound… and it’s not like your body gives him the permission to either – your preciously greedy cunt squeezes down and locks his fervid, pre-cum pearling tip against your gummy walls. 

“f-fuck…” seishiro drawls, whiny and romantic – like what you would imagine an aphrodisiac would sound like if it could make a noise. “y’keep suckin’ me in, angel. i can get s’deep like this…” he switches it up, going from rapidly circling his hips to gentle, purposeful pounds – stringing you along on a trip to your high. with such little space between you both now, you can feel his blistering hot breath coasting along your cupid’s bow, leaving the ghost of his mark along your sweltering skin as you gush around him – marking his cock and his balls as your own with your cream. “feel that… me, right here?”

whether you mean to or not, your pussy spasms around him – keeping him there. choking the life out of nagi in a way he can’t help but enoy. he feels like he’s being rewarded for loving you just as much as he is motivated to fuck you. he never knew sex could be this amazing until he met you, and now touching you..being with you is all that he wants. especially on his birthday.

pressing your forehead to nagi’s, you nod again – lost in your own lassitude and the sweep of delectation that laps at the inner parts of your soul. “r-right there, sei. need you r-right there,” you say tranquilly, barely able to keep your big wet bambi eyes open as the white-haired striker’s sappy cock massages that spongy spot nestled deep within, the one that only he knows how to find. “p-please don’t stop sei!”

your shared arousals form an elixir of love that seeps into the bedding beneath the lazy bump and grind of your bodies – it adds shine to your clit that drags over nagi’s pelvis, webs over your skin and wafts into the air, so that it smells like sex. the two of you are everywhere. everything and it only heightens the passion you have for one another. “not gonna, angel. n-never gonna. as long as i have you…” seishiro retorts, licentiousness lining the ridges of his throat, rattling about between the bones in his ribcage.

always. forever. an eternity. is what you want to say. you’ll have him for as long as he has you. you can only hope that where your words fail you, the erotic enthusiasm you have when you kiss him can make up for it. cupping his cheeks whilst you both lay on your sides, grinding and groping at each other – you lean forward and lick the trail of drool slipping from the corner of his mouth and track it up to his plush, parted lips – where he kindly feeds you his airy moans and stray straggles of his spit. all of which you accept, wanting whatever he gives you to fuse with your body and soul, whilst keeping you sedated. tongues roll over one another agonisingly slow, adding the thrumming bliss tangled in the panted breaths the two of you exchange. your kiss speaks a million words in a million different ways and languages, portraying the love and adoration you have for the lazy genius. 

cherry red outlines seishiro’s lips, emphasising just how swollen they’ve gotten from constantly being meshed and melded against your own. “did so fuckin’ well for me… all night,” your boyfriend murmurs pensively, his words punctuated by the pervertted plap, plap, plap of his breeders balls against your syrupy mound. “really is so unfair how perfect you are f’me, angel. my pretty girl…my dream girl.” he adds through gritted teeth, making a home between your cream-soaked folds, rubbed and fucked raw – pushing back and forth between them to relieve the building ache in his erection. “g-gotta make you feel it…make you cum.”  

throughout his lazy rambles, your boyfriend’s grip ( in the mess of tangled limbs ) cascades down to handle your waist – roughly circling you on him like a well-loved rag doll while he plunges into the quivering tackiness of your pussy. an orgasm starts to burn through you like paper being held to the flickering flame of a candle and you’re not sure how much more of this you can take, being able to hold off is usually an easier task – but not today, on his birthday, when his usually soft eyes are flooded with a desire so dark the black of his pupils eclipses any colour in his eyes. 

“’m going to. g’na cum, sei,” a hearty sob burts free from your lungs, shaking your body down to its core. the visage of seishiro, your beautiful boyfriend, in front of you becomes blurry from your salty tears but you can still make out the rouge flush to his skin and the crease between his brows caused by your pleas for release. “feels so, so good. lemme cum on your cock… please–!” juicy, wet sounds stack like bricks in your hotel room, a symphony of whimpers and simpers that accompany the perfectly pitched notes from seishiro bucking into your sickeningly deluged hole. japan’s favourite genius leaks an endless stream of precum, a creamy white like the loose strands of his hair splayed across the pillows – the pre-release oozes against your ribbed insides from his bright red tip and aids his movements. they’re smoother, easier, helping him glide in and out of your clenching cunt like it's nothing. despite how tight you are around him, pussy fluttering with the intent to keep him in.

that’s how you’re reminded of his sheer size; accommodating to the way his cockhead so sweetly kisses your g-spot just by having his cock nestled inside. he throbs, fat and inflamed from an oncoming orgasm and the load he’s saved for you in his balls, weighing them down as they swing with each rut of his taut hips. “yeah?” nagi questions you groggily, swallowing thickly at the sight of you straining to stay awake and present in front of him. “you gonna cum f’me, angel? s’gonna be the best fuckin’ birthday present i’ll ever have…” he can tell that you’re there, teetering on the edge of sanity and heaven on earth. viscous drops of your treacly essence runs through your slit, spiraling down the purplish blue veins pulsating on his shaft. he’s right behind you, ready to catch you if you fall.

if he could, the soccer star would selfishly keep you writhing like this for hours, slowly making love to you until you slip from threads of consciousness. it is his birthday after all, he’s sure you’d let him… but it’d be too much effort to ask you to hold on for that long. not when you sound this wet, not when you’re blubbering and crying for him – weakly grinding on him. “that’s right. take it. take my cock, you know you can do it. gonna… gonna make you cum, i promise. s-swear it…” he coos to you like it’s a promise over the crude sound of your sexes slipping over one another. 

both of your shaky arms hug his head once more, grazing the sweat-darked curls on the nape of his neck and you arch forward on your side to press your chest against his – craving that closeness, whimpering happily as his heart beats against your breasts bouncing between your bodies with each uncoordinated and sloppy thrust. nodding your head agreeably, your next words hang between your teeth – panted out from your mouth as it slowly falls open. “‘hmygod, sei. sei please, ‘m cumming! oh… i-i’m cummming!” you don’t last much longer as your release sneaks up on you like a thief avoiding streaks of moonlight. the ropes that had been twisting in your tummy since the start of your midnight escapade finally unravel and the world around you shatters, seishiro’s hold on you being the only thing tying you to it. darkness floods your vision, black spots dotted around the corners of your love tinted lense – you don’t even realise you’re passing out from how hard you’re cumming either. you squirt fast and hard, clear streams of your own arousal spewing from your swollen cunt and rendering you useless in nagi’s strong arms.

white noise buzzes in your ear but he holds you close through it all, pulling your head down to rest against his bare shoulder to help muffle the deliciously loud wail tugging on your vocal chords. the louder you sound, the more seishiro likes it. he likes all of it really, the way your pussy drowns him in your mess and nearly forces him out, it’s exactly what he needs to reach his own peak. pushing an arm past your head, he grasps at the soiled sheets and carefully rolls you onto your back – using the last of his stamina and energy to make himself cum missionary style. as if chasing after something that’ll slip away too fast, nagi speeds up his thrusts whilst little whinges and whines spill from his cherry-bitten lips. 

“f-fuck. fuuuck, ‘m cummin’, pretty thing. gonna put it inside. won’t need to clean up, won’t ruin the sheets…w-won’t–!” the white-haired striker rasps without a care in the world, stumbling over his syllables – spit pooling on the palette of his tongue whilst he rocks into your soiled cunt harder and harder. you don’t have the strength to respond, weakly cradling the back of his neck in one hand while your nails rake down his back using the other. tears like dewdrops cling to your fluttering lashes as you watch your boyfriend fall apart above you – orgasm stacking painfully in his pelvis and practically tearing through his mountainous frame as he fucks you through the remaining aftershocks of your own high.

a final ripple of your pussy around his drippy dick opens the floodgates and his orgasm breaks the surface. nagi pushes himself as deep as he can go, every inch of himself snuggled salaciously against your honeyed walls before he finally lets go. he shakes like there’s been an earthquake, gargling against the shell of your ear whilst blisteringly white hot seed spurts against your squishy, gummy insides. there’s so fucking much of it, a layer of opaque cream smearing over your abused folds, painting you with his claim. seishiro’s cream sloshes about, but he doesn’t pull out – languidly rolling his hips into you so that he can make sure it sticks, lubing up your sex as he fucks himself further into your naked cunt.

silence trickles into the room, not uncomfortable, but instead completely content – broken only by your shared and shuddered breathing. you relish in the way he intermittently throbs and he, in the way that you convulse around him as he softens. for a moment, it’s just the two of you and no one else in the world, simply able to come down from your highs and calm down while hugging each other close.

“h-happy birthday, sei,” you whisper once your voice allows you to, it’s cadence still rough from the sex. “i love you…” 

“love you most…” fatigue sinks its claws into the white-haired striker, who collapses on top of you at the first chance he gets. he nuzzles against you as he goes, closing his eyes and peppering your wet face with soft little kisses as if to help soothe you both. “mmm. happy birthday to me, i guess,” comes his exhausted, yet pleased, hum. “you okay, angel?” nagi’s still regaining his ability to speak properly, a pleasant buzz crackling like static over his brain whilst he inhales through his nose, memorising the scent of your union. of you. “went too hard, i think.” everything feels right when you’re together like this, more peaceful and safe. exactly what a relationship should be

so, you shake your head, searching for grey eyes that meet your own with a doting gaze. “you were perfect,” you grin tiredly, growing shy underneath him. “i hope i was too…”

“the best, always are,” he’s quick to reply, checking you over for bruises and hissing as you clench around him. nagi can tell that you don’t want him to pull out, that you need him in close proximity to properly come back down. so, he clings to you, rubs small circles into the parts of you he can reach and just… loves you. as best as he can. “stay with me, lay with me. don’ wanna let you go just yet. you’re my present after all.” seishiro pouts entirely too cutely, doing a complete one-eighty to the man who was wrecking your insides just mere minutes ago.

humming you feel yourself begin to lose the fight to sleep – choosing to bask in nagi’s warmth and love instead of stay wide awake. “all yours.” you sigh out, completely reassured that your presence alone is always going to be enough to keep the lazy egoist happy on his birthday. more than happy.

seishiro nagi will always want you, always need you, always love you – especially when you fly across the globe to be with him on his birthday. 

falling asleep together, with your fingers intertwined and your hearts beating in sync.

RIGHTS RESERVED © LOSTWRLDS 2025. the content seen here belongs to me. do not copy, repost, translate, feed into ai, or recommend elsewhere.

[ddlydevotion]

OUR DAY WILL COME ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

Being Bo Chow’s Wife headcanons…

a/n: this was written with a black fem reader in mind (this is a little self indulgent lol) but anybody can read & enjoy this! I’m not strictly a Sinners blog so I won’t be writing for these characters all the time. Also, the backstory was inspired by @nothanksofficer, so go check them out 💌!!

Currently listening to: We’ll Be United by The Intruders

You cannot tell me that this man doesn't teach you how to string together sentences in Mandarin (if you don't already speak it). It'd start with him having sweet little nicknames for you in his native tongue, then you'd get curious & end up wanting him to teach you what he knows.

Many of the nicknames he has for you derive from your characteristics & personality. I'm really set on the fact that he'd call you 'little sweetheart' in Mandarin. It's also quite obvious if you've seen the movie that he'd call you baby. Imagine this man calling you baby/sweetheart/honey in that smoky southern accent...I need to be put down.

You were known in town as the girl to go to if somebody needed artistic or creative direction in whatever they were working on. That lady down the street needs help patching up a dress? You'd show up with your sewing kit ready to go. The owner of a local bakery needs assistance painting over some stubborn stains? You'd be there with your very own paint, gloves, brushes, and a little stool for you to stand on. That's how you and Bo met in the first place. He was in desperate search for somebody that'd be able to help him produce a sign for his store. Every time he'd ask somebody if they knew anyone who could assist him in such a task, they'd reply with your name and nod their head towards your studio.

and by God, were you gorgeous. Bo stumbled over his words for a good ten seconds before pausing and finally spitting out "uh d'ya think ya could help me with a sign? I heard ya paint and do all sorts of things and uh- it's for my store." He was nervous but he'd be damned if he screwed up his first impression and ruined all his chances of working with you in the future. But, you simply flashed a sweet smile his way and graced him with an enthusiastic "of course! Whaddya have in mind?"

he loves eating pussy. send!

he’s very very handsy when he’s eating you out. One of his hands is always kneading and pinching your tits, savoring your sweet little sounds before trailing down to settle his hand on your tummy. He wraps his strong arms around your aching thighs, anchoring your hips down to the bed.

What he had in mind was him getting his act together so he could see that sweet little smile of yours every single day & night.

Bo definitely wants to have at least one baby with you. He's brought it up many times when the two of you are laying in bed together, skin-to-skin, after he's worn you out. He'll trace your plush hips n torso with his fingers, racking his eyes up the body that he adores oh so much before saying "I think we should go again, hm? Just to make sure it really sticks."

This man is suave he knows exactly how to flirt with you and what it takes to get you going. He doesn't lay it on thick (unless it takes you a while to understand he's flirting), he's slow with his touch and intentional with his words. Sorta like a game of cat and mouse.

Gives amazing massages. He'd definitely be the type to plop your sore feet onto his lap after a long day of walking around and start rubbing them.

"Does that feel good? Oh, I bet it does. You're real tense, baby."

He is a monster when it comes to eye contact and he'd do it even more if you're quick to get shy. He uses your flustered state to his advantage and gets you to finally look at him by placing a hand on your chin & tilting your head in his direction.

"y'know you can look at me right, ya don't gotta be all shy. Such a pretty lil thing, aint'cha?"

His proposal was one of the sweetest things you ever witnessed. You couldn't contain the gasp that left your mouth at the sight of him getting down on one knee. He went on to list all of his favorite things about you, your sweetness, compassionate nature, the protectiveness you harbor for the things you cherish. He recited his favorite moments that the two of you have shared, how he loves when your nose scrunches up when something is too sweet, how you bite your lip when you're concentrating, how you can't help but close your eyes and smile when your favorite song comes on.

"and I just knew from the very first moment I saw ya, baby, that you were the girl I wanted to settle down with. I wanted to bring you to meet my mom an' dad, buy ya a house, give you my baby if you'd let me, everything -anything you wanted, I wanted to give it to ya. and that's exactly what i'ma do, baby. All ya gotta do is say yes."

He undoubtedly got misty eyed seeing you walk down the aisle. Your wedding photos look a lot like the ones below (I know these aren’t time accurate let me have fun):

Bo is most definitely the type of man to hand feed his woman. Whenever the two of you are working on dinner together, he’ll hold a spoon up to your mouth so that you can have a taste of what he’s fixing up.

I’ll be posting a part two soon so let me know if you’d like to be tagged once it’s finished 💌🌷.

[cccakessslicemeee]

My fanfiction might suck ass but it's organic and I put a lotta research into it. And time. I've restarted twice. Switched characters around. Fought with myself as to whether or not second person would be acceptable as a medium or not for this particular fic, I asked so many people what they thought about it. Basically I put a lot of HUMAN work into it.

I'm still playing with how people would break and how their paranoia would shape their actions because it's so specific to each individual if and when infected with fantasy disease.

Anyway I put hours into something I hope people can enjoy. And it was not a prompt shat out by a machine in less than 30 seconds. It's real and I hope it makes people actually feel things.

Fuck you. I hope you lose all your fingers if you use A.I

NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.

[pitlanepeach]

Clara | Chapter Two

Toto Wolff x Original Female Character

Summary — She wasn’t looking for anything extraordinary, just a quiet life; peace. She should’ve known her past would catch up with her eventually — one way or another.

Warnings — Age-Gap (24 & 50), one night stands, unplanned pregnancy, complex family dynamics, sugar daddy Toto vibes, strong language, sexually explicit content.

Notes — I've always wished I had a twin, ever since I was a kid, so now I'm living vicariously through Mick and Clara haha - Peach x

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Clara was in the sun-drenched conservatory, a mug of peppermint tea warming one hand, the other resting lightly against her side in a thoughtful curl.

The Schumacher house had grown quiet in winter.

Once, the seasons barely touched them — they were always in motion, crisscrossing continents, their father’s booming laugh echoing down chalet hallways, filling paddocks, anchoring every chaotic moment. Now, there was only stillness. A kind of silence that settled into the walls and stayed there.

Snow pressed against the tall windows, muffling the world outside. The Schumacher estate—grand and sprawling, heavy with memories—felt smaller than it used to. More intimate, maybe. Or maybe just more haunted.

Clara sat cross-legged on the thick Persian rug in front of the fireplace, the blanket around her shoulders slipping slightly as she leaned toward the heat. The fire cracked and sighed in the hearth, casting shifting light across the high ceilings and furniture. Her tea had gone lukewarm, but she still clutched the mug in both hands, needing the comfort more than the warmth.

Behind her, Mick lay sprawled across the couch, one arm slung over his eyes, his socked feet dangling off the end. He hadn’t said much since breakfast. There was a weight to his silence—a kind of stillness that buzzed with thought.

Clara didn’t look at him when she said, “Say it.”

A pause.

“Say what?” Came his muffled reply, half-hidden under his arm.

“Whatever it is you’ve wanted to say since six o’clock this morning.”

That earned a quiet huff. Then a beat. Two. “I signed a new contract.”

Clara turned slightly, lifting her brows. “With Haas?”

He nodded without looking at her. “One more season. Twenty-three races. I’m in.”

A smile curled at the edge of her mouth. “That’s really good, Mick.”

He let his arm fall away and glanced at her, eyes shadowed with the kind of vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. “Is it?”

She frowned, shifting to face him more fully. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to just be there, Clara,” he said quietly. “I want to deserve to be there. I want people to stop looking at me like I’ve borrowed the seat from someone better. I want to stop feeling like I’m running on borrowed time — never living up to their expectations.”

Clara’s chest ached. She knew that feeling too well. Being a Schumacher wasn’t a pass—it was a pressure cooker. Every mistake echoed louder, every failure looked like waste.

“You’ve earned this, Mick,” she said, her voice steady. “You work harder than anyone I know.”

He gave her a look—wry, tired, raw. “I’m average. It’s not good enough.”

She didn’t argue. There was nothing to say. Their surname had the power to open a lot of doors, yes, but it had locked others. It had chained them both to an image neither of them always felt they could ever possibly live up to.

Mick sat up slightly, rubbing his hand through his hair. “Which is why I need you this year.”

Clara blinked. “Need me?”

“Travel with me. Be there. Every race.”

She frowned. “What, like… press liaison? Assistant?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Nothing official. Just… you. I want you there the way you used to be. At karting, in the junior formulas. You were the only thing that ever made this feel normal. I could always breathe a bit easier when you were around.”

She stared at him. 

This wasn’t him asking, this was him desperately reaching out, from one twin to the other. A thread between them tightening again after so many years of distance.

And she missed him. God, she missed him.

But the secret—the baby thing—pressed at her ribs like a fist.

She looked down into her mug, watched the water ripple under her breath. She hadn’t told him. Not anyone. Not even her mother. 

The knowledge was too big, too fragile, and she was still holding it in her hands like glass she didn’t know how to set down without it cracking.

Toto’s face flickered through her mind—his voice, low and unreadable, “I am not a man who gives only pieces. When I take, it is not done in halves.”

Clara swallowed hard and pressed her palm to her stomach in an absent, instinctive motion. She barely had a bump. Not yet. But the knowledge sat there, heavy and impossible. She was carrying a life—hand her, half him. 

Mick’s voice brought her back. “So? What do you think?”

She looked up at him slowly, searching his face. He was trying not to push. Trying to give her the option of ‘no’. But the hope was there in his eyes—real and boyish and impossible to deny. 

And maybe, just maybe, this was a way forward.

“I’ll come,” she agreed quietly.

His expression lit up, instant and unmistakable. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She smiled softly. “Bahrain first, right?”

“God, yes,” he said, grinning now, flopping back on the couch like a kid. “I’m going to drag you to every team dinner. Make you eat all the free paddock food. You’ll love it.”

Clara laughed gently. 

Because beneath the easiness, a plan was forming.

I’ll find Toto. See him. 

I’ll tell him. About the baby.

And if it went badly—if he didn’t want to know, if he turned cold and distant, well…

I’ll run. I’ll come home. And Mick will have to forgive me.

Because I’m carrying his niece or nephew. And the only thing thicker than the Schumacher name is Schumacher blood.

—

The clinic was warm, clean, and quiet. All anonymity wrapped in soft beige walls and polished linoleum. Clara sat perched on the edge of the examination bed, fingers twisted in the hem of her sweater. Her Dior coat lay folded on the chair beside her, damp at the edges from the melting snow outside.

The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and something floral. Calming. Like it was trying to soothe her nerves before they could spiral.

“Eight weeks and a few days,” the doctor had said, smiling at the monitor. “Healthy heartbeat. Strong growth. Everything looks good, Miss Schumacher.”

Eight weeks and four days, Clara thought. She’d done the math a dozen times. Conceived on December twenty-second. Switzerland. 

Her hands rested carefully on her stomach now, fingertips grazing the flat curve beneath her jumper. There was nothing to show yet—no obvious sign of life—but she could feel it, somehow. A thrum beneath her skin. A presence.

“You mentioned travel?” The doctor asked, turning back toward her with a kind expression.

Clara blinked. “Yes. I’m flying to Bahrain in a couple days. I’ll be with my brother for the Formula One season.”

The doctor nodded, tapping gently at the tablet in her hand. “No complications so far. You’re in good health. Long-haul flights aren’t typically an issue this early, but do take care—hydration, walking when you can, and be mindful of fatigue. First trimester exhaustion is no joke.”

Clara managed a soft laugh. “I’ve noticed. Just… a bit of sickness. My brother’s already suspicious.”

The doctor looked at her for a beat longer. “You’re not telling people yet?”

She hesitated. “No. Not yet.”

“Take your time,” the woman said, with a kindness that nearly undid Clara. “There’s no rush. Just take care of yourself.”

That part stuck with her.

Take care of yourself.

As she stepped back into the brisk February air, pulling her coat tighter around her body, Clara let the thought settle. It still felt surreal—unreal, even—but something about seeing the grainy little flicker of a heartbeat on the screen… It made it real.

She reached into her coat pocket for her phone. A message from Mick blinked on the lock screen.

Packing finished yet? I’m guessing…. 4 cases?

She smiled, thumb hovering.

But she didn’t reply. Not yet.

Instead, she turned her face to the sky, grey and heavy with clouds, and exhaled a slow, careful breath. 

—

Clara was already awake when the alarm buzzed.

Truthfully, she hadn’t slept. Not really. Just closed her eyes and drifted in the shallow space between sleep and wake, where the mind swims in a quiet, cloying panic. The baby—barely the size of a raspberry—still a secret, curled up somewhere inside her, fragile and unknown. She pressed the heel of her hand to her stomach now, beneath the duvet, as if to say; We’re doing this. Together. Scary or not. 

Downstairs, the house was quiet except for the soft shuffle of the house staff finishing their preparations. Luggage lined the entryway: matte black, tastefully monogrammed. Mick’s helmet bag rested on top of his carry-on like a crown.

He was in the kitchen, half-dressed in sweats and a travel hoodie, hair sticking up wildly. His head jerked up when she padded in wearing leggings, a loose navy pullover, and her ever-faithful white sneakers.

“You’re late,” he said, but he grinned. “And you look like you’ve been up since 4.”

“I have,” Clara murmured, tugging open the fridge and pouring herself some orange juice. “Didn’t want to risk oversleeping.”

“Classic you,” Mick said, coming up behind her and ruffling her hair like they were still teenagers. She batted him away with an elbow, but he only laughed. “Still a control freak.”

“Still a disaster,” she retorted, but she smiled.

They moved around each other in perfect sync, a quiet choreography shaped by years of twinhood—passing the juice, handing off keys, checking bags, sharing a single AirPod between them as they reviewed the flight schedule.

“You packed your sunglasses, right?” Mick said as they pulled on coats.

“Yes, Mum.”

“I’m just saying,” he replied with mock severity. “Bahrain sun is unforgiving. Like Haas team briefings after a spin-out.”

Clara rolled her eyes. “I’ll remember to wear sunscreen too.”

He gave her a sidelong look, grin softening. “I’m really, really glad you’re coming, Clara.”

She glanced away, down at the marble floor, heart aching for a dozen reasons. “Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”

— 

Clara had to admit—she didn’t miss commercial flying. 

Being back with her family afforded certain luxuries. The jet was sleek and quiet, the kind of aircraft that felt more like a high-end hotel lounge than a mode of transportation. The seats reclined. The espresso machine purred like a happy, proud cat. Mick had already kicked off his shoes and was flipping through his old telemetry notes like a man preparing for war.

She curled up sideways in her own seat, a thick blanket draped over her legs, water bottle cradled protectively against her belly. No coffee, no soft cheeses, no raw fish. She’d memorised every list, every internet article. 

“You okay?” Mick asked, not looking up.

Clara blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

He shrugged. “You’re quieter than usual. And you keep touching your stomach—do you have cramps? I have Midol.”

She made a face. “I’m not touching my stomach—”

“You are. Like… absentmindedly.”

Her fingers twitched in her lap. “Probably just nerves,” she said quickly. “Been a while since I lived out of a suitcase. I’m worried about people judging my paddock outfits.”

He nodded. But Clara could see his brain ticking over, already filing her behaviour away under Suspicious Twin Shit for later inspection.

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, letting the hum of the engines blur her thoughts. Outside, the world dropped away in streaks of white and blue. Soon they’d be in the desert heat, the noise of the paddock, the press, the adrenaline of race season kicking into gear.

And somewhere in all of that… Toto.

If I see him. If I get the chance. If I’m brave enough.

She swallowed.

Her brother didn’t know. The press didn’t know. 

But her baby was coming along for the ride. Quiet. Secret. Steady.

— 

The room was… fine.

Functional, impersonal, clearly a team-reserved block room that had been assigned without much thought. Beige walls. Harsh lighting. A view of a car park and some palm trees, their leaves limp in the desert heat.

Clara stood in the middle of it, one hand on the roller of her suitcase, the other already twitching toward her phone. Mick would probably tease her for being picky, but after twelve hours of travel and her body already protesting the time change and hormonal shifts, she was in no mood to pretend beige was sufficient.

She took the elevator back down, her sneakers silent on the plush lobby carpet. The reception desk gleamed under crystal lights. She stepped up, her voice polite but brisk. “Hi. I was placed in one of the team rooms, but if there’s availability, I’d like to upgrade—something with natural light, ideally, and quiet.”

The receptionist was mid-nod when a familiar, low voice spoke from somewhere to her right. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Clara turned. And there he was.

Toto Wolff, crisp in tailored navy trousers and an open-collar white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the forearms like he was allergic to being idle. His eyes—grey-blue and sharp as ever—moved over her, lingering just long enough to make her pulse hitch. He looked… good. Tired in the way only powerful men ever seemed to look. 

She didn’t speak right away.

Neither did he.

Then, stepping closer, he tilted his head slightly. “You look like yourself again.”

Her breath caught. The words shouldn’t have meant anything. But they did. Because in them was the echo of who she had been the last time he saw her—fragile and exhausted and unraveling in a hallway.

“And you,” she said, lifting her chin, “still know how to appear at the most inconvenient moments.”

His mouth curled in that almost-smile of his. “I won’t apologise for that.”

The receptionist cleared his throat politely. Toto glanced at him, then back at Clara. “Is there a problem with your room?” He asked.

“It’s not important,” she said quickly.

“Clara,” he stared at her, “you do not settle. I have told you this, no?”

She swallowed. 

The receptionist looked between them awkwardly. Toto barely glanced away from her as he added, “Upgrade her suite. High floor. Garden view. Under the Mercedes booking, yes?”

The receptionist sputtered, “Sir, I—she’s not—”

“She is,” Toto interrupted. Sharp. Final.

Clara blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“Consider it an overdue correction,” he said. “You shouldn’t be living under the Haas budget.”

The receptionist moved quickly after that.

As Clara accepted her new keycard, she glanced sideways at him. “You do this for every damsel in distress who’s been given a shitty room?” 

His voice dropped low. “Only for women who have fallen apart in my arms, Kleine Maus.”

That stole the breath from her lungs.

He stepped forward, just slightly—close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his chest. One hand, warm and broad, hovered at her lower back as if testing whether she’d lean in.

She didn’t. But she didn’t pull away either.

“You are here with Mick?” He asked. 

She nodded. “For the season.” Most of it, she didn’t add. 

“Well. I’ll see you around, Clara,” he murmured, his voice a rich hum that settled under her skin like heat.

She stood there long after he left—new keycard in hand, pulse unsteady.

— 

The sun hung low and bright over the Bahrain International Circuit.

It was, unmistakably, a race weekend.

Clara’s heels clicked steadily over the concrete as she stepped through the paddock gate, credential lanyards neatly layered around her neck. Her sunglasses shielded most of her face, but nothing could hide the way heads turned.

The cameras caught her almost instantly. Flashes burst like firecrackers.

A second Schumacher back in the paddock was always news.

A missing Schumacher reappearing after three years? That was headline material.

“Clara! Clara—where have you been?”

“Are you working with Haas now?”

“Did you take a sabbatical?”

“Are the rumours true—you and Max Verstappen—?”

She paused briefly, turning slightly toward the press line. A smile tugged at her mouth—not icy, not warm. Just… amused.

“I spent a few years getting some peace and quiet,” she said lightly. “Highly underrated.”

Laughter rippled through the cluster, surprised.

She didn’t elaborate. Clara Schumacher never had to. 

She walked past them, unhurried.

Mick was already inside, probably in the Haas motorhome being briefed by his engineers. She’d join him soon. But for now, she took a breath and let herself just be here—present, visible, unapologetic.

The crowd parted ahead of her like instinct.

And that’s when she saw him.

Toto, standing beside the Mercedes garage, deep in conversation with an engineer. His expression was sharp, focused—until his eyes found her.

And in that moment, everything else around him softened.

He didn’t move. Neither did she.

But the look he gave her—calm, possessive—spoke louder than any interview ever could.

Clara’s heart beat harder, but she kept walking.

She didn’t break stride, didn’t falter under the weight of cameras or whispers or memories. Because she’d spent long enough hiding. She’d come back stronger. And the world could watch all it liked.

Let them speculate.

She had her reasons.

One of them was growing inside her.

And the other was still watching from across the paddock. 

—

Clara’s mind was a blur as she stood beside Mick, caught in the familiar hum of the paddock—engines growling in the background, the buzz of press murmurs, team radios crackling in sharp bursts of static. And then:

“Clara, hey!”

She blinked. Turned.

Max.

He stood a few feet away, leaning lazily against a stack of tires like he’d always belonged here—cocky, effortless, entirely too charming. His grin was wide, his blue eyes dancing with mischief and something older. Something familiar.

For a moment, it was like slipping back into a version of herself she barely recognised—freer, untethered, careless in a way she couldn’t afford to be anymore.

“Max,” she said, smoothing the surprise from her voice as she took a cautious step closer. Her heart stuttered. Her brain scrambled to recalibrate.

Max’s gaze flicked over her in that way that used to make her blush—still did, apparently. “You look good, Clara.”

She let out a breath of a laugh. “It’s been a while.”

He pushed off the tires, that smirk deepening. “Saw you walk in earlier. Already the centre of attention. Some things don’t change.”

Before she could speak, Mick was already stepping forward, sliding in between her and Max with practiced ease. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes weren’t—his jaw was set with something sharper.

Max raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering. “Easy, Mick. Just saying hello.”

Mick didn’t respond. He simply put a hand on Clara’s elbow and tugged her gently but firmly to the side, away from Max. Once they were out of earshot, Mick glanced back, expression stony. “I don’t want you talking to drivers.”

Clara blinked, startled. “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious,” he muttered. “They’re not good for you, Clara. They see you, they know who you are, and they want something. It’s not personal—it’s just who they are. Don’t give them a way in.”

She stared at him for a second, then huffed out a dry little laugh. “Okay. No drivers.”

Mick gave a sharp nod, already scanning the paddock like he was planning to intercept the next one.

Clara fell into step beside him, heart still racing—but not because of Max.

She glanced back over her shoulder once, just long enough to catch a glimpse of the Mercedes garage. 

No drivers, she thought wryly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. What about a team principal?

—

The midday sun was merciless, thick with heat that shimmered off every metallic surface. Clara had been trying to stay cool, sipping slowly from her water bottle, ignoring the nausea that had been curling in her stomach since she stepped into the paddock that morning. But standing just outside the Mercedes hospitality unit, the world had suddenly tilted. Sharp, too bright, too loud.

She barely made it to the nearest bit of landscaping before she dropped to her knees and vomited into a manicured shrub.

“Clara?”

Her name, low and shocked, cut through the haze. She wiped her mouth with a trembling hand, vision swimming.

Then she felt him—Toto. His shadow blocked the sun. One warm hand settled at her back, the other on her arm.

“Scheiße,” he muttered. “Why didn’t you tell someone you weren’t well?”

“I’m fine,” she rasped, voice raw.

“No, you are absolutely not fine.” He was already helping her to her feet, his strength calm and unyielding. “Come. You need air conditioning. Water. Sit.”

She let him guide her—past the curious glances, the cameras, the chaos—into the cool interior of the Mercedes motorhome. But instead of a public lounge or medical room, he led her through a back corridor and into his private office.

Toto closed the door behind them with a soft click, then turned to her, arms folded, jaw tight. “Sit down.”

She sank onto the leather sofa, dizzy, embarrassed, and burning with more than just the heat. Her skin prickled from the inside out.

Toto crouched in front of her, pressing a chilled water bottle into her hands. “Drink.”

She obeyed, throat tight as she took a few sips. His hand was still on her knee, grounding, commanding. Gentle in a way that made her want to cry.

“You always pushed too hard,” he said softly, gaze sweeping over her face. “Even when you were a girl. I used to watch you run from garage to media pen like you were trying to prove a point, that you could be fast even without a kart.”

She managed a tight smile. “I was fast. And I was proving my point.”

He tilted his head. “And now?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing now,” she whispered honestly.

Toto’s expression softened. He reached up and tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “You scared me,” he said quietly. “Outside. I thought you might faint.”

“I almost did.”

He didn’t answer, just brushed his thumb across the inside of her wrist, where her pulse fluttered.

She drew a shaking breath. “Toto, I need to tell you something.”

His brows furrowed immediately. “What is it?”

Her fingers curled around the water bottle. The moment was too small for what she was about to say, too intimate already. But it was time.

“I’m pregnant.” He froze. The silence stretched long and taut between them. “I found out a few weeks ago,” she added. “I didn’t plan to tell you here, now, but… I didn’t plan any of this, really.”

Toto stood slowly, taking a step back, one hand raking through his hair. His mouth parted as if to speak, then closed again. Clara’s heart pounded.

Finally, he moved—toward her, not away.

He crouched again, closer this time, one hand resting on her thigh, the other bracing on the sofa beside her. His voice, when it came, was low. Barely a breath. “Mein Mädchen.” He whispered. 

Her eyes burned.

He searched her face. “Is it mine?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “It was December 22nd. Geneva. You know it’s yours, Toto. Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”

Toto closed his eyes for one long, measured beat. Then he opened them and exhaled. “You want this?” 

“I want you.” She admitted, her bottom lip trembling even as she forced a small, sad smile. 

He inhaled, his hand touching her chin. “I would never have told you to leave, to go home, had I known,” he told her, deep and dark and… and laced with possession. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I never thought you would want me to want you the way that I do, Clara.”

“I do,” she said, voice cracking. “I do want that. And I wanted you to ask me to stay, but you didn’t. You told me to leave when all I wanted you to do was take care of me, Toto. Hold me. Kiss me. Protect me…”

Toto leaned in, foreheads nearly touching. “Du gehörst zu mir,” he murmured. You belong to me.

Her breath caught.

He didn’t touch her again. He just stayed close enough that she could feel him—his heat, his restraint, his presence coiled like wire beneath the surface.

“We will figure this out,” he said finally, with the quiet, absolute certainty of a man used to taking control.

And something in her, something terrified and bruised, finally began to loosen.

[sunboki]

⎯ what remains unspoken. ⟡ featuring christopher bahng

🪝 : Christopher Bahng x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. best friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, jealousy, angst, two idiots chasing their own tails believing their love is unrequited (ㅠㅠ), based in australia, summer! au, beachhouse! au

WORD COUNT. 8.3k words ☆ 32min read

WARNINGS. cursing, jealousy/shame, reader moves away, mentions of drunkenness, nondesc smut, a dirty dream? (nondesc), reader is said to wear makeup, mentions cheating

AUG'S NOTES. working myself through a writing block.. this fic has helped a lot :) thank you all for being patient with me thus far, i think writing for channie is like free therapy<3 please let me know what you think!!

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. Attached to the hip, you and Chris might as well have been twins in a past life. And yet, it’s always that tiny inkling, so many years where one of the two wants something more. So when you bring home a boyfriend one summer and both you and Chris begin drifting apart, you wonder if that denial will become something permanent.

or alternatively :

Until when do you stop pretending?

Among many things, Chris likes to think there was an “oh shit” moment to his life. One, exactly.

Over the years he tried pinpointing when that would be, what that would be. 

And then you brought a boyfriend home. His home. To a beach house you two would occupy together. Making shadow puppets with your hands and running out to the beach in the early mornings.

Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Making sand castles, running into the water with your clothes on and running out giggling messes.

For two weeks every summer, always. Together.

Never with a plus one.

He debated upon subtly sizing up the guy or appearing overly friendly, but not an ounce of his face seemed to move. Steely.

Cold.

Chris was never cold, and he felt that pang in his chest—guilt—seeing you notice it. That miniature knit of your brow, the purse of your lips.

Did he know you like Chris did? Know when you were angry, or frustrated. What your favorite song was, or how you preferred your hair when you were focused?

He wanted to hate comparison, he used to hate comparison.

And now he’s hating himself for being too late, letting you slip from his grasp like sand between his fingers.

When you were once protagonists of a novel written with a happy ending, that love interest was now home to another. 

And he was a bystander to a love story that was never his, watching you smile at someone else. 

Someone that wasn’t him.

Breakfast is hellish, not to mention the sleeping arrangements. This boyfriend of yours in the guest bedroom, while he sleeps in his.

Alone. Without you, or your pretty hair, or your pretty eyes. Void of your warm body snuggled up to his, where you used to make silly jokes beneath covers and muffle laughter in turn.

A part of him wants to cry, wants to ask you what you two used to be. What was under the covers? 

“Ah.. Chris..” The soft moan of yours, all those years back. Stupid, seventeen, single. A cursed pair of “S”’s he hadn’t realized would come to haunt him each time he closed his eyes. 

What was your pretty sounds, his face between your thighs those five years back?

Was it all pretend? Exploration as friends? 

No, you were smarter than that.

So he tells himself he was too late, and endures. 

Because maybe, maybe they’ll be a plot twist one chapter. Where you fall for the side character. 

No, no book ends like that.

It all started in an editing firm’s office. 

Well, not literally, considering you hadn’t even been in your mother’s mind until Jessica Bahng—mother of a four-month old Chris Bahng—held back a poor woman’s hair while she belched into a toilet.

That poor woman being your mother, who found out she was pregnant that evening after work.

And through a few Saturday’s at the corner cafe and prolonged conversation by the office’s monitors, the two became the best of friends. Watching little Chris grow into a toddling one year old, and in the process welcoming you into the world nearly ten months later.

From there, almost every waking moment consisted of time together. Chris as the lanky teenager with his brown hair sweeping across a tanned forehead, and you, following after him each step he took at less than a year younger. Kindergarten, Primary School.

Although, in the midst of the friendship, your father had found a better job opportunity in Brisbane, a decent ten-hour drive from the Bahng household you’d found second home in.

Though, after plenty of crocodile tears and mumbled “I’ll miss you”’s tumbling from an eighth grade mouth too absorbed in worrying about the matter of leaving rather than the fact you’d likely visit every month, you departed, off to a city so different from the Sydney you had known of. 

Even if it was Australia all the same.

And in turn, the annual summer visits began.

Summer before your freshman year of high school, where Chris finally got his braces off in his sophomore year and you soaked up every ounce of information given on surviving the first few days of school.

Then your own sophomore year, filled with feelings and discoveries and struggles unearthed you didn’t think could be experienced so vividly, expectations in need of fulfillment the board expected a sixteen year old to answer immediately.

What do you want to do with your life? Any plans for college? What about taking these extra classes? They look good on a résumé.

And simultaneously rip the ounces of childhood from your fingertips, but no school board puts that in the papers.

So the moment the car door opens after hellish voyaging to Sydney, you allow your lungs to inhale each ounce of salty air the Bahng family house offers, the childishness allowed for once amid crushing pressure. 

It is a meager five minute walk to the lapsing shoreline after all, and the ocean keeps good secrets within the sand, washing away your footprints as to flush away traces of whatever happenings occurred there. 

Yet, never truly forgotten. Instead, taken into the waters for little children to tell their mother of whom never believe the ocean spilled someone’s precious secrets.

“Chris.”

June eighteenth of your second year in high school, pajama-clad knees curl close into your body, lashes dusting open in the sparsely lit room to focus on him.

A dilation of the pupils, a hitch of the breath when he turns to you.

High school has changed Chris, but not in a foul manner. Blond curls, he’s exchanged from his usual russet locks. Round cheeks shifting in tandem with a sculptors hand, the marble of his skin a bit more toned, defined.

His jaw that clicks when he grows angered—not often, sometimes at his gaming system. 

Thickened brows furrowing and knitting in concentration.

Though those eyes are the same, and always will be. No other will have eyes like his, and you know in any life, in any state of amnesia, they would be recognized.

An “aha” moment where a switch flips in your brain, formulating a mere sentence involuntarily.

I love this boy, and I hope for forever he’ll look back at me.

And for that, you’re selfish. But honest.

If Christopher was a stranger, a look into that gaze and you think you’d know him instantaneously.

How silly.

But just as you had spoken, you’re reminded that childishness was something found each time you visited this place regardless of your actions. You’d hold onto that.

“I don’t want to grow up.”

The bit of fat at his under-eyes cause his eyes to form into crescent moons when he smiles, wrinkles at the corner of thick lashes crinkling.

Chris has always liked the moon.

A warm hand of his reaches forward, cupping your cheek as if the first time.

You think you like this more.

“Then don’t.”

A stroke of his thumb, and you snort a laugh when the cold of your nose bumps against the digit.

“And when you want to go back to being sixteen, come to see me, okay?”

Little did you both know that the future had a way of testing just how long sixteen would last.

Until when do you stop pretending?

An explanation as to how you ended up with the curly blond’s lips pressed to your thighs doesn’t sit anywhere in sight, and in the quiet comfort of your bedroom, you let the thought slip by.

Yet, in the end, there’s as much of a pathetic excuse as expected.

That serves for a bit of background information first.  

It was a mistake.

You were just teenagers.

But the stinging feeling in your heart, like the swelling of a thorn stuck between your rib cage, tells you that’s far from the truth.

For any infant it’s easy to placate an act, a theatre of behavior. For your stuffed animals as a doctor, for diving into the pool after the rings a mother would toss in beforehand, feigning the role of an experienced diver. 

But there comes both a time and occasion to weave a lie, no less complete the loom as someone cognitive enough to understand a situation’s veracity. 

When the mind is said to be “not fully developed” but each and every predicament feels like it matters on behalf of the world, when a sentence a year back pops itself from hiding, appearing at the forefront of your mind.

The true question.

Just how long can one stay sixteen? 

Junior year, with eighteen lingering a hairsbreadth away for the both of you.

Junior year, where talk of pressures and intimacy lead to Chris being your first time. 

And in turn, you were his.

Though that came a few minutes later. Something clumsy and unpracticed the both of you laughed at on continual occasion, enacted for the pure reason of curiosity, of trust.

While everyone gave themselves to strangers, you wanted to give yourself to someone adored, whom you didn’t believe for a second you’d regret. 

But was that really the sole reason? 

Curiosity? 

Or love?

No. Nothing along those lines. 

Or that’s what you told yourself those years, those moments. And although it’s supremely underestimated by that of adults, those prolonged stares, the upward quirk of his lips when he catches your eye from across the room is but a matter a babe could understand.

It has always been more, been a new road opened since you’d kissed him. The both of you simply headed the same route you always had.

Best friends, that’s all.  

But to an astronaut, the earth has never been the limit, or they wouldn’t be an astronaut. And you were someone that loved Christopher Bahng, but hid behind a title the both of you knew was untrue. 

Now it exists like a flash of the mind, swift and fast and almost unnoticed if not for the lingering feeling at your skin—an insatiable itch where his fingers had laid trace.

A soft nip to your inner thigh, his thumb resting just above your navel. His chin upon your lower belly when your events had come to a close, gazing up at you, unreadable.

No. Not unreadable, but one you didn’t want to read, look too far into and get hurt. 

Was that it? A gnawing fear of getting hurt holding you back from the things you wanted?

His face lingering with traces of you, lips swollen and glossy and stretched into a smile you scorned to stare at. 

“You’re.. gross.”

Maybe a “thank you” or a “that felt amazing” would’ve been the more appropriate response, but this was Chris, and to not speak your mind would break a vow instilled from the earliest of your elementary days. 

He laughs, a squeaky sound of happiness you soak up like a sponge—absorbing, absorbing, taking in every ounce offered. 

That you can trust in, place faith within. 

In a future unknown, however, a part of you knows that the only way of freedom is to prepare for a pain that may come, and may not.

For there is never a guarantee love will be fatal, but all will pass someday. 

To live without a taste of that freedom seems too awful to stay in your bubble. 

All so scary, uncertain. The unpredictability can be overwhelming. Somewhere in between you hope he felt it too.

Love, that is. 

Ah. 

A kiss at your lips, and he tastes like you—something you’d shrink away with disgust at if not for his presence, the tender manner in which he eases your shirt back down, then his own adjusted over his head. 

That night, you ate dinner and never spoke of it. Not a taboo topic, merely mutually understood. His parents out for a night, Hannah off staying late for an after school activity. 

A kiss after washing dishes in the sink, a kiss when you flop onto the couch. After an uno match by the coffee table, where your competitiveness sparks into screaming matches, tackling him following not long after.

Your bodies like a whirlwind of motion, writhing with chortled laughter like squabbling infants.

Overtop of you he pauses, and your earlier feigned rage fades as quickly as it was provoked, chest warming at the chaste peck to your cheek, then the press of his lips you beckon closer, hands curling into the fabric of his tee, slipping down his back to trace the bumps of his spine.  

One breath, two. 

Warm, and it feels like you’re melting.

Fingernails usher the shirt upwards, his lower back beared, tanned from summer sun. 

More.

You want more all over again. 

“Chris!” 

It’s Hannah’s voice, squeaky at age thirteen, that clears the steaminess instantly, clambering off each other so quickly your foot slams into his stomach, his hand shoving your face into the carpeted floor.

“I- I won in Uno! Fair and square!”

Not a great cover up, Chris, but the flushed nature of his ears, his cheeks, makes up for the stupid excuse. 

From this prompts a sequence of events, of excuses and hiding, of denial and relapsing into what’s familiar.

But just as life is unpredictable, none of those thoughts plagued your mind yet. 

Nothing had happened yet.

Then it happened, and you can’t come to recall how.

A party, freshman year of university. A guy, loud music, too many drinks. 

He was a sweet soul, helping you back to your dorm when the world became a distant, fuzzy memory. Someway or another (you’re betting your roomie gave it to him), he snagged your number. 

Because Saturday morning, 11am, you received a: “Feeling any better?” text you gazed at in horror—believing the random number to be some drunken one night stand—before being filled in.

Jae was his name. Jae Hyeong. 

A student in your Wednesday lecture, passing by unknown, now becoming known. 

You told Chris about him that summer, mumbled between bites of strawberries after a stop by the market in his dad’s old pick-up truck. 

Rust clung to the sides, and you could never be certain the engine would start up again. But it was loved and cherished. So faith was placed in it anyway.

Expectedly, he just nodded his head, popping another sweet bite between plush lips.

The thing was, you told Chris about him without mentioning the dating factor. 

Jae was funny, sweet. The first of your dates concluding with your stomach aching from laughter. And a cowardly part of you blames forgetfulness, while the other points directly at your heart.

Even when, staring into his eyes, all you see is Chris. 

How cruel, and you want to hate yourself for dragging this boy along. 

Scared.

Because at the moment, pursuing music was Chris’s dream, attending Uni at Sydney was that utmost goal he reached towards. 

And you’d support him through it, even if you were left behind. 

It wasn’t you, your mind berates.

It never was you.

So you’ll look away, deny the love you ache for. Jae deserves that, right? Not to be treated as some source of healing for you, a rebound for love unrequited.

Maybe the friendship of yours has clouded your judgement. It’s not love you harbor, but fondness.

A soul-sucking, gut-wrenching fondness that’s unequivocally love. 

“I think you’d like him.”

Maybe this is your hopes of even ground. That if the both of them become somewhat-friends, your feelings will ease and you’ll realize this was all a fever-dream and you were truly in love with Jae. 

All a dream. 

“Will I?” Chris grunts in reply, both of your legs dangling from the truck bed’s edge.

He thinks you’re prettiest like this. A bit unkempt, no makeup, hair left to its own devices. 

You. Wholly, unapologetically you. 

Blemishes and smile lines just like his, bits of strawberry lingering by the corners of your lips he wants to kiss away, lap up with his tongue and take advantage of the quiet of the morning, the lack of townspeople awake to witness his greed.

Chris is greedy when it comes to you, he’ll admit it. He wants and wants and wants, and can’t ever seem to be satiated. 

Whether it’s your kisses, your laughter, that sweet, mumbled moan when you’re feeling so good. 

Shit. He’s in too deep.

To his core, Chris is a gentle man. He wouldn’t allow himself to be angry at you if it cost his life but, he’s also human. And humans feel jealousy. 

It’s been a while since the thought occurred to him, since that biting pit began forming in his gut, gnashing their teeth at anything in sight. 

“Is he good to you?” A quiet murmur, one that’s a bit reserved compared to his usual cheerfulness, optimistic tone. This is curious, observant. That kind of behavior when he wants to know more though remain subtle.

Plus, he argues with that frothing jealously. It’s not like he’s your boyfriend, right?

Then, as quickly as it came, the jealousy is gone, swept away in the crashing tides just a few miles from where you sit. Replaced with nervousness, worry.

It’s not like Chris can control you. You aren’t to be controlled, and it’d be cruel to keep you from your potential to begin with. He’s just the coward that can’t bring himself to confess. 

And neither can you, but he doesn’t know that. 

Two nervous messes, fretting over love they’ve shared long before anyone speaks up about it. 

What remains unspoken.

Will your boyfriend be good to you? Treat you right? His head swims, grasping a strawberry hard enough that streams of juice slip down his wrist, droplets trickling  onto the top of a muscular thigh. 

And heaven forbid the guy breaks your heart. He wouldn’t hear the end of it from Chris and likely earn a beat down for the road. 

But then comes the hopeful thought, the “what if” that lingers under his skin, buzzes at his fingertips as an index comes to loop a strand of hair behind your ear to better see you.

The bit of pride in the corner, nudging his shoulder as if it were you. A longtime friend. 

I’ll treat you well.

Please let me be good to you.

Closing his eyes, the sad smile of yours after having failed your final exam resides there. Bittersweet, somber.

Would it be considered stages of grief if he had yet to lose someone?

No less, it feels as if you’re leaving him behind altogether.

“You alright?” 

But for now, you’re by his side. It’s enough.

“Hm,” A nod, eyes remaining closed.

“The sun feels good today.”

It feels better with you.

Who knew how quickly good things go.

“Hi Berry!”

The summer before your junior year of Uni, and for a moment, standing in front of the Bahng household feels nostalgic in a way that makes your heart sink. 

The rose-tinted glasses feel further away than ever. Peeling paint, cracks in the wood, creaking of the paneled floors you hadn’t noticed those summer’s before.

Things have changed, and you shudder to think you were the bringer of it.

The hand in yours whose last name isn’t Bahng, however, proves the point.

This summer, Jae came with you. Officially regarded as your boyfriend.

Thus far, there has been no greater feeling of dread and guilt in your gut than right now.

Dread in witnessing Chris’ reaction, guilt from the gnawing ache in your chest. Because no, by no means did you wish to treat Jae as a buffer, an anchor to love unrequited. Nonetheless, that certainly felt the case, more so the situation responsible for your guilt.

And maybe, just maybe, it was wordlessly understood. The manner you’d speak of Chris to Jae, that hidden longing unable to be shielded by a facade.

How cruel, a heart is. To love so shamelessly. Garner affection, but withhold a love solely reserved for one.

In need of mending, care you fail to give by yourself.

Berry, the beloved Chevalier King Charles Spaniel, helps calm such a maelstrom, if only for a short amount of time.

Before Chris walks down the stairs.

.

.

.

If fur had lined Chris’ back, it would be spiked in apprehension, aggression. Like a wolf, scruff ruffled in the presence of someone new.

A second-long overview tells him enough. Your hand in his, the way he trails after you as if some lovesick puppy.

The taste of bile in his throat makes him want to choke.

He missed his chance. Now it’s gone.

So childish, it all is. This harrowing sadness weighing on his chest, the jealousy.

“This is Jae, isn’t it?” 

Ah, you should’ve known better.

Chris could always tell.

Yet, his eyes never leave yours. A mere flicker of attention to the newcomer until you’re bathed in the spotlight again, and the hair on your arms rises unnervingly.

“Yeah,” Swiftly clearing your throat, you feebly try at gathering your wits, granting Jae a smile you hope is reassuring.

“He’s.. my boyfriend.”

All at once, Chris feels his world crashing down on him.

“What happened?” He wanted to ask, forgetting you grew up, no longer that little girl seated beside him on the playground’s swings.

Because it’s already enough in recognizing it, but another in receiving clarification.

A slow inhale is breath into lungs he feels are already too full, straining to contain oxygen.

He missed his chance. Now it’s gone.

I lost you, whispers in his mind. Fragmented pieces of a puzzle.

There was a reason an extra pillow resided in the linen closet, or the My Little Pony toothbrush tossed in the mug his old swim-team sold as merch. 

For you, and only you.

Never another.

Selfishly, he feels this casting has abruptly booted him from the main position, now rooted as a bystander in a set that isn’t even his.

Of course, Chris lacks the complete asshole gene, so a hasty handshake serves as greeting enough before he’s already reaching for the door.

“Eh? But we-“

“Guest bedroom is on your left. Y/N will show you. You two can sleep there or whatever- I’m going to surf.”

Just the partial asshole gene.

And he knows you can tell. Reading each other with the ease of a lover. Attentive, observant.

Nevertheless, your love is directed to someone else.

“He uh.. isn’t usually like this.”

A mumble on your part suffices in buffering the silence. That, followed by Jae’s cocked brow.

“Real friendly guy.”

Your lip tugs between your teeth, peering back at the boy from over your shoulder. Apparently, your expression of remorse fails to be hidden well. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” Jae consoles, “I dealt with that one jerk of a roommate back in Brisbane for a whole semester, y’know? A bit of coldness is nothin’.”

Ignorance only feels good for so long. Bliss is never permanent.

If only you had understood that lesson, abided by it.

Yet, just like those years before, you turn your head the other direction and allow life to pass by without him in it, despite staying in the same home.

Despite him being everything to you, despite a love shared over countless years.

.

.

.

He’s irritable. Chris is. The subtle grit of his teeth you've come to recognize, the harsh grip he nearly crushes his fork in. Dinner had never felt so stifling, never when you were here.

All of a sudden, the household you had once found solace inside feels all too hot, a sweltering furnace where each extra beat of silence adds a degree to the thermometer. 

Jessica Bahng’s cooking was incredible, as predicted, and conversation flowed effortlessly between you, her, and Jae—the boy charming without trying, his charisma winning over the woman after a mere two bites of food.

What wasn’t predictable was Chris’ quietness from across the table. Because each time he looks up, he finds himself seated in a theatre, watching what was pass by. Watching how you’d kiss Jae, hold his hand, laugh by his side. 

Was that all it was? Him as a spectator?

The chip in the corner of his dinner plate held in hand verifies emotion unwilling to be shown on the surface. 

He doesn’t meet your eyes, doesn’t even acknowledge you.

Jerk.

You scoff, offering him a miniature scowl from the corner of your eye.

“So, how’d you meet Y/N? I forgot to ask last night,” Jessica insists, glancing from you to Jae in rapid succession.

Oh, great. The formalities.

“Well,” A pause on the younger boy’s end, sheepishly grinning. “It was actually at a party—“

“Pfft, yeah right,” Chris grunts beneath his breath in amusement, ramming his fork down into a piece of broccoli.

Acting like a child and he knows it, but no amount of maturity can seem to withhold the snide comments. 

Either the other three didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him. He’s fine with both. 

“And yeah, I just remember her being so drunk and—“

“You wish,” The dyed blond mumbles once more to himself, shaking his head in quiet mirth. 

Those words beckon attention, and Chris mutters an inaudible curse after the sharp kick his mother grants in warning.

That night, dinner concluded like usual. Cheerful on one end, quiet as a mouse on the other. Figuring out who belonged on which side came easy. 

Except, Chris fails to remain silent this time around whilst attending to dish duty, lips drawing into a tight line witnessing Jae place his plate beside the sink. 

Not in the sink, not even an offer to help wash. No, the bastard’s eyes are dead set on you, flickering from your eyes, lips, ass—

Dammit, he wants to sock the guy right about now.

However, he waits until you get upstairs to wash up for bed before speaking.

“Gonna give me a servant uniform too at this point?” The last of Chris’ mutters, and it seems Jae is done with staying silent as well.

“Alright, just what is your problem?”

“I don’t know, why can’t you be well-mannered as a guest? At least wash your own damn dish,” Chris growls back, the two’s eyes meeting in a vicious staring contest prior to his mother’s scolding, resulting in both boys on dish-duty.  

Although it’s the words muttered in his ear when Jae leaves that nearly provokes every nerve in his body to crush the man’s face in with his fist.

“Whatever was between you two, forget it. She’s not yours anymore.”

Your face appearing from the top of the stairwell keeps his urge at bay, merely evident in the white-knuckled clenching of his fist, his form hasty to disappear outside the screen door.

Instinctively, sandal-clad feet taking him to the one place that lets him think.

The ocean.

It’s late, and high tides crash against the sandy shoreline. The squawking of seagulls has drawn to a close, the enormous light of the moon overhead a constant he finds comfort in.

Pattering of your footsteps, however, gather his focus instantaneously, wordless where your form curls by his side.

Another constant, just you and him.

Something to spite the change.

So much change, in fact, he feels like each bit of the youth he’s known is being swallowed up, consumed into newness he can’t accept.

But you still open doors fully in case monsters hide behind them, and he hasn’t changed the flavor of ice cream he buys from convenience stores since he was eight, so perhaps nothing has changed but exterior.

To be ignorant is to be blissful, a lesson continually presenting itself this summer. Neither happens to be involved in your predicament. 

You’re first to break the silence. Always the more courageous one, albeit he’d never admit it.

“I shouldn’t have brought Jae here, I’m sorry.”

Your slow inhale.

“This is.. our place, I get it. I just thought—“

“No,” A shake of his head, second nature upon reading the startled look you give him.

“I mean,” He has to tilt his head to peek at your face, hidden between your knees like a child.

“It’s our place, you’re right but-.. If one day.. somebody comes along, then that’s..”

A begrudging acceptance, if that’s the word.

You look up at him and- ah, you’re so pretty. Chris stops to stare for a moment, his lips parted like an infant fixated on the cookie jar.

Hurried blinking and a swift breath dispel the prior awe.

“That’s okay. If “you” becomes you and someone else, then so be it.”

A small, wry smile. Though beneath, he feels as if he’s breaking.

“I wouldn’t be your best friend if I didn’t pester your boyfriend, or, y’know, future boyfriends. ‘S what I do for my favorite girl.”

He smiles, wanting to cry more than anything while playfully pinching your cheek.

Why can’t you be mine?

.

Ten minutes or so separate your conversation, but you pick up again as if you’d never stopped in the first place. 

“Sometimes I think it’d be easier if I could just go back to being when we were kids again, y’know?”

“And what would you do if you were kids again?”

These words are slow, patient. 

His reply ruins the peace, the begrudging acceptance you had built like a wall of defense, blocking feelings foaming at the mouth to climb from your throat, echoing in the night air.

“I’d never let you go.”

“I’m going to bed,” A mumble interrupts the quietness, your head weighing against his shoulder. 

An anchor, in fear you’d be thrashed into the waves without return.

Chris has always been your buoy.

If only he could keep you afloat in your dreams, but you had yet to yearn for that just yet.

The small nod where he assures you he’d stay a bit longer serves as an untold: “good night” you offer a tight smile in response to, slipping past the creaking doorway and up to your shared bedroom. 

Shared with Jae, not Chris.

And no, Jae wasn’t a buffer. A substitute until you could muster courage to confess, to shout the aches and pains and torment your messy love prompts.

More often than not, Jae has been a lighthouse, helping you venture through the fog of feelings muddling your mind, decisions.

Hell, you don’t know half of what you’re doing.

So many adult responsibilities are manageable, but love provides its own labyrinth no matter the age, never a mere math equation, a problem and solution.

But with loopholes, and heartbreak, and stupidity, and impulsiveness. 

Confusion and sadness and guilt, these gut-wrenching feelings keeping someone up at night.

Like tonight, where your eyes stare daggers into the guest bedroom’s wall across from you. A wall lacking Chris’ swim posters, medals. The old nightlight still plugged into the outlet, once prominent galaxy patterns faded into nothingness.

There for the memories, it was.

Is that what you and Chris were now? A night light still plugged into the wall, left there like some somber source of recollection to look back on?

You hate how your stomach dips at the thought, the nausea building in your throat causing you to roll over, now face-to-face with a snoring Jae, limbs strung like a starfish across the mattress.

Luckily, sleep wasn’t too far away for you either, though it felt like an eternity before your consciousness fully dissipated. 

“Oh… Oh my Go-“

Your arms lift above your head, reaching for something you don’t even know. Reprieve, possibly, amid the tingling of your body, the fuzziness of your head. 

After months of dreamless nights, of course it’s a dirty dream.

Then an involuntary shift occurs through your body, hand extending towards the boy’s hair. And for a moment, it seems your dream-like vision flickers like a faulty lightbulb, because all you can see is Chris.

Somehow, you know it isn’t Chris, but Jae. Nevertheless, he’s the only face you can make out, the only form recognizable.

Although his name wasn’t explicitly uttered, the horror etching itself into your bones merely mouthing it has you reeling back into reality.

Not Chris’s bedroom, but your dorm room.

Not his chocolate irises meeting yours when you look down, the gentle reassurance in his warm palm, grasping the back of your thigh to offer a grounding squeeze. 

This is Jae. This dream is in Brisbane. And Chris is a whole ten-hours away. 

Your second day at the beach house, you wake in a cold sweat.

And right there, sixteen really did fade away.

“What’s cookin’ good lookin’?”

Apparently, on a rather comical note, Jae had anticipated your form to be standing by the stove preparing breakfast, his sleep-ridden frame the last to wake up.

Mrs. Jessica had already busied herself driving Hannah to spend the summer with their grandparents, her own annual ritual.

Trust, he wasn’t all too pleased to find Chris there instead, the pan-wielding man granting your boyfriend a venomous stink-eye.

“Sorry, I don’t play housewife,” Your slumber-ridden mumble from the countertop’s stool beckons Chris’ slight snort, pointing the spatula to himself as if clarifying a: “That’s me, the housewife”.

That, paired with containing a huff of laughter watching your form peering into the fridge, hoping the next time you’d open it up a delectable dessert would be there.

To no avail, evident in your dejected grumble.

“Hey,” The curly blond scowls, his frown growing imperceptibly deeper when Jae presses a kiss to your cheek in greeting.

You don’t notice.

“Wait for breakfast, ‘m making omelette how you like. And uh.. I made some other stuff. You can have that, Jae.”

“Thanks,” Sarcasm drips from your boyfriend’s tone, rolling his eyes.

Still on the rocks.

Got it.

“Anytime,” Predictably, Chris feeds off the sarcasm, acting as nonchalant as ever while plating the food and murmuring reminders about waxing his surfboard in the garage.

Further grating Jae’s nerves in turn, you note.

A bigger bite of your omelette feebly manages to redirect the anxiety, the remnants of stringy cheese clinging to your upper lip.

“You’ve got something there.”

Your best friend’s hum rings aloud, reaching to brush the piece of food from the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

And for a moment, a memory of the past flickers in your mind. The darkening of a room, now bright after only a second.

A memory. Not the dream last night.

His lips on yours, the quickening of breath, hands squeezing his clothing like a vice and—

“Thanks.”

The words surprise even you, not a forethought in sight. 

And you also don’t notice the cock of Jae’s head, the utter “I dare you” spoken in Chris’ lifted brows, this sneering quirk of his lips offered as a war cry to the other boy before walking past without another word.

One look, and a war had begun.

“We should visit the zoo,” Jae mentions one Sunday while you’re painting your toenails and Chris is absorbed in some video on his phone. 

“You seriously haven’t been to the Sydney Zoo?”

Conversations always end like this, and you’re tempted to ram your head into the nearest wall.

“I can’t believe you don’t know how to surf. You’re Australian, seriously.”

“Well I’m sorry I don’t live in my fancy beach house a convenient two minute walk from the beach.”

More bickering, bickering, bickering. Your skull wants to explode.

On an off-handed occasion, maybe they’ll behave tolerably in regards to one another.

That day was not today. Frankly speaking, tonight, where the only responsible person in the household, Jessica Bahng, had left on a work trip.

…You would admit, you also aren't immune to stupid decisions.

However, this stupid decision took the cake.

A competition, predictably, but not just mini golf or freestyle swimming; drinking.

From Asahi beer, apple-flavored soju and hard liquor, the whole assortment bedecked the coffee table, an already tipsy Christopher Bahng swaying across from you.

Sure, college paved the way for immaturity, but seriously. Seeing who could better handle their alcohol was just sad.

And trust, Chris looked about the epitome of sad (adorable, you forgot to mention) with his flushed cheeks and ears to the frustrated crease of his brows, pupils blown, eyes glossy where they fixate on a victorious Jae. 

Who, in a prideful fashion, tips back another shot of soju with his own, less-tipsy hiccup prior to getting up and stretching his legs, hopefully gathering water in the process.

Nonetheless, Chris just spaces out, evidently inebriated thanks to the unfocused nature of his attention. Fleetingly, his gaze then roved on you, head tipping in a swoon-worthy fashion like some enamored first grader.

Little were you aware just how gorgeous you looked right now from the boy’s buzzed perspective, breath smelling of alcohol where he exhales short huffs, lips curving into this dumb-happy smile.

And— he passes out, thankfully already seated on the carpeted floor.

Though, leaving you and a grumpy Jae with the responsibility of lugging him onto the couch, letting sleep help sober him up until you (considering your boyfriend did everything in his power to avoid interaction with the blacked out Chris) took the role of coaxing sips of water into his mouth.

By midnight, all the glasses had been cleared, and you adjusted a blanket over Chris’s drunken, sleepy frame, Jae already preparing for bed upstairs.

“I love Berry.” A whisper, and you crane to catch the remnants of his words before he shifts beneath the blanket, dead silent for a minute or two. 

Then he rolls over to face you, sporting a downright longing sort of look.

“.. I really love Berry.”

“You said that already, Chris.”

“Okay.”

And he rolls over like it was all a dream, pouty.

Too cute.

Your fond touch smooths coiling strands of hair from his forehead, sparing him a last glance prior to thumping up the stairs.

That night, lying sleepless in bed, you can’t help but wonder:

How much more of this? For both them and you. How much more competition until the calm facades crack, until your patience snaps?

The flames of a rivalry never seem to wane, each interaction adding gasoline to a heat almost unbearable.

Only a matter of time until someone pours in too much and ignites an inferno.

One week until your visit to Sydney comes to a close, and the two are still at each other’s throats.

Between mundane things like making dinner or cleaning to stupid competitions like who ran the fastest mile in junior high or who can stay underwater the longest (or the drinking competition, a notable contestant), this trip has started to feel like a babysitting gig instead of a vacation.

“Chris-“

“Christopher.” Chris corrects one evening, the snide reprimand earning Jae’s icy glare in return.

Currently seated by your side on the couch once occupied by the blond, Jae scoffs to himself, arm extending to drape over your shoulders.

Meanwhile, your attention remains solely on the nature channel, a bit dazed in exhaustion after a long day of swimming beneath the warm sun overhead.

What makes him bristle is the way Jae leans into your form, pressing a kiss to your temple whilst maintaining sole eye contact with the other man. 

When your head turns, however, all is well.

This quieted, occasionally evident rivalry grates your nerves with no trace of resolve.

“Say,” An aimless hand taps against the side of the reclining chair your best friend sits within, a loose tee and sweatpants adorning his form.

And you’d be a fat liar to not admit glancing more than once at the way the fabric stretches over his torso when he shifts, squeezing against muscles unable to suitably fit.

Merely appreciative, you tell yourself.

“Why don’t we let dear old Jae pick Y/N’s favorite movie, hm?”

Such a mocking question, it is, and Chris spares no expense chucking the remote control in hand a little too hard at Jae, the man’s brows furrowing in silent irritation he refused to voice aloud.

Testing him.

Perhaps a time ago you’d mentioned your favorite movie to your boyfriend, though the topic wasn’t all too serious in your opinion.

For Jae, however, this was war, this unspeakable quiz verifying if he knew you better than Chris, knew the answer the other man knew like the back of his hand and then some.

You both know the champion title would always rest in Chris’s hands. 

That you kept quiet about.

“What? Don’t tell me you don’t know her favorite movie.”

Cocky, Chris is. 

And dammit, the tick of his jaw is unfairly attractive.

“It’s Tangled, now give me the remote and both of you grow up.”

It’s your turn to answer, having grown sick and tired of these childish taunts before snatching the remote from Jae’s grasp with a shared, scolding glower towards the both of them.

Comedically enough, they shrink like dejected puppies.

Fortunately, the movie helps distract you for a while, long enough that a nap becomes a decision not on your own accord—body slumping against Jae’s.

Unfortunately, Jae flipping Chris off from the couch and mouthing a “loser” beneath his breath escalates things to a level you don’t like to imagine.

Perhaps that’s the cause for either black eye decorating their face and Chris’s busted lip the next morning.

.

.

.

Trust, waking up to black and blue boys roaming the house was a sight hard not to laugh at.

“Did you guys.. fight?”

“Fight? I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve got a black eye, Jae.”

By the time the last day rolls around, those arguments, petty behavior, childish games become something you want to hold onto, June and July drifting past too quickly for you to chase after.

And while you had some grasp of their fight three days ago, only half of it has been made knowledgeable.

Chris would like to keep it that way for a multitude of reasons.

The favorite movie of yours served as the gasoline, and you had foretold the inferno to come.

“It’s not my fault you can’t let go of something that was never yours!”

Chris shoves Jae’s suitcase in the back of your car harder than need be, the other boy’s words ringing in his head as if some dreaded deadline.

“She’s- she’s not something to be owned like an object! I don’t want to possess her, I want to love her! And my god if you could get that through your head I think things would become a lot easier for both of us!”

A worthy argument on his own part, Chris would argue.

“You know what needs to get through your head?” Chris recalls the events similar to replays in sports, nearly able to feel the anger that had been coursing through his veins when Jae retaliated.

Storming straight up in his face where they stood on the beach, the night sky as their audience.

“You lost your chance, Chris. Waited too fucking long to confess and now you’re acting like a little kid just ‘cause you didn’t have the balls to say something, get it?” 

Jae spat his name like a cursed pseudonym, and a snort of satisfaction exhales from his frame envisioning the sucker-punch he gave the boy after that.

Followed by the clench of his fist, observing your laughter while talking with your boyfriend from afar.

Boyfriend.

Dammit.

Then the last part, before they both went tumbling into the sand in a mixture of fury-filled shouts and flying limbs.

“She’s not yours, Chris. Deal with it.”

His reply?

“Hurt her, break her heart, and I’ll give you a matching black eye.”

Who knew such a day would come so soon.

Maybe you should’ve known better.

Or that’s what you try to explain to yourself using. Some sad excuse to make up for the scene witnessed just minutes earlier.

Six months, not even half a year, and two months after traveling to Sydney together.

Stopping at crappy restaurants during the boresome ride, cracking jokes, laughing until your bellies hurt. Kissing, sex.

Was it the whole tension with Chris? Your mind rationalizes, frantically searching for some reason, rhyme. 

Trick question. There is no rhyme or reason in love.

Now, Jae professes all of it amounted to nothing while staying silent at the same time.

Him kissing another girl in front of your dormitory proved that.

Cheater.

And within the few minutes you bask in realization, you wish so terribly you could unleash that wrath on him. Scream in frustration or land similar punches the two battered each other with in Sydney.

Kick him in the shins, yell manically enough to scare the sadness out of your body.

But honestly, you just want to cry.

A sharp inhale, battling the sob threatening to run free with the beep of your phone’s keypad, serving as your only companion.

Until Chris picks up the call, and shit.

You break.

“What.. What was I thinking-“

It’s a job and a half sniffling up the cries, and for once, you feel embarrassed calling Chris crying—even with this being far from the first time.

Why involve someone else in your own problems?

Realistically, a part of you knew such a happening both could and, stupidly enough, would occur, knew this placated vision of peacefulness was a meager mask, acting as a film to the truth behind the blurry camera lens.

You can’t stay ignorant to him, and there isn’t a particle of happiness in unrequited pining, no matter trying to ease the pain with someone else who’ll eventually hurt you.

Fuck.

Because you love him. That’s all.

There, said and done. 

In your mind, at least. But saying that aloud results in your tongue feeling like lead, results in more crying.

“Y/N,” His voice, and you feel the coldness in your fingertips warm up, as if wrapped in his embrace. A long, safe hug.

“Answer me two things.”

Your additionally embarrassing, whimpered sound of agreement affirms his offer. 

“Was this Jae?”

No it was—

Yes. Honestly, truthfully, it was. 

No more pretending, excuses. Sixteen was over.

“Mhm,” Wiping your snotty nose on the back of your hand, a miniscule amount of relief comes from leaning against the wall behind you.

“And do you want me there or just want to talk?” That lilt of his tone, tender. 

 He’s good at making you want to cry. Though never due to meanness. 

Sucking in a shuddering breath, you calm your voice as much as possible.

“Here. Here, please.”

Then a realization.

“But you’re, like, ten hours awa-“

“That doesn’t matter. I’ll make it five. Right now, go back to your dorm, get some good takeout, and turn on Tangled, okay? Find something relaxing and don’t think about anything for a moment. I’ll be right there, alright?”

Longing lies in the way you press the phone to your cheek, savoring his voice like a soothing balm.

Let’s go back, let’s try this one more time.

First that time he asked you to prom in highschool, the second in his bedroom, allowing yourselves intimacy with each other for the first time.

You’ve never heard of a third chance before. 

For him, you’re willing to try.

That said, Chris held tight to his word, the rattling truck of his a miracle in managing to get here—no less get here two hours earlier than most did on the drive to Brisbane from Sydney, alerting you from the comfort of your dorm’s bed with its puttering engine and creaking brakes.

Surprisingly, however, he doesn’t spare you a word whilst rushing past, seemingly having chosen perfect timing in rushing to the dorms where a rather unlucky Jae steps out.

You don’t think you’ve heard a more dreadful noise than the crunch of Jae’s nose beneath Chris’s fist, the force alone sending the boy bowling to the ground before he’s being picked up again by the collar, your best friend downright seething.

“What did I tell you, hm?” A growl, his arm poised for another blow you can’t bring yourself to watch. 

“Hurt her, break her heart, and I’ll give you a matching black eye.” Chris repeats, nothing but white-hot rage charging through his veins. 

Jae, satisfyingly enough, looks terrified.

Good, Chris internally muses. Because simply pulling in, he saw all he needed to. The puffiness of your eyes, your shuddering sniffles. 

And all of a sudden it feels like that time in second grade, where Chris and a few of his friends had gotten redemption on the kid who stole your favorite popsicle flavor purposefully.

And for you, you feel like you’re watching that missing-toothed, sunburnt boy stand up for you again.

“I think another black eye might compliment the nose,” He snarls, momentarily catching your gaze.

The subtle shake of your head dissipates every angry instinct simultaneously, deciding to harshly shove Jae back to the ground alternatively and, at last, gather you in his arms for a hug that felt long overdue.

Occasionally you come to think there are connections that reach deeper than love — being the connection of souls in the most intimate of moments. Being your fingertips threading through blond curls, kissing at his lips clumsily—unlearned.

Right now, this hug. Nosing into the scent of his detergent, finding comfort in the place you were meant to be in, the arms you weren’t meant to be held in.

It had always been unlearned, but it was Chris, so you didn’t mind.

Oh, you loved it.

Loved him.

A bloody-nosed Jae could wait, because the last hour of Tangled needed to be watched, and the curl of his fingers in yours coaxed you along without a chance of stopping.

.

.

.

Senior year and soon to be graduates. Grown up, maybe just physically.

“Chris.”

The words are nearly inaudible, drapes of the canopy bed sole privacy to the man lingering above you, blond curls just as you remembered, eyes that same, heart-stopping chocolate hue.

Your hands find themselves reaching up, tentative to touch warm skin. Golden. 

Chris is always golden.

“Please hold me.”

And those arms that were always meant for you, lips kissing at your chin, pulls you into a rip current you had no intention of leaving.

Yours, his.

Messy, unlearned. Down to experience eventual problems.

But it was Chris, so you didn’t mind.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[for-a-longlongtime]

You Can't Chase Away The Queers & Gays & They's

aka: have your little delulu fantasies but don't you dare be a homophobic/queerphobic cunt about it.

I'm so fucking serious right now.

A certain amount of people are being absolutely psychotically ridiculous right now over that Pedro poem published in the project by Mustafa (the poem isn't new, he had this on his blog in the early 2010s, btw). Within hours, people are yelling in public comments tHiS pROveS hE iS iNTo pUsSY + hEArTbRoKEn ovEr a wOmAN, PLUS sending anons to me and other queers saying 'this poem proves he's not gay!', 'stop writing f***** shit about him now!', further speculating, wanting receipts whether he ever talked about specific genders, etc.

You're losing the plot. STOP IT.

I'm not even gonna go into how appalled Pedro would be to know there's literally a Straight Crusade group that has been scouting socials since forever just to post fake stories. No, my concern is about all the queers, gays, and they's (the LGBTQIAS2+ community) among us fans -- especially the young ones, who are seeing all that anti-queerness and homophobia happening. It's 2025 and in so many countries queer rights are under attack, queer youths are suicidal at much higher rates than straight kids, and it still happens every fucking day that queers coming out means they're losing family, friends, jobs, housing, custody of kids, etcetc.

Let me clarify: I don't give a shit about Pedro's sexuality or who he sleeps with/dates. I’m not the person you’re gonna want to ask about any of that. Do I as a queer feel (and a lot of others with me) like he's been doing plenty of queer signalling through the years? Yeah, but that doesn't mean it's gospel/fact, and I'm sure as hell not trying to prove it or convince other people.

What IS a fuckin' problem though is when people and blogs are whipping up other fans into a literal frenzy, making them think that they need to 'defend' P or prove he's not gay. Sure, disect the poem and whatever else, knock yourself out, but do not send other people - especially not queers - plain ass hate about it, just because you want to impose your POV on them. Because you are harming people by making them feel like it's not okay to be queer/gay, and you're using Pedro as a means to do so. That's fucked up.

I'm not here to police anyone, but I'm telling y'all to have some common sense if this is something that you have either inadvertently or deliberately been doing. This is exactly why there are so few gay and queer male fans active in this fandom, because they see how much negativity there is at and how obsessive the compulsory heterosexuality is in some corners of the fandom. This is exactly why queer and trans folks feel unsafe to reach out and get to know other fans. This is why a lot of writers (queer and straight) often feel reluctant to write mlm/gay fanfic (be it P Boy x male reader/male OC, or P Boy x P Boy, or P Boy x canon character). This is why new queer/gay fans feel hesitant to put out work with queer representation, because they're afraid of negative comments or anons. And that SUCKS, because they want to tell their stories as much as other writers do, but it's damn hard when you look at the queer/homophobia that has been on the rise in this fandom as well as in society.

Is your ability to like his work, to like him as an actor, or even just as a person who does a lot of good stuff for marginalized communities, actually DEPENDENT on his (perceived) sexual orientation? On who he sleeps with or dates/has dated? To the point that you feel like you need to 'defend' him or prove things to other people? Because, first of all, in case nobody told you and it didn't occur to ya: he's not gonna fuck YOU. Second of all: wow. Get it together.

Finally, I can't believe I need to make this point, but: just because you don't like queers, doesn't mean they're gonna go away. Why are you reading my blog or Erin's or anyone else's tumblr that's clearly about queer stuff (we actually do indicate that already in our bio/pinned posts, you know) if you don't like it? WHY are you reading gay fanfic (which is about Pedro characters, not even RPF/Real Person Fiction, and YES - that is a very big difference) if it makes you angry? Most of all, why do you feel like it's okay to act like a fuckin asshole?

Stop reading things you don't like. Block people you don't like. Dislike stuff all you want, but just don't be a homophobic piece of shit about it.

Also, go read Erin's post right here.

[the-immortal-restless]

A Millennium of Changes

(BETA READ BY @pumpkin-pepperz :) thanks pookie)

Summary: Everyone thought that the new baby Monkey would age like a mortal, after all, they were in the mortal realm and the baby was made in that realm… why would it age differently?

No one expected it to take so long

TLDR:The egg takes 35 celestial months to hatch, which roughly equates to 1,050 years in the mortal realm.

Takes place just after this chapter!

Warning:Heavy Angst(There is also heavy comfort to help don’t worry), Many Major Character Deaths, Transmasculine individual (MK) getting pregnant and giving birth(though it’s not a significant plot point).

This work was written by someone who did not grow up in Chinese culture, and while there are little references to the culture I still want to acknowledge that I am not the most educated on the practices and traditions of said culture.

Notes before the fic(skippable. Skip to *’s): This was based on an idea I had while sick where the egg takes 35 celestial months to grow. And one celestial day is one mortal year. Which I will guide you through the math now.

35 months x approximately 30 days per month = 1,050 days. Converting to Mortal Time is 1,050 years or 12,600 months. They have already completed 9 months in the comic at the time of writing this (may fifth) so that’s 12,591 months or 1,049.25 years. Which is a long time. In the comic it is established that MK is immortal and we already know that Redson is a half celestial, half demon, so of the main group them two are the only one likely to be alive after that long.

Tang is Papa and Pigsy is Dad.

**************************************

”You’ll see- Next time I call you, You’ll finally meet your new sibling… I Promise.”

Those were the last words he heard before his dads went into a deep meditation. It was essentially a magical coma.

MK was worried for his dad, he looked so tired, and his Mama had already passed out. He worried they wouldn’t wake up, but his Baba assured him they would.

MK went home with his Dad and his Papa. His Papa took him for a much needed haircut in the morning, he practically had a mane by now and he wasn’t to keen on having long hair.

MK focused on other relationships. His Dad’s shop was still busy, rightfully so, it was the best noodle shop in town. He still liked listening to his Papa’s wisdom and learning from the scholar. He had therapy with Sandy and his clowder of many cats. He trained with Mei and Redson, outside of hanging out and little dates.

Of course he visited his Baba and Mama every weekend, made sure all the things they had prepared for the baby stayed well taken care of. They’d need it when that baby finally hatched.

But MK started to worry as more and more weeks passed without so much as a sign the baby would hatch.

Eventually the first year passed. His Papa told him that maybe the baby was going to take the full 35 months. That thought both soothed and worried him, almost three years? That’s a long time.

He was worried some new villain would come back, and he wouldn’t have his mentor to help.

He talked to Sandy and he was able to slowly come to terms with that. Telling himself that the baby would be okay and he had a huge support system to help incase something did happen.

He’d focused on living instead of worried. Focus on what can be now, instead of what could’ve been.

He invested his time in growing, learning, becoming someone to be a hero and becoming better and better.

He cooked with Pigsy, the noodle shop had been there since before he was born. He loved cooking with his Dad and he always wanted to continue it. His Dad liked to impart wisdom onto him much like his Papa, (he was beginning to see why they were married) whether it be about trusting his senses over a recipe or some cooking metaphor for life. Things like: “Things are the best when you wait for the perfect time.”

He read more with his Papa, talking about myths and stories. The two of them even ventured outside Chinese Mythos and looked into all kinds of myths and legends. He enjoyed learning and taking in wisdom. Though their time together wasn’t restricted by myths. He also learned things from his Papa about human nature and philosophy. He learned that even though sleep was a vital part of mortal life, it’s still important for Celestial and Immortals because outside of the physical body, the mind benefited greatly from sleep. Sleep allows the mind a break to reset for the next day, to sort all the things you learn into their places and make sure you remember everything.

That’s when he started taking his sleep more seriously. If he was going to be immortal he needed to keep his mind healthy.

He took care of animals with Sandy and went hiking and camping with him, learning about nature and meditation. Sandy also likes to impart wisdom onto him (He was beginning to notice a pattern) about nature and how to learn to value to little beauties in everything.

He played video games with Mei, they always had fun. They also trained both with and without Redson. Though they all trained with and without each other. He focused on spending as much time doing their favorite things: watching movies, shows, playing games. They went to concerts and even tried plays.

He went on dates with Redson. They did picnics occasionally, but they also began cooking together. MK watched him work in the workshop. He and Mei introduced him to shows they thought he’d like. Much to everyone’s surprise and unsurprisingly he took a liking to cooking shows like DBK did.

He even connected with Nezha more, they were both princes and despite Nezha being a bit of a rule-follower, he liked MK’s defiance and rowdy attitude.

It was hard but he managed to live without being consumed by his worry. There were days where he was a bit bed bound with worry and sadness, but his family came and helped him. They all loved MK and MK loved them.

The trouble came when the third year passed. Why weren’t they awake? Why was the egg still unhatched? Why were his parents still so tired looking?

After days of frantic research with the help of MK, Nezha and other people, his Papa found something.

Apparently, sometimes celestial gestation progresses at the rate of the Celestial Realm even if they are in the Mortal Realm. A factor they didn’t know to consider. This information hit everyone like 67 consecutive trains.

The egg would take centuries to hatch… MK would face his immortality without his immortal parents. He would grieve almost everyone around him without his parents. He was… alone.

They couldn’t even undo the spell, because awake or not the baby needed Wukong and Macaque’s power to grow. Not to mention that undoing a spell like this could be dangerous, it would undo on its own when the baby was hatched and the two Celestial Monkeys were healthy. Them being asleep was safer and easier. It was hard but they couldn’t undo the spell that sealed them away

MK cried that day, that week, that month. He was scared, he was terrified. How was he going to survive over a thousand years without his parents?

But he knew mourning was only going to eat at the time. He had more therapy with Sandy. It would take an incredibly long time, but he needed it.

He focused even more on his family. He wanted his to see his life and he wanted to squeeze everything he had into time with them. MK grew closer and closer to his family. He knew by the time his Baba and Mama woke up, the time he spent with his Dad, Papa, Sandy and Mei would be a grain of sand in an an hourglass, but he didn’t care. It was his family.

It felt like centuries already when 7 years passed since they found out, and 10 since his Mama and Baba went to sleep. He hoped that was a good sign. His Dads noodle shop only grew bigger and they made more money. MK even offered to move out to make room for having more guests. MK was basically 34 years old and still living with them but they denied the notion. They said he’d have years to lived outside their house, they wanted him there.

MK didn’t argue.

He and Redson took it slow, but in mortal terms, which might’ve been fast for Demons but Redson nor his family said anything about it. After the first five years of their relationship, they spent a spent together, they both were new to it but it was a night they both enjoyed and never regretted.

After 15 years, they got married. MK knew it might’ve been a little fast. After all his Mama and Baba were engaged for… what 2,000 years before they married? But MK wanted his Dad and Papa to see him get married and Redson agreed that was a good idea. He didn’t mention that his mother had been pestering him for over a decade about getting married and having children with MK.

His Dad and Redson had already spent time together, they were close. But they only got closer when they started cooking together. Now they’d have family cooking nights where MK, Redson, and Pigsy, would cook a big meal and they’d all eat as family. More often than they’d expected, Redson’s family would also come, and DBK would join in cooking.

Those nights were MK’s favorite, his entire family was together.

Somehow in all his packed time with family, he still visited his Mama and Baba at the mountain, while he knew they likely wouldn’t wake up for another ten centuries. He still wanted to visit, talk to them even if they probably couldn’t hear him.

As his family got older, he valued the time more and more. He planned to take over the Noodle Shop. Not out of some obligation or anything. His Dad and Papa had made sure he knew that they wouldn’t be upset if he chose to do something else. He wanted to take on the business. It was his entire life, his first meal, his home. He wanted to live there forever.

MK took care of his parents when they got older. He wanted to, they took him in as a kid and they had a pretty substantial amount of saving to help with these delicate years. Pigsy, despite always talking about having a ‘Noodle Empire’, never bothered to expand. He was content with one shop, one building, one family.

MK hired more trained professionals, of course, to help him as the years passed. He wasn’t a nurse and elderly people had a lot of health concerns that he wasn’t trained to be able to accommodate. But he still did most of it, he learned to do it.

Mei got older too, she got a job as a professional racer. She was happy and MK made sure she practiced safe driving. He wasn’t about to let his best friend die in a fiery crash. That would be cringe of her.

Sandy got older too, and as his own years passed he began to coach MK through that, how to handle grief and understand death without fearing it. How it was natural and how it wasn’t the end. It was only a bridge to new beginnings. Sandy taught MK that life wasn’t about avoiding death, it was about enjoying the time we have. About forming connections and understanding each other. Death was inevitable, yes, but life was also inevitable.

Almost every single creature on earth would make at least one meaningful connection. It was simple math. We are born from someone and that very person is often our first relationship, and earth isn’t even close to being underpopulated. To live a life on earth and not make one single connection was a statistical wonder. It would take effort. Humans especially were inherently social creatures, they hunted in groups in the beginning of the species and now they lived in cities and villages with thriving cultures and family. The purpose of life, Sandy told him, was to give life a purpose.

MK buried Tang first, he was fully human and even though he was younger than Pigsy, demons just simply had a longer lifespan. It was peaceful, without pain or sadness. MK brought Pigsy to the grave to visit everyday, he replace the flowers at the first sign of wilt, lit incense and talked with Pigsy to Tang. It was comforting that they had more confirmation than other mortals often did that there was an afterlife.

MK mourned, Pigsy mourned, everyone mourned. Tang was a good man, he had a heart that was bigger than himself and an intellect to match. He always sought to understand the people around him and see the best in others.

Pigsy didn’t live much long after, he was older than Tang and the two of them were just barely older than Sandy. MK made sure they were buried together. Even if they weren’t alive in those bodies, they had stuck together longer than MK had been alive at that point and he wanted them to stay together long after they departed.

Sandy helped him grieve, though it was made significantly easier with the therapy before the deaths. It was more practice than anything.

MK continued to make human connections. He didn’t let his immortality swallow him. He learned that life was precious and even Redson began to grow friendly with a handful of mortals.

True to his word, MK took over the noodle shop with Redson. It was a family business and Redson had been apart of the family longer than they had been married.

Mei stayed close, she was a well known racer and she was a near expert at it, but she wanted to live in Megapolis. Her family was there, biologically and emotionally. She spent a lot of time with MK and Redson, the three of them were inseparable and even if she couldn’t cook she still had much to offer. She had humor and company and family.

Sandy encouraged MK to continue therapy after his passing, the kid was very stable and had a good support system, but therapy was always a good decision. It helps and it’s better to keep it up, rather than to wait for a catalyst and need more extensive help. Waiting until some breaking point would only make issues worse and take longer to deal with. It���s always a better decision to refine something than wait till it breaks to repair it.

MK mourned when he buried Sandy, of course he did. Sandy was an important figure in his life, he helped him through so much. But he also knew how to continue with himself. Sandy had taught him well.

Redson and Mk took a long time to have kids, not because they couldn’t but because MK had a small fear that he would get stuck in a thousand year rest like his family. But with patience and a heap of therapy, they decided to have one. MK was a little sad his parents couldn’t meet their grandchild but MK knew his parents would rather him be happy than to rush his life just to have them see it.

MK decided on his own that he wanted to carry the child. He didn’t want to follow the egg route, he wanted children but he didn’t want to miss out on a millennia just to have baby. Not that his parents were less for choosing to do that. He knew they wouldn’t have done this on purpose.

So they began to try for a baby, much to Mei’s teasing. It didn’t take long for them to conceive and 9 months later they brought the cutest little boy into the world. Redson and MK ended up naming him a classic name for triumph or victory, Kai. When the baby finally opened his eyes, they were like a mirror image of Redson’s, deep red like dark fire, like the fire he created.

There was some worry among them that Kai would end up creating a second Samadhi Fire like Redson. So they made him a necklace with a pendant carving with a bull and a monkey surrounded by fire. One the back was written three things.

小宝宝(xiǎo bǎobǎo), meaning "little baby."

火焰猴 (huǒyàn hòu), meaning “flaming monkey.”

凯旋 (kǎixuán), meaning “triumph.”

When Kai was born they had a baby shower soon after, it was nice. Life was good for them. They felt at peace, life was going.

MK was still taking care of Flower fruit Mountain, after all, their king was incapacitated, which kinda made him acting leader, then again they were monkeys and they managed to be alright before, but he liked to visit and keep the place nice and clean.

Kai got older, and while he had intense fire power, he hadn’t created a second reality burning fire yet. So they were a bit calmer about the matter. Mei loved the little guy. He was irresistibly cute.

Kai aged slower too, his infancy last almost 5 years. He was a toddler for 10 years. It only grew slower but never old. Before long he was a kid, looking about 8 or 9.

Mei got a bit more time than the rest, she aged slow because of her dragon heritage but she was far from fully draconic. So time did what it does, and Mei passed away. MK and Redson mourned her, that part would never be in question, they buried her with honor, just like the rest. Kai missed her, she was his auntie, Mei took him on motorcycle rides and he watched the old Monkey King movies with her.

Kai was raised knowing the history of his grandparents, he visited Flower Fruit Mountain with his parents and for the first few years of visits he would play with the other cubs and monkeys, eating fruit and roughhousing.

After the first few years, Kai began to stay by his parents, ever curious about what they talked about with two men who probably couldn’t hear them.

After a while he came to realize they talked because they cared. Because even if there was a slight chance that they could hear them, then it was worth it. That’s why he started doing it more, he talked to Mei when they visited her grave and even his other grandparents as well as Sandy. He didn’t meet them, but he wanted them to know him.

Before they knew it, 100 years had passed since Wukong and Macaque went under. Kai was a tween and he was making friends. Both immortal and human. MK and Redson taught him at home, that how both of them knew it and they both turned out okay.

MK and Redson had made friends as well that had also died but they had other families to bury them, he still visited, he cared for them no less. That’s how it continued.

Megapolis grew around them, not big, the city was already pretty good, but trees get bigger and buildings change, even just slightly. They all fell into a bit of a routine, a pleasant one that always seemed to find new ways to keep them from boring to death.

Pigsy’s Noodles continued to remain one of the best restaurants in the city and it stayed a staple of Megapolis. It brought in amazing business and good money.

Demons were becoming more and more integrated into daily life, MK and Redson obviously participated heavily in that, earning a reputation for their acceptance, though to them it was basic decency.

Demons were beginning to become more and more accepting as generations progressed and less of them were driven to crime because of it. They were getting help and proper healthcare instead of being shunned to the corners of society’s shadows. MK found himself acting in a hero role less and less, which he found himself proud of. It meant he did a good job.

By the 9th century, demons were everywhere, they were apart of the culture and everyone grew better because of it. More and more of Megapolis became accessible to everyone, literature became richer and fuller, education and intelligence rates of the schools and districts surrounding them began to rise.

Megapolis was quickly becoming a growing community of vibrant individuals and friends. MK found comfort in the fact that Sandy, his Dad and Papa, would be proud of the world that this was becoming.

MK hadn’t even realized how long it had been since his parents fell asleep growing the egg.

Before long, Kai was an elder teenager, nearly a thousand years old.

MK, Redson and Kai were at the mountain, Red had gone to tidy up the house and make sure everything was ready, even if they thought they weren’t even close to when MK’s parents would wake up. It was still routine. MK was training with Kai, something they had started a hundred odd years ago.

That’s when a bright light came from the mountaintop where Macaque, Wukong and the egg were. MK halted in his step and Kai nearly tackled him before he realized.

Wukong woke with a start, the spell had fallen around them moment ago and Macaque woke up at the same time as him. They both look toward to egg, only to see a little monkey cub in its place.

Their Baby

Wukong and Macaque cried with joy and they both gathered the cub into their arms.

That was until they notice how big the tree near them had gotten, and the vines growing in the rocks, evidence of more age than they expected.

How long had they been out?

That’s when they heard it. A voice, not their sons. Not MK’s but one that called for his Dad.

The boy called for his Papa, urging him to wait for his Dad. He sounded worried but Wukong didn’t care for details. If there was an intruder he needed to protect his cub. He pulled his staff out of his ear. And held it ready.

With a clang, the staff dropped when he saw his own son, his adult son standing there instead of the younger man they remembered him being. Both of their heart sank, tears welled up in their eyes as they realized.

How long has it been, they wanted to ask. But their son, a millennium older and wiser, answered before they could.

One thousand fifty years, he said. The two men were horrified at that answer. They’d been asleep that long? That was a terrifying notion.

Their world only grew harder to believe when a teenager in a red shirt, soon followed by Redson, appeared up the mountain. Redson was shocked and came to MK’s side. Wukong covered his mouth for a moment, slowly connecting the dots that the teenager was his grandson.

Macaque looked worried that their son would hate them for this, that fear melted when MK ran to them and hugged them tightly, careful not to hurt the baby.

Macaque and Wukong hugged their son back and Redson guided his son toward the cuddle pile.

MK rambled about the past millennia to his waking parents for a while before explaining that they had gotten married and had a son. MK looked toward Kai, motioning for him to introduce himself.

“Hello… I’m Kai, I’m your grandson.”

THE END(?)

Tags: @kyri45 (the creator of the comic that inspired this!) @ainnur @iglowinggemma28 @autism-autobot

[ultimate-marysue]

I love the post about "when I'm at the mischaracterization contest and my opponent is a woman" because it is painfully true. Yes, men get mischaracterized too (especially if they're poc, disabled, queer..), but it's a completely different kind of mischaracterization.

Male mischaracterization usually comes from loving the character a little too much and wanting to give them extra angst or extra quirks or extra importance to the plot. Think about Tim being mischaracterized as an uwu little baby who's always drinking coffee and it's about to enter his villain era. Again, an exception would be poc characters like Duke that get shoved into the "I don't care about him" kind of mischaracterization (read: yeah he's vaguely shaped as a human and that's all I need to know about him).

Female mischaracterization comes either from pure hatred or not giving a fuck about the character. Think how Talia got mischaracterized in fucking canon by a racist misogynist and everybody clapped. No seriously, if that happened to a male character's heads would roll, people would riot. I see so much criticism for Bruce or Jason's canon mischaracterization (which, hey, it's true) and that's like, not even in the same realm of fucked up as what happened to Talia. So many pics where she's a rapist to further uwubify Bruce.

The other option is slightly less bad, but not by much. You have characters like Steph, Selina or Lois reduced to being boring two dimensional support characters for a m/m ship. Then there's Cass, a character with so much personality reduced to "mute emotional support" or "she's in Hong Kong". If you want to write a fic or a post focused on male characters, that's cool. I've done that. But you can treat the female characters with respect even if they're the supporting cast in this instance.

I don't think fandom behavior is activism. I don't think you're more feminist for writing Stephcass and I don't think you're a misogynist if you write superbat. That's bullshit and the people pretending that's how it works should touch grass. I've read amazing writers that focus only on m/m ships and still treat the female supporting cast with equal respect and care. You don't have to write Dinababs if you don't want to, you only need to treat them as three dimensional and dynamic characters when they appear.

That being said, we should still be aware of how we treat female characters. Analyzing the biases in fandom helps us realize biases in ourselves. Don't take this as an attack, it's just a post.

[oltammefru]

I've been thinking recently about Theresa and the end of Ep14 and her creating Civilight Eterna, and the question of like: Was she aware of the consequences of her actions? That doing so would extremely fuck up her loved ones, Kal'tsit most of all? The more I think about it the more I come to think that the answer is "yes, but she did it anyway."

Her behavior at the end of EP14 is kind of insane because like, despite how willing she is personally to sacrifice herself for the good of the future and how she tells Kal'tsit "My dear Kal'tsit, since we're all clear about our respective endings, why should we go through sorrow yet again?", at the same time she's like not really willing to let go either. (Think about how the moment she is out of sight, she goes on a mad scramble throughout time itself because she needs so, so, so desperately to know, if she can't have anything else, that her loved ones are ok. She says one thing, but then does another.)

Despite the path that she had chosen and her determination and willingness to see it through, at the end of it all she still doesn't want to go, she is still the person who listened in wonder to Kal'tsit as she told her stories about Terra, the world outside of Kazdel that she wanted to but never got to see, she is still the one who wanted to be able to hold Amiya and read her bedtime stories and assuage her of her nightmares, she is still the one who wanted to be there for her loved ones, in whatever form she can.

And despite all her willingness to sacrifice, and the selflessness of almost all her deeds, she is still in many ways a selfish person (which she acknowledges herself). This is one of the central contradictions of her character, that despite her selflessness, she is characterized majorly by a few specific, extremely, extremely selfish choices of such enormity that they arguably outweigh all of her selflessness. She passed on the crown to a 10 year old child (and Theresa knew Amiya would accept, since she is like that, even though it's not a question that Amiya could given an actual, non-coerced answer to) because so believed she could carry on her ideals, she erased the Doctor's memories both to free them from the shackles of their past, but also to shape them into the person she wanted them to be to best carry out her ideals.

There is such a delightful hypocrisy to this. She, in some sense, wanted desperately, in that selfish core of hers, more than anything else, was to live a life where she was free from the burdens of the past and the shackles of fate, but she still forced that onto Amiya. At the end of Babel, she is walking toward her literal death, but she is still vaguely aware of how death works for the Sarkaz, that she will return to the Originium but still exist in some form, and so she is still hopeful about this: "it's time to say goodbye… we'll meet again in the future won't we… Kal'tsit… Amiya… Doctor." But this time, it really is the end for her, after this there will be nothing left of her, it is a total and complete annihilation of the self. (Which, the thing about this is that like, she deleted the Doctor's identity and subjected them to this, but is unwilling and scared to go through it herself). Despite her virtues and her selflessness, despite what she tells Kal'tsit about partings and endings, she is scared.

The thing about Theresa is that she is a hypocrite, but she is a hypocrite in a highly specific and interesting way. If you pay attention to depictions of Theresa throughout the story, she is someone who believes that fate can be overcome, that the cycle of violence can be broken, except when it comes to specifically herself, for which she is incredibly, incredibly pessimistic, and believes that she's a failure and was unable to break free from her fate. ("To change a man is to make them believe, to make them believe is to destroy their faith, nothing can save such a lost soul.", "But yet, there is no antidote to loneliness, there is no end to nomadic wandering, there is no cure to a terminal illness..." etc.) This is why she's willing to do what she does in Ep14, intentionally choosing to perpetuate the cycle of violence and inflict suffering on other people for the ends of her (and her people) and this something that she fully acknowledges and is perfectly ok with doing in Ep14 even though she could have just like, not. She chooses to act against her ideals because she is a failure, a victim of fate, the sacrifice on top of which the future will be built, an obstacle that the true idealists must and will overcome. She is a hypocrite because she believes that Amiya/the Doctor/Kal'tsit are better people than her, that they are capable of doing what she isn't, and so she is willing to subject them to standards that she doesn't apply to herself.

She can't bear the idea that this is it, that there will be no more of her left, and is willing to do anything to assuage this, and so she makes CE, so she can linger and be there for her loved ones in whatever form possible. I think in this there is a conscious understanding that doing this will hurt her loved ones, and especially Kal'tsit most of all. It's not something she wants to do, but she thinks of Amiya/the Doctor/Kal'tsit as better people than her. She is deliberately doing something that will hurt them yes, but they are strong, and will get through this, like they always have. But herself? She is scared, she has nothing left and soon she will be nothing at all. And so (like she always has), she chooses to go out with one last moment of selfishness.

[accessible-tumbling]

[ID:

Image 1: a youtube video by Corridor Crew titled "Did We Just Change Animation Forever… Again?". The thumbnail shows a white person with a prominent frown and slicked back brown hair transforming Animorphs-style into a progressively more cartoon version of themselves, yelling as they lean towards the camera. The in-between phases of the transformation simplify textures, and add 2D lines both around features and wrinkles to intensity emotion. A grawlix that reads "Holy $#@*!" adds emphasis to the thumbnail.

Image 2: Sad Officer K reaction meme. K from Blade Runner 2049, played by Ryan Gosling is illuminated in pink light as he stands in front of a blurred blue background. His nose appears broken, covered with a bandage with blood dripping down his face & neck. He looks up despairingly offscreen.

Image 3: tumblr tags that read

that's not what democratizing /means/

JFC

can we bring back the word 'poser' into out vocabulary?

cause these guys are posers

they're tryign to walk like a duck and talk like a duck but they will never ever be a genuine duck

they're exploiting the in-group they claim to respect and promote and be a part of

for a shitty cash grab and short term benefit

seeing this is like seeing a yuppie in a suped up vanity truck trying to relate to a grease covered mechanic

at least when John Lassiter flunked out of 2D animation we developed 3D animation

this is literally not animation

it's literally just filters

Image 4: tumblr tags (continued from image 3) that read

they didn't innovate anything 'again' [written derogatorily] they just fed more work they don't have rights to to a machine

they're expressing no talent by doing this except for grifting

these are not friends of the artists

they're new generation art thieves like a thousand others with /Way Less/ knowledge than themselves

and they put themselves in /That/ group themselves

just

just JFC

Image 5: two replies from @AmiiboAcid that read

What the hell does the strike have to do with this? Animators aren't on strike

Writers and actors are on strike. They wrote a short-film and then acted in it themselves. It's a live-action film made by human hands, with the AI only being used for special effects. The strike has nothing to do with this.

Image 6: a reply to @AmiiboAcid's message by @feast-of-the-rabb1t that reads

it does because Disney and Warner Bros are currently refusing to recognize the unionization efforts of their animators, firstly, and secondly it's at the very least tasteless to so blatantly use something (AI, in this case) that their coworkers (the writers and actors) are actively being threatened with, if not maliciously apathetic

Image 7: a reply to @AmiiboAcid's message by @SaccharineOmens that reads

it's because one of the /Big Reasons/ actors and writers are striking in the first place is because studios want to use 'AI' to replace them, and these guys are like 'AI can replace these other jobs too lol!' so it's just extremely tasteless for them to do that at a time where their peers and coworkers are trying to get 'AI' regulated

Image 8: a reply to @SaccharineOmens' message by @AmiiboAcid that reads

This isn't using AI to replace writers or actors. Using AI for visual effects has already been used in many other films (at least if you count machine-learning as AI) such as Spiderverse. It's a perfectly defensible use case for AI and employing dogmatic arguments where it does not fit does not further your cause whatsoever.

Image 9: a reply to @AmiiboAcid's message by @feast-of-the-rabb1t that reads

the scripts for interpolating the line overlays the characters had in spiderverse are not at all like what this is supposed to be, and SaccharineOmens is spot on in calling out these guys for essentially trying to out-swim the shark (AI and tech bros) by sacrificing the swimmers next to them. They are essentially painting a bit '/Eat Me/' sign on an industry that isn't unionized the way the writers or actors are, and is therefore much more vulnerable to this exact kind of exploitation

Image 10: a stil from the Sony Imageworks Animating Miles video linked by @SaccarineOmens that shows two versions of a simplified model of Miles Morales. The left model, captioned "predictions from machine learning", shows a grey 3D model of Miles frowning and baring teeth with determination, with parts of his nose outlined digitally with a varyingly thin ink brush. The right model, captioned "Adjusted predictions", shows the same model in the same pose, but with the outlines subtly tweaked. parts of the corner of the nose are made less rounded, lines are repositioned, line thinness is altered, and the lines on the nose bridge are slightly reshaped. The two captions are written in cartoon-style text boxes.

Image 11: Andy Serkis in a blue motion-capture suit for the production of Lord of the Rings. He is perched crouching on a rock like Gollum, wearing skintight spandex with thick black gloves, with dots painted on his face.

Image 12: A combining of the This Is Fine dog-in-a-burning-house meme and the Wow-cool-robot-missing-the-point meme. The background is a colourful line drawing of a burning house, upon which is superimposed a Gundam robot firing a projectile labelled "we created a flamethrower!" over a person's head. The person, failing to notice or care about the flamethrower issue (or the surrounding burning house) looks at the robot and says "wow!! cool technology!!"

/end ID]

In the middle of a strike.

[acourtofquietdreamers]

Elriel Month: Guilty as Sin ☀️🦇

𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙇𝙪𝙘𝙞𝙚𝙣’𝙨 𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙬𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠, 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙡𝙨 𝙛𝙡𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙨 𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙀𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙣’𝙨 𝙙𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙨𝙝𝙚’𝙙 𝙜𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝. 𝘼 𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙨𝙣𝙖𝙧𝙡 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙞𝙢—“𝙍𝙚𝙡𝙖𝙭,” 𝙍𝙝𝙮𝙨 𝙨𝙖𝙞𝙙. “𝘼𝙯𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙡 𝙞𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙮𝙥𝙚.”

I think the next book will prove Azriel is absolutely the ravishing type, especially when it comes to Elain Archeron. I love the idea of Elain and Azriel exploring each other in any outdoor setting they can. Whether it be in the garden, a field beneath the mountains, or a body of water, there’s so many places they can have their trysts.

The lovely Talitasami did such an incredible job portraying this scene for me. Thank you so much for working with me and delivering such a gorgeous piece!

Art by talitasami and commissioned by me.

Find it on Instagram here!

Characters belong to Sarah J. Maas.

Please do not repost without permission. Likes and reblogs are appreciated!

@elriel-month

[angelltheninth]

Your Routine While Dating Frank Langdon

Pairing: Frank Langdon x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, co-workers, flirting during work, lunch breaks, stealing kisses, morning fluff, back pain, massage, slightly suggestive

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: He is so bad... in a sexy way but also in a functional way.

EARLY MORNING

Has to be bribed to get up and get ready for work. Not that he doesn't want to work, it's rather that he would prefer to keep you in bed for as long as possible. Frank takes his time getting dressed and while he does he takes your clothes and puts it above his head, demanding a kiss if you want them back. Doesn't mind if he's late for work, but knows you mind, and you're cute when you're mad at him. Teasing you is one of his favorite part of every morning.

WORK

As he is seen as one of the more upbeat members of the Pitt but also a bit of an ass, no one knows how the two of you got together. He takes his job seriously but if the opportunity arises to flirt with you he will take it immediately, even in front of a patient. Frank is not professional at all in that regard and never will be, he will be very open with the fact that you're dating. Says a few sly comments, especially on the night you spent together before. Comments like these make you want to shut him up fast, and often the only way to do that is to steal a few moments together in an empty room.

LUNCH BREAK

Because of his back injury he asks for a massage when the two of you eat lunch together. To fluster you he moans when you put your hands on him, and is even very vocal about it feeling good. He knows very well that he's doing with that, he knows the kinds of images and memories that will awaken in you. Always has your favorite drink on hand, and a nice cup of coffee for you both of course to keep you both going through the day. If there are other people eating lunch with you he steals as many kisses as he can before the break is over and he gets chastised for being inappropriate at work.

AFTER WORK

Frank actually can't wait to get home from work and take a long warm shower with you. He can take it without you but it's gonna be a lot less fun that way and you both need a way to destress at the end of such a long day. Takes a few pills to help him sleep better but has really been trying to get off the medication and find new ways to deal with the pain. Never wants to worry you so he hid the fact that he took the pills at first but as soon as you found out he did feel guilty, however he couldn't just stop immediately. One of the best ways to get him to fall asleep faster is to have his head in your lap, softly running your hand through his hair until his breathing evens out.

[sirenscradle]

Siren’s ATEEZ Fic recs!

hi friends! as ateez is my ult group and reading fanfiction is my comfort hobby, i wanted to share some recommendations because there’s so many talented writers here on this platform. it’ll be nearly impossible to list every single one i’ve come across but these are what i’ve gathered recently thus far! a lot of what i’ve been coming across are seonghwa, wooyoung, and yunho fics, so this is mostly a collection for these members by coincidence. there’s also a san rec in here! hehe

starting off strong, we have @faerouzia with their newly released dark fantasy, third age au seonghwa fic. the author’s provided playlists, moodboards, and really went above and beyond in cultivating a world i could feel palpably. this fic is severely underrated and i definitely encourage people to go an read it, especially if you’re a dark fantasy geek like me. here’s the fic link to Kingdom: At Grim’s End. the series is also listed as 21+ so please be mindful and MDNI.

next, we have a wooyoung hurt/comfort oneshot by @hjsmermaid. despite it being a shorter passage, it’s so well written that it honestly provided it so much meaning. i cried while reading because it reminded me of what love felt like when i was 17, and it was such a moving piece. i believe this fic doesn’t have any age warnings and there’s nothing for minor’s to be wary of reading other than mentions of smoking nicotine/cigarettes! it’s based on troye sivans song, strawberries and cigarettes which i also loved so much. here’s the link to the fic.

@captain-joongz fic deserve you is a seonghwa fic that also has a sequel, wonderful nothing. this was an unquestionably SEXY read. i’m a sucker for fics/stories with darker themes but do take note of the warnings before reading. seonghwa in this role is the reader’s brother-in-law… i was salivating. 18+ fic, so this one isn’t for you minors~

@armpirate like we were had me sitting in a dark room contemplating every love i’ve known in my personal life. it’s moving, heart wrenching, and stained with uncomfortable yearning. san was written as a character i could see as a genuine representation of a man who despite his flaws and misdeeds is the one who got away. this author also has many other fics on this platform i think people should check out! (18+)

@kitten4sannie is a staple for ATEEZ fics on tumblr. they’ve released a new fic, new light that’s a super spicy read based on an aged up!yunho who’s also the readers next door neighbor. i loved every second of reading it after work, because reading absolutely NASTY smut is the equivalent of having a cigarette as a treat. (for me at least, please don’t smoke y’all.) (as you’ve probably gathered, this is an 18+ piece!)

I’ve been O B S E S S E D with @peacheeeliz wooyoung smau, casual. now it’s never a safe bet to assume anything about an idol and their private life but i can definitely imagine wooyoung having commitment issues irl lol this take on it tickles me in all of the right ways and i always enjoy seeing the author’s update notifications (18+ series!)

@matzrionette has written an extremely dark circus au, master of puppets. i believe this is the remastered addition and it’s plot is something i haven’t seen anywhere else. it’s well written and is a seonghwa/yunho/reader fic! love seeing a double pairing, esp a seonghwa/yunho one. please be sure to read the series warnings, as this is a dark fic, but for those that enjoy darker and intricate plots—this is for you and it definitely was for me. (18+!)

heat of the night, by @onlyforwoosan is a seonghwa racer au… y’all this takes car sex to another level in the most delicious ways possible. there’s something about a semi-rugged man who doesn’t hesitate to protect the woman he loves but is also absolutely nasty and drives fast cars. (i hate car guys irl but not online from a distance so this is perfect for me. match made in heaven!

that’s it for now! i’ll start posting fic recs here and there. i’m also doing major blog housekeeping so i can arrange it to be a lot easier to navigate for any visitors! ٩(^‿^)۶ i’ll probably arrange it by tags so that people could find designated posts a lot easier via the search bar and my cleaning should be done by the end of this week. (hopefully)

here’s a link to my masterlist!

i’ve also released three new fics all ranging in theme from art apprentice au’s, ancient vampire x poker player au’s, and a stupid-but-gifted friend group, religious horror fic about exorcists lol. if that’s ur thing pls check it out, like, and reblog! <3 (all of my series are 18+ only, since i chronically write smut. i’m so sorry to my babies.)

for the thrill of the hunt is an ancient vampire seonghwa x ancient vampire reader x prey/poker player wooyoung fic! it’s a smut comedy with some fantasy undertones and backstories in knighthood lol. it’s also a short series, with plans of having special one shots based within the same universe.

fatal attraction is a art apprentice seonghwa x muse! reader x mentor! yeosang fic. it’s a complicated accidental love triangle spanning the timeline of a decade. this is 18+ and a two part series.

my newest fic, devil’s catch has been one of my favorites to write thus far. it’s literally my baby. it’s an ot8 x reader with a major focus on the hongjoong x reader pairing about a group of special grade exorcists trying to fight against the impending doom of the apocalypse. relationships get complicated and it’s going to be a packed, dark plot. this will be a longer series with a plan of at least 10+ chapters, but hopefully not 20 lol.

until next time friends!

[acorn-squash-writes]

[Image description:

Gif from a Batman cartoon: Bruce opens the door of a luxury car and gestures to a group of five to get in. Subtitles: Bruce Wayne. If you need a job, I think I can help.

Another gif, same cartoon: Someone bald, wearing a suit, is sorting through some papers, throws them aside in surprise, and shakes Bruce’s hand.

Another gif, same cartoon: A very muscular character in a torn suit walks into a room and is shocked to see someone sleeping in a hospital bed with a redheaded person sitting on a chair nearby.

Comics: Batman is shielding Joker from Punisher, who’s approaching with one fist raised and the other on his gun.

Punisher: How many times have you put this maniac away? I can end it right here and now.

Batman: Joker?

Joker: Yes?

Batman: Run.

Closeup on the Joker’s face.

Joker: Huh?

Off-panel character: Run for your life.

The final panel is Batman, still costumed, with his thigh exposed. In the background, someone runs away.

Comics: Bruce and Robin hold up a novelty check.

Bruce: --This certified check for $4,999.99!

Photographer: Smile big for the camera, Mr. Wayne.

A gif (still the same cartoon, I think): Harlequin says, to Batman, “There’s one thing I gotta know. Why did you stay with me all day risking your butt for someone who’s never given you anything but trouble?”

Comics: A shadowy hand, dripping bright fluid, shows a Wayne Tech business card to a person wearing heavy makeup. The person with the card says, “I hear these people are hiring reception girls. Don’t let me see you on the streets after tonight.”

Comics:

Batman, panel 1: It doesn’t have to end like that. I don’t know what it was that bent your life out of shape, but who knows?

Maybe I’ve been there too.

Maybe I can help.

Panel 2, Batman, off-panel, continues talking to the Joker: We could work together. I could rehabilitate you. You needn’t be out there on the edge any more. You needn’t be alone.

We don’t have to kill each other.

What do you say?

Comics: Batman stands in a cage near a young child sitting on the floor. He says, “I’m stepping a little closer now, okay? You were so brave. You made it through everything all by yourself. And tonight, you got yourself free where we could find you. That took a lot of strength.”

Comics: A masked villain, spinning a chain in one hand, approaches Batman, saying, “I’ve seen how you treat your prisoners. Forgotten and scared. Can it be you actually care for those creatures?”

Comics:

A masked person in a purple hooded cloak: You told me you had a whole new way of helping Gotham. Something different than the path Batman offered.

Someone in a red outfit whose face and hair seem to be made of gold: Would Batman have had you steal those Epipens and deliver them to the people who need them most?

Purple: Literally, yes. Like, every week. How did you think I knew how to bust into Penguin’s narcotics warehouse?

How come every time I try to do this different than Batman, I just end up doing exactly what Batman would do?

Comics: Bruce says, “I have no interest in not caring about people. I have no interest in giving up the mission I started when I was eight years old. You’re sick. There’s a part of you that’s broken and you’re angry that it’s not broken in me.”

End image description.]

Does anyone know which issue the second-to-last comics panel came from? I’d like to read it.

Also, I didn’t do a great job identifying characters. Feel free to copy this and edit it into something more useful.

why does anyone in Gotham even bother doing crime like you KNOW the second you leave the bank with the money you just stole Bruce Wayne is gonna be chilling on a bench on the other side of the street in his bat fursuit like “hey bitch u better not be breaking the law”

[strawb3rryg2l]

The Temp, Part 1

Characters: Robert Reynolds x (Female) Reader.

Summary: Mel trains a new temp - Y/N. Y/N just wants a normal life, one where she can forget her past as a spy and start anew. When she meets The Thunderbolts, she can't help but notice Robert Reynolds... or Bob, as everyone calls him. He's quiet, shy, and seemingly holding a lot inside. She almost feels the same, even if she doesn't know him personally. They find a likeness in one another and grow closer.

Warnings: reader is an ex-spy, talks of self-doubt, spoilers for the movie (Let me know if there any more warnings I should put).

Word Count: 1790

Note from the author: This is my work and not only will it be posted on this account (@Strawb3rryg2l) . It will also be posted to my account of Archivesofourown (@ Strawb3rrygal). I will link it here once it is uploaded. This is a work in progress, and my first ever fanfiction so please be kind. This movie brought back my love for Marvel, and I'm super excited about this series I will be writing. This is my first attempt of a slow-burn, friends to lovers, and smut (mueheh). So without further ado... Happy reading!

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

Being the assistant of the new Avengers was quite an ordeal. 

Y/N had shadowed Mel. It was only supposed to be temporary work. Y/N was only meant to cover Mel during her vacation. She was leaving for her well-deserved three-week trip to the Dolomites in Italy. Y/N was willing to work.

Willing… and quietly watching everything.

Being Valentina Allegra de Fontaine’s assistant was more about information control than coffee runs. There were reports to catalog, people to monitor, egos to smooth over, and secrets. So many secrets. Y/N learned quickly that everyone was watching someone else. Everyone had blood on their hands. Y/N just made sure no one noticed hers.

Y/N adjusted her blazer in the mirror before stepping into the conference room. It was Day Four, and so far no one had asked too many questions about her. She was just "Mel’s temp." That was good. Low profile. Safe.

The morning’s meeting was more like a war council. The Thunderbolts — or whatever unofficial name they were using now — gathered in a quiet buzz of tension. Yelena Belova lounged in her seat like it might bite her. US Agent was already annoyed about something. Bucky looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Ghost was halfway invisible, and Red Guardian was arguing with the espresso machine in Russian.

And then there was him.

Robert Reynolds. Or Bob… which is what they called him.

He walked in like he wanted to disappear. Hood up. Shoulders tight. Hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his worn coat. The others gave him space. It seemed like a respectful distance. A low hum seemed to follow him, like the room shifted to accommodate a presence far too big to be human.

Sentry. The man with a million exploding suns inside him.

He sat quietly near the edge of the table, a glass of water in front of him. He stared into it like he expected it to show him something.

Y/N didn’t mean to stare. But there was something about the way he held himself like he was bracing for a disaster no one else could see.

She recognized the feeling.

When Valentina spoke, her voice cut through the tension like a scalpel. "Three weeks. That’s how long we have until we present our team to the U.S. Government. We need order, presence, and we need good optics. So we behave. Understood?"

Y/N took notes, nodding at key points like Mel showed her. No eye contact. Don’t fidget. Be useful, invisible, forgettable.

Then Bob spoke.

It was a mumble, barely audible. “What happens if Void shows up?”

Silence.

Valentina didn’t blink. “Then we all hope to God we don’t have a repeat of New York.”

Bob flinched like she’d slapped him.

After the meeting, Y/N found herself alone in the hallway, pretending to review her tablet. Bob was standing near a window, gripping the railing like it might vanish. The skyline reflected off the glass. He didn't look at her, but he knew she was there.

"You’re new," he said.

"Temporary," she replied.

He nodded, still not looking. "That’s good. People don’t last long here."

"You seem to be doing alright."

He let out a short breath. Not a laugh, not really. “You think?”

She almost smiled. “No.”

That earned her a glance.

His eyes were tired. Not just physically like his soul hadn’t slept in years. But there was something in them that wasn’t entirely broken. Just… quiet, waiting.

“You don’t talk much either,” he said.

“I find it keeps me alive.”

He looked at her a moment longer, then turned back to the skyline.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know the feeling.”

—————————————————————————————————

It was day Five of Y/N being an assistant and she was restocking the files in Valentina’s private office when she felt it, a presence behind her.

Too close. Too quiet.

In an instant, her fingers tightened around the steel pen she’d been using, eyes flicking to the nearest reflective surface. A silver-framed photo of Valentina shaking hands with someone who was probably on a kill list.

A shadow moved just behind her shoulder.

She turned fast not enough to strike, just enough to confront.

It was Yelena.

"Relax," the assassin said, popping a stick of gum in her mouth. "You looked like you were about to stab me with a Montblanc."

Y/N exhaled slowly and loosened her grip. Her fingers were white.

“I don’t like being snuck up on,” she said coolly.

Yelena tilted her head, intrigued. "Interesting." 

Y/N said nothing. She just tucked the pen back in its holder, turned to reorganize the folders, and kept her face blank. Yelena studied her for another moment, then walked off, humming.

The tension stayed in Y/N’s shoulders even after she left.

This is a desk job. A normal job. That’s what she reminded herself every morning in her tiny New York studio apartment. It barely fit a bed, but it had a window that looked out onto a sliver of Central Park, and for the first time in years, she could wake up without her fingers twitching toward a weapon.

The job paid well (extremely well) and it had benefits. Like if she did a good job she might get a good letter of recommendation for a full time. That used to be unimaginable. Now it was survival. Not in the blood-on-your-hands way. In the groceries-in-the-fridge kind of way.

She wanted this. She wanted quiet.

But the instincts didn’t go away just because you filed paperwork instead of targets. They just got quieter, sharper, lingering.

Later that day, she ran into Bob again in the break room, of all places.

He was sitting on the counter, cradling a cup of coffee. He looked up when she walked in.

“Montblanc pens are expensive,” he said.

She blinked. Word got around quick. “Excuse me?”

“You were going to use one like a weapon earlier.” He shrugged. “Just saying. Would’ve been a waste.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Were you watching?”

“No,” he said. “But I notice things.”

There was no smugness to it. Just a quiet admission, like he couldn’t help it. Like his mind was always ticking, cataloging danger. It made her pause.

“Old habits,” she muttered, pouring herself a cup of the bitter coffee.

Bob glanced at her. “You trying to break them?”

Y/N hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

He looked down into his coffee. “Me too.”

She sat on the far end of the table, not too close, but not too far. They didn’t speak again, not for a while, but the silence wasn’t awkward. It was a truce. A shared stillness between two people with shadows stitched into their skin.

It felt like the quiet recognition of someone else who was also just trying to breathe.

—————————————————————————————————

It was raining on the sixth night.

Thunder rolled low across the sky, and the windows in the briefing wing trembled slightly with each boom. Most of the team had gone home or tucked into whatever shadows they slept in. Valentina was overseas on a black-site visit. The building was eerily still.

Y/N stayed late to finish organizing next week’s logistics brief. It was busy work, a little pointless, but it kept her hands moving. Kept her from thinking too much.

When the printer jammed for the third time, she let out a tired sigh and leaned against the table, rubbing her temple. The storm outside felt too close. She hated storms. It brought memories.

Thunder always reminded her of flashbangs.

Behind her, a door creaked open.

She turned sharply and saw Bob standing in the doorway.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. His hair was damp. No hood. No coat. Just him, in a soft looking hoodie, holding a paper bag.

“You’re fine,” Y/N lied. Her heartbeat hadn’t settled yet. “Shouldn’t you be… I don’t know. Sleeping? Flying? Saving the world?”

He gave a tired shrug. “The world’s still turning. I thought I’d get takeout.”

He held up the bag like it was evidence.

“I didn’t know you ate takeout,” she said, unable to hide her surprise.

He smirked faintly. “I don’t. Usually. But I figured… if I’m trying to be normal, maybe I should start somewhere.”

He stepped into the room, hesitating just slightly before gesturing to the table.

“You hungry?”

Y/N looked at the leftover files, then at the bag.

“What kind of takeout?”

“Thai. Hope you’re not allergic to peanuts.”

She wasn’t.

They ate on opposite sides of the table, cross-legged in their chairs like two kids at a sleepover. The food was warm. The silence wasn’t heavy this time, it was easy. Familiar.

Halfway through, Bob spoke without looking up.

“Do you ever get tired of pretending?”

Y/N froze, her chopsticks hovering over the noodles.

“Pretending what?”

“That you’re okay. That you belong here. That you're not scared you're gonna slip up and ruin the whole thing.”

The words hit too close. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she set her container down, carefully, and stared at him thoughtfully.

“Yes,” she whispered. “All the time.”

Bob didn’t move. He just nodded.

“I used to be afraid of the Void showing up again,” he said quietly. “Now I’m more afraid of what happens if I get too comfortable. If I let myself believe I’m just a guy with a job. Because that’s when it sneaks in.”

Y/N turned her head slightly, watching him. The way his voice cracked, the way he didn’t look at her when he spoke like he was afraid he’d see fear on her face.

But she could only feel understanding.

“I don’t know what it’s like,” she said gently, “to have a part of yourself that powerful. But I do know what it’s like to have a version of yourself you’re trying to outrun.”

He looked at her, really looked. And for the first time, Y/N saw him soften, just a little.

“I used to be good at running,” he said.

She smiled faintly. “Me too.”

He didn’t speak again for a while after that. Y/N didn’t move, just enjoyed the silent understanding between two people who only wanted a bit of peace. 

He cleared his throat after a while and Y/N looked up.

“This was nice.” He said.

She nodded, and he closed his container. He got up unsure, looking at her once more, and shook his head as though he was fighting against a thought he had had.

“Would you want to do this again?” She found herself saying. She’s not sure why she said that. Maybe it was how Bob didn’t make her feel like an intruder, or a spy, or a ghost.

Just a person.

He seemed surprised and slowly a smile crept on his face. “Yeah, sounds like a plan.”

————————————————————————————————