#dark souls YOU DIED screen

[breathplayed]

2 <3

(2) talk about a notable time a narrative or character has looked you dead in the eyes and said “fuck your plan, here’s what we’re actually doing.”

omg this one is actually a lil hard to answer because 99% of the time in everything i've ever written my outline has been set in stone from the very start of the fic. BUT.

it's definitely We Bleed It Out!!!!! vampfic!!!!!!!!! i think i have mentioned this before but ima say it again bc i can actually tag and rediscover shit on here!!!!! it's miss wbio!!!!!!!!!! in the original outline of the fic, vmin had a lot of animosity towards each other, pjm was a lot meaner and distant, taehyung thought jimin hated being burdened with a fledgling. they were only going to start to become friendly / close after taehyung's run-in with hunters (during which he was actually going to be surprised that jimin came to rescue him)

but vmin..... oh those sappy mfers............... you can actually see the exact moment the tone shifted for the fic lol, it's in ch1 when vmin first meet. pjm seems annoyed that he's being asked to take care of a toreador (spoken with disdain/disbelief) and pulls over the car to lay down the rules and tell taehyung he'll kill him himself if he endangers either of them..... (narrator voice) And It Was At That Moment, Jimin Took The Wheel and cleaned his whole act up. i was no longer in control, my traitorous hands were clicking away with the opposite tone i was aiming for. i'd never had that happen to me before!!!!!!!! i hope it never happens again it was crazy asf i had to modify the entire outline (but then i still wanted to keep the hunter torture scene, even though its original only purpose was to give vmin a catalyst to be nicer to each other.... so then that whole arc ended up feeling like gratuitous violence..... but Whatever. i had ideas for vampire whump and not even jimin could stop me from using them)

[rainbowangel110]

HOOT HOOT MOTHERFUCKER

[duchessbird]

thinking about bf!simon who loves gaming. mario kart, skyrim, fallout, halo, etcetera. and his sweet little dove girlfriend!reader who loves knitting and crocheting. she has baskets of yarn and years’ worth of old needles she’s collected over her decade long hobby. she’s constantly doing it, but she loves doing it most while her and simon are relaxing in the living room.

and recently, simon has gotten into dark souls. so, here he is with his little dove, his fists shaking as he grips the controller and his jaw clenches as the ‘YOU DIED’ screen taunts him again. his baby doesn’t even notice, humming to the music she’s playing from her phone on the side table — and crocheting simon another jumper for their upcoming winter. simon is two in-game deaths away from real-life suicide attempt and attempted arson on his own console. but his dove catches his eye and pokes her tongue out at him, her way of a greeting. he’s still fuming when she speaks up.

“isn’t it so nice to relax like this together?”

relax?! how are you relaxing?! simon is actually fighting for his life, but he nods, his fists still shaking as his controller lets out a noise in protest.

“yes, dove. so relaxing.” he dies again.

‘YOU DIED.’

“oh, no, baby! it’s okay! second times a charm!” she comforts, kissing his cheek as she sees the death screen for the first time.

he nods, his eye twitching.

twelfth 2nd times a charm, dove. that’s right.

[kenwio]

Joker's kid reader: Joker's kid first friend

Route: recovered dove

Author's note: Connected to this ask (finally did it ^-^). Another author's note will be in the end.

Warnings : Grammar, fluff with hints of hurt/comfort.

Your day began pretty normally: Alfred woke you up, saying that breakfast is ready. After you managed to wash your face and brush your teeth, you walked in the kitchen, only to witness your family being tired and for lack of a better word, restless. They all seemed bothered by something, and you couldn't really understand what. Tim and Bruce were looking at the screen of bat-tablet (yeah, they totally have bat-tablet), Dick was thoughtfully chewing on food, stopping occasionally so that he could tell Damian to stop death staring Jason, who looked pissed. When Alfred walked in again, you noticed little leaf stuck to his usual attire.

- Master Bruce, our little guest is still acting aggressive, even after watering.

Now you looked confused. Guest? Being watered?

- It's all your fault, Todd - Damian said harshly

- Oh, for the love of God! - Jason snapped - you were there when that thing fell on me! How in hell were I supposed to know it would take my helmet!

- Still - Damian started, but he was quickly interrupted by Dick

- B, Timmy, any luck finding out what is.... that thing?

- No - answered Bruce, not looking up, while Tim only shook his head

- What thing? - you inquired quietly. On your question, Jason and Damian answered at the same time.

- The thing that stole my helmet!

- The thing that Todd trapped and can't get out.

- well, uh alien-plant? - Dick chimed in

- All of above - Tim added - we can't find out what is until we get it out of Jay's helmet

- Can't we just slash helmet? - Damian asked

- Hey, it's can hurt it! - Dick defended

- it will hurt my helmet!

As they continued bickering, you chewed your food, and after some thoughts, you asked

- Can I see it?

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So there you were, in the batcave with your brothers (Bruce wanted to join in, but he had a meeting in Wayne Enterprise). You were looking at the little creature that was in the helmet of Red Hood. You couldn't really see it, but you didn't want to blind it by lightning it with a flashlight. You were looking at it, until you saw that shiny dark eyes of the creature looked at you back, you felt like it's eyes touched your soul, as if you and this little one had a connection

- Oh, they are hiding - you noted quietly

- well, duh, Sherlock, we can see it - Jason answered

- and they are scared of you

- They? - Dick asked, and you just nodded in response.

As you looked at little plant creature, you couldn't help but feel like you understood the creature. It was afraid, just like you, when you were first taken in. You gently reached out your hand, showing that you wanted to, he don't have to be afraid of you. It let out a strange noise, after which he touched you. It moved a bit, and you saw a little wooden humanoid creature with emerald colored leafs poking out of his different parts, which was looking at you curiously. Seeing that you didn't move and was looking at him kindly, he climbed in your hands, making little creaking sound, and you understood what he was saying.

- they like hats - you translated for your brothers.

Your brothers looked eyes widened, and all of them looked at you as if you had just changed some basics of the world like it was nothing. They did not understand how you understood this creature.

- You can understand this thing - Jason voiced first, sounding shocked

- Yep. And they liked your helmet. He likes hats. - you stated, taking little creature closer to you

- So, can he tell you what they are? - Tim questioned, his curiosity returned quickly. You looked at little creature, who answered to you with his little creeking

- They don't really know. They are too little, they don't even have a name - you answered, looking at creature sadly. You remember times when you didn't have a name, too.

- You know, since they like you, maybe you could help him choose name - Dick walked up to you putting his hand on your shoulder, smiling at you and at creature. You nodded.

- Chlory? - you said quietly, quickly adding - short for Chlorophyll - on your words creature creaked happily

- Tt, how original - Damian said, he was faced away, his arms crossed, his face tinged with forced indifference

- I am Chlory! - creature creaked happily, trying to mimic your speech, making all of you surprised.

- Seems he likes the name, good job (your name)! - Dick cheered you up, patting your head, and chuckled, looking at Damian - Don't sulk, Dami

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From the moment Chlory climbed in your hands, he was glued to you, refusing to climb down from you. Since you were the only one who understood that little creature, you were the one who was taking care of the little plant alien since you were the only one who could understand it. And since Chlory didn't want to get down for you, you were the one who was taking care of it, but soon, your family noticed that the way your routine changed for them was healthy.

Yes, in the beginning, Alfred and Bruce were suspicious. Bruce knew his children had a knack for befriending aliens (and you befriending this little one just proved that tendency), but it still made him worry. What if this little one will hurt you? But you yourself asked Bruce to keep them, and it surprised him, since you almost never asked for anything, so he couldn't deny this one request (you were too cute). So he had to keep his eye on you and Chlory, making sure your little duo would be just fine. As for Alfred, he was utterly surprised with decision to keep this alien, but seeing that Chlory could help him with garden, he made his peace with it, and started helping you to take care of Chlory. But as long as you seem happy, Alfred wouldn't mind.

Since Chlory needed being watered, while consuming it, they made you drink water with them. Sine Chlory needed sun, you had to take walks with them. But other then that, when Chlory noticed that you need to eat, Chlory made sure that you ate, by constantly creaking "I am Chlory" that translated in "you are hungry", and you weren't sure if Chlory made you believe that you are hungry or stated the fact. Chlory even tried to eat your food, and drink your drinks on several occasions, though Chlory just chewed your food and they also didn't enjoy hot tea you usually drink with Alfred, and never touch your steaming hot cup if tea after one bad experience. Sometimes, when you were washing your face, Chlory would jump in open water, so you had to drag them out of it, and drying him up with towel from time to time, yet it was fun and cute, they reminded you cat that tried to play with water tap in videos Tim and Damian showed you.

Thouse little experiences with Chlory became part of your daily life, and one that was quite comforting, one that reminded you you weren't alone anymore. Oftentimes, you could hear Chlory creeking happily, and this sound helped you not to zone out. I'm dark corners of your memory, reminding you yet again that nightmare of your previous life was over.

Surprisingly, Chlory helped you to learn how to speak up. For example, one time you were reading a book Jason told you about, you felt how Chlory were tugging onto your sleeve repeating "I am Chlory" that translated in "Read to me" over and over. You weren't sure you could do it right, but you tried, mentally recalling all the times Jason read to you. Chlory were happy to hear you, and those sessions of reading outloud to them lead you to being complimented by Jason on how good you read and pronounce things now.

Also Chlory forced you to tell you what you were doing and what you were doing. Chlory liked when you talked, and you had to talk more, and one time you were commenting how you were trying to put together puzzle, Dick was a quiet witness of your interaction. He couldn't help but smile at the scene and be proud that you were actually talking. And of course he joined in just a bit later, having cute conversations with both of you.

While Chlory was too attached to you, Tim knew that sometimes you just needed your space. He remembers that you told that Chlory like hats, and since he couldn't really sneak vigilante gear in your room (he tried, yet Alfred advised against it) he began quest of finding best hat for Chlory that also can be just a little bed or shelter for them. So Tim, you and Chlory (more Tim and you, who were searching for approval of Chlory) began researching into hats, trying to find a perfect model of it. Chlory seemed interested in berets, and now you three bought a few (just in case Chlory wanted to change them).

Watching your interactions, Damian can't help but feel a slight pang of jealousy, but he would never admit it. It was good enough that many of the animals he took care of sometimes liked Drake and Grayson more, but now you were the only one who could get along with that's creature and not him?! How come! He didn't voice it, of course, but it seems like you got the idea yourself. So when you were holding Chlory while explaining to Damian how he needed to act. He needed to be even more calm and more gentle than he is when he was with Titus when he was a puppy. You didn't expect it, but you and Damian would bound about taking care of little friends. Yeah, friends, because outside of the family, Chlory is your first friend.

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Thank you for reading! Feel free to share your opinion and have a good day 💖

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Tag list :

@socially-embarrassing , @leovergurl , @deathbynarcisstick , @cryptic-arr0w , @lynns-cornerr , @cxcilla ,  @charlotteking23 , @ninihrtss , @lillycore , @pix-stuff , @tfamidoingwithmylife , @linoalwaysknows , @00hellohello00 , @lilithskywalker , @bagofrice , @lenaisaloser , @devilslittlehelper , @camilo-uwu , @l3v1us , @eyeless-kun , @stargazingbutgayer, @wpdarlingpan , @weirdothatreads , @maybea1 @mel-viper-wayne @amber-content @lizzyzzn

@dearlawdimasimp  (My appologies for not adding you sooner)

if i forgot to add someone to the tag list, please let me know, and i will add you to the next part

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Author's note : My break is over (unfortunately Т^Т), so I would have a little to no time, BUT! I will try to post at least once a week!!!

[fireya-x]

heavy, dirty soul

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ After a long mission, John is exhausted, bruised and distant. You take care of him. ✦ 3.7k words ✦ tags/cw: hurt, comfort, emotional intimacy, intimacy without sex, nsfw but no smut, nudity, injuries, showering together

He looks like hell.

Grimy, worn out, and the kind of tired that settles in a man’s bones and makes him older than he is. His shoulders hunch beneath the weight of his tac vest, stained from whatever hellhole he clawed his way back from. Dirt crusts the hem of his sleeves, and a dark smudge clings stubbornly to his jaw, half-hidden beneath the unkempt mess of his beard. His eyes – those deep, sharp blues – barely flicker when you step through the door.

You set the takeout down and say nothing.

The scent fills the office quickly: warm rice, spiced meat, a trace of soy and citrus curling up from the sauce. Something hearty. Something grounding. The kind of meal you knew he’d need after a mission like that. You’ve seen it before – how he gets afterward. How he forgets to eat, to breathe, to let go of the op and come back to himself.

The room is dimly lit, blinds half-shut to keep the afternoon sun from glaring off the tablet screens scattered across his desk. Papers are messily stacked, half of them likely reports left untouched. The takeout’s aroma gradually overtakes the faint smell of cigar smoke.

He sits across from you, staring at the food like it’s the first real thing he’s seen all day. 

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t even shift in his seat.

You pull the container open for him, the heat unfolding slowly. Your fingers brush against the flimsy plastic cutlery as you fish out the fork, which bends slightly in your grip as you spear a piece of chicken, dripping with sauce.

His gaze follows the motion, but his body stays slack and unmoving.

So you lean forward, holding the fork right to his face.

“Seriously?”

His voice is low and dry, scraped raw from disuse – or maybe too much yelling. There’s a rasp to it, the kind you’re used to hearing when he comes home after long briefings or training days that stretch well past what anyone else would consider reasonable.

His brow twitches, eyes flicking up to meet yours with something close to disbelief, though it’s dulled at the edges.

“Eat, John.”

It’s not a request.

He stares at you for another second, then exhales hard through his nose. A faint smile tugs briefly at the corner of his mouth, but it dies quickly as he leans in and takes the bite.

You hold the fork steady as his lips close around it. He chews slowly, jaw tense, like he doesn’t trust that the first real food he’s tasted in days will stay down. He swallows. Licks the corner of his mouth, where some of the sauce clings.

“Good?” You ask, softer this time.

He nods but doesn’t look up. Instead, he pulls the takeout container closer and starts eating like a starving animal, like his body just remembered it needed food to survive.

Something in the way he moves tells you he hasn’t eaten properly in days. Like feeding himself was too far down the list.

You move around the desk without a word, crouching beside him, hands already going to the buckles of his vest. He doesn’t stop you, just tilts his head slightly to give you better access. 

You slide it off his shoulders, careful not to tug too hard where you know he’s probably sore. It slips free with a bit of resistance, then drops to the floor with a heavy thump.

Underneath, his shirt clings to him like a second skin: sweat-darkened, stretched too wide at the collar, the fabric worn thin in places. There’s a patch of blood on the sleeve – old, maybe his, maybe not. You don’t ask. You never do.

Your hands move to his shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the muscle there, working over the tight knots hidden beneath the surface. His body responds slowly, with a slight shift and a barely-there sigh, but his eyes close, and he leans into your touch with the kind of trust that always takes you by surprise – that quiet, unspoken surrender.

And somehow, that’s what nearly breaks your heart.

Not the blood. Not the bruises. Just that – how rarely he lets go, and how much it means when he does.

“That tough?” You ask, even though you already know the answer.

And the silence answers for him.

So do the little things – how his head dips forward slightly under your hands, his fingers curl into fists, and he breathes a little deeper with every slow pass of your palms over his shoulders.

This is routine. Nothing new.

You’ve done this countless times. Brought him food when you heard they were back on base, sat beside him in silence until the weight of it all began to slip off his shoulders, piece by piece. You don’t mind. Not for a second. Because he lets you see him like this. Because he trusts you with the aftermath.

And that means more than anything ever could.

Then his hand comes up slowly and covers yours where it rests on his shoulder. His thumb begins to rub slow, lazy circles into the back of your hand, and the movement is so gentle, so unlike the man you imagine he has to be out there. There’s no pressure, no urgency. Just a quiet ‘thank you’ – a wordless gesture of gratitude.

“You’re filthy,” you murmur, your fingers trailing down the nape of his neck, massaging in slow, steady circles. The skin is warm, a little damp. His hair is ruffled from his hat, sticking up in odd places, flattened in others. You smooth it without thinking.

“Don’t remind me,” he murmurs back, and there’s no bite in it. Just exhaustion.

Your hands skim lower between his shoulder blades, thumbs pressing in, and you feel him unravel slowly, like a spring wound too tight, finally loosening. 

You pause, resting at the hem of his shirt, toying with the edge. “John,” you say softly. “I’m serious. You need to get out of this. All of it. It’s disgusting.”

He hums low in his throat. “You volunteering?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you strip the shirt over his head and drop it to the floor, revealing the full expanse of his back.

You suck in a breath.

His skin is a patchwork of bruises, old and new. Faint yellow blooms along his ribs, a fresh violet welt at his side, a jagged scrape near his shoulder. There’s dried blood near the collarbone, a rough streak of grime trailing down his spine, and the smell of smoke still clings to his hair. You’ve seen him like this before – battered, filthy, freshly returned from god-knows-where – but somehow, each time still cuts a little deeper like a bruise under your own skin that never quite fades.

“I hate seeing you like this.”

He exhales hard, and it almost sounds like a low and shaky laugh. “S’not as bad as it looks.”

“You always say that,” you murmur, your palm brushing lightly over the discolored skin, dusting off some dirt. “You need to get this shit off you.”

“I’ll shower later.”

“No,” you say, firm but not harsh. “You need to shower now . There’s blood on you. You reek. You’re not just gonna sit in it.”

He stares at the takeout box, jaw tight, like he’s weighing whether to push back or let you win this one. You ease closer, fingertips brushing his forearm, voice dropping with it.

“I’ll come with you.”

That makes him glance up. Something loosens, not in surrender, but in trust. That’s what this has always been with him. Not letting go because he’s weak, but letting you in because you’re the only person he lets see past the grit.

He nods, barely more than a breath of movement. But it’s enough.

You don’t say another word as you reach for his hand, and he takes it without hesitation. The trip down the hall is silent, his steps just slightly heavier than yours.

Inside the single-use washroom, he stops just inside the door while you lock it behind you. His shoulders slump in that particular way he only lets happen when no one else is watching, like the last thread holding him upright has finally snapped.

You step toward him, hands going to his belt. You make quick work of it – there’s no seduction here, not meant to be – just the firm, practiced touch of someone who’s done this before, who knows he’s hurting and wants to get him out of his own skin before it closes in on around him.

You open the belt, unfasten the button, and guide the zipper down. The fabric is stiff with dirt and sweat, heavy as it slides from his hips. You crouch to help him step out of the cargo pants and briefs, easing them over his bruised legs, and you try not to wince when you catch the red-scraped line along his thigh.

He says nothing. Just lets you do it.

You undress after, folding your clothes on the bench. His eyes are already on you when you straighten, not with hunger, but with that same wide-eyed exhaustion. Like you’re the only still point left in a spinning world.

You reach for his hand again and step beneath the warm stream of water.

The water flows down between your bodies, hot enough to sting, to chase the ache from your joints. It splashes off his shoulders in thick rivulets, soaking the floor at your feet and catching in the creases of old scars and bruised muscle.

You move slowly, your hands gentle as they glide over his skin.

You start at his collarbone, lathering some soap until it turns slick between your fingers, then work your way down, tracing over muscle, bone, scar. You now know each line of him – the ridge of his sternum, the subtle rise and fall of his ribs, the old scar that curves beneath his pec.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t need to. His eyes are closed, lips parted, breath steady but slow, so deliberate, like he’s trying not to miss a single second of it. Like if he keeps still enough, this moment might last longer.

You ease your hands to his waist and turn his body gently until his back is to you.

And there it is.

The map.

You know it by heart now. The constellation of healed-over bullet wounds, the pale ghosts of shrapnel near his lower ribs, the raised, silvery slash across his left scapula – the one you first traced with trembling fingers months ago, when he finally let you see it in the daylight.

But there are new stars on the map tonight.

A black-purple bruise like a boot print blooms over his lower back, raw around the edges. Two smaller, thumb-sized bruises sit along his left flank – grip marks, maybe. His right shoulder bears a scrape that looks half-healed, dirt still stubborn in the raw skin.

You press your palm lightly to his spine, just between the old scars, grounding him.

He doesn’t flinch.

Your fingers skim over every mark, cataloguing them silently. You don’t ask what happened. You already know. You’ve learned the language of his body, the different hues of pain, the quiet story written in scars and skin.

You dip the soap in your hands again, rich lather clinging to your fingertips, and move down the line of his back. He’s quiet, letting you tend to him like he’s something sacred. Like he knows he can’t hide anything from you here.

You drag the suds across the worst of the bruises, careful not to press too hard. Your hands work lower, over the curve of his hips, the muscle of his thighs. You handle him like someone would a broken thing. Not because he’s fragile, but because he’s been through too much to be treated with anything less than absolute care.

“Turn around for me.”

He does, slowly. Steam curls around the line of his shoulders as he faces you. His eyes open – heavy-lidded and damp – tracking every motion you make, gaze quiet and unreadable.

You take him in like this: bare, open, bruised and battered, and beautiful in the most brutal way. His chest rises and falls with slow, steady breaths. The water sheets off his skin, trailing down the ridges of his ribs, catching in the hollow beneath his throat, darkening the thatch of hair on his chest.

You lift the soap again and step closer.

Your hands move over his chest, gliding through coarse hair and the slick heat of his skin. You know this terrain just as well as his back – that faint scar under his right pec from a close-range shot, the shallow dent near his collarbone where bone once broke clean through. 

You drag the lather lower, across his abdomen, the ridged muscle beneath softening under your touch. 

He just watches you. Jaw slack. Eyes impossibly soft, like he’s still trying to understand how this moment is real.

You lather the soap again and reach between his legs.

Your touch is slow. Careful. Not teasing. Not meant to arouse. This is different – gentler than anything else, more intimate than sex. You wash him the same way you’ve washed every other part of him – thorough, tender, respectful. Like this is just another part of him you want to take care of. Another place where the world left its mark, and you’re here to make it clean again.

His cock rests heavy against your hand, softened by exhaustion and heat, twitching only faintly when your fingers glide down the shaft to his balls. You cup him delicately, run the soap through every crease, every fold. 

His breath catches once – barely a sound – but it’s not from pleasure. 

It’s from the way you hold him like he’s something worth cherishing.

When you rinse him, your fingers guide the water with the same reverence, making certain nothing is left behind. 

No blood, no sweat, no grime. 

Nothing of the outside world. 

Only the clean, worn-down man standing in front of you.

You glance up at him, and the look he gives you guts something inside you.

He’s looking at you like you’re the only person who’s ever touched him like this.

Who has seen him like this.

And loved what you saw.

You reach for the sprayer again, adjust the angle, and wash yourself. He doesn’t look away. His eyes follow every motion, how you drag the soap across your chest, over your hips, down your thighs. You scrub briskly, working through the fatigue now also settling deep in your limbs, but his gaze never strays.

He watches like he’s memorizing you all over again.

With nothing but awe.

Like the steam has made everything holy. Like he’s standing in a church, and you’re the only thing on the altar.

You rinse clean, slick and glistening under the dim light. 

When you step out, you grab the towel and wrap it around yourself, water still trailing down your legs. Another towel is pressed into his hands. He takes it without a word.

The silence between you now is different. It’s heavier. Thicker. 

Full of everything you haven’t said. Full of everything that doesn’t need to be said.

He dries off slowly, watching you the whole time. His hands move a little clumsily, like he’s not entirely sure how to be in his own body anymore – like he’s still trying to catch up to the tenderness he’s just been given.

When he’s done, you cross the small space between you and place your hands on either side of his face. Your thumbs sweep gently beneath his eyes, brushing away the dampness there. It’s not really tears.

But something fragile. Something honest.

You press your forehead to his. For a moment, neither of you move. The world narrows to this: damp skin, quiet breathing, the pulse beneath your fingertips.

Then you kiss him.

A slow, careful press of your lips to his. 

He doesn’t pull you closer, doesn’t deepen it. He just lets it happen – like he understands exactly what it is. Like he knows it isn’t meant to spark anything but stillness. A stillness he can’t give himself, but craves all the same.

Without a word, he hands you one of his sweatshirts, and you pull it over your head. It swallows you, the sleeves brushing your fingertips, the scent of him baked into the fabric – clean laundry, cigars, and something warm beneath it all that’s just… him.

It’s comforting. Familiar.

Something that makes you feel closer to him, even when exhaustion has pulled him somewhere distant and quiet inside himself.

You followed him back to his office under the pretense that he forgot something – the tension already rebuilding in his shoulders. Each step is heavy, like he’s pulling against some invisible chain, drawn back into the familiar orbit of responsibility he can’t seem to escape, no matter how many bruises or wounds he carries.

You almost don’t believe what you’re seeing.

Like a machine, he walks back to his desk, as if the shower never happened. As if your hands hadn’t just touched every broken inch of him, hadn’t washed the blood and dirt from his skin with reverence. Like none of it reached him. It was as if the threshold to his office reset him, and all it took was one look at the desk for the weight of the world to settle back on his shoulders.

He sinks into his chair with a sigh, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight, and immediately reaches for the paperwork scattered haphazardly across the desk. 

“John,” you say quietly, gently, but not without an edge of warning.

He glances up, meeting your eyes briefly before he sighs, already anticipating your next words. “Don’t start,” he mutters, turning his gaze back toward the paper. “This won’t take long.”

“Right,” you scoff. “We both know you’re lying. You’ll be here all night. Again.”

He huffs, trying for irritation, but it barely carries any weight. “You’re relentless.”

“Only because you’re stubborn,” you counter. You tilt your head, watching him carefully, aware of every lingering bruise beneath his clothes. Your voice softens, concern seeping through. “Come on, please? Lie down. Get some rest, or I swear to God, I’ll drag you to bed myself.”

That finally makes him look at you properly, a flicker of amusement surfacing behind the exhaustion in his eyes.

“Bet your team would pay good money to see me try,” you add, a grin forming despite your seriousness.

He snorts, shakes his head, a smile tugging briefly at the corners of his mouth. But his shoulders remain stiff, and his voice drops again. “Can’t yet. There’s still work –”

“Bloody hell, John, that can wait,” you interrupt. “You’re barely awake as it is.”

His jaw tightens briefly, that familiar flicker of pride flashing in his eyes before giving way to weary resignation. 

“I’ll stay if you want,” you offer, meaning it. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Absolutely not.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes and reaching for his hand across the desk. “John –”

“You never sleep well here,” he says, voice rougher now, protective frustration bleeding through. “Those bunks are shite, and you always wake up sore. It’s not happening.”

You laugh softly, stepping closer. “I don’t care.”

“I do,” he says without hesitation. The fierceness in his voice makes your chest tighten.

“John,” you murmur again, just his name – but it’s enough. A soft plea, steady and warm, tugging him toward you even as he tries to hold his ground. “I’m staying with you tonight. And if you don’t move right now, I will drag your stubborn ass down the corridor.”

He opens his mouth to argue again, but the look in your eyes seems to drain the fight from him, replacing stubbornness with reluctant acceptance. He sighs deeply, head bowing slightly, and finally allows you to tug him gently from his chair. 

You lace your fingers tighter with his, feeling the calloused warmth of his palm pressed against yours, and lead him out of his office into the empty corridor outside.

It’s late enough that nearly everyone has left for the night, and the low buzz of lights overhead is the only sound accompanying you both as you slowly walk toward his quarters. Beside you, each step John takes feels heavier, slower – like the exhaustion is finally catching up to him, dragging at his limbs, weighing him down with every breath he takes.

When you finally reach his quarters, you push the door open and guide him inside, flipping on the single lamp beside the bed. The soft yellow glow spills gently over the sharp edges of his tired face, brightening the deep shadows beneath his eyes.

You lead him silently to the bed, nudging him down until he sits at the edge of the mattress, staring blankly at the floor like he’s not quite sure how he got there.

“Lie down,” you demand, your voice soft as your hand presses gently on his shoulder. He lets you guide him, shoulders easing back until they finally meet the pillow. The mattress dips beneath him, but his body remains rigid, like he’s waiting for something. A call. Another demand, another battle. An alarm that never stops ringing in the back of his mind.

You climb into the bed and shift toward him slowly. You barely fit onto the mattress beside him, so you let your arm slide carefully around his waist. Your chest is pressed against his side, and your head finds that familiar spot tucked perfectly against the curve of his neck. 

His muscles remain locked tight, like part of him doesn’t believe he’s allowed this. You. 

You sigh softly, pressing closer, and lift your chin to kiss the line of his jaw. A familiar gesture, one you’ve done countless times when words weren’t enough to reach him.

It’s a promise: I’m here. You’re safe. You’re with me.

And the moment your lips touch his skin, something in him finally breaks.

He exhales – long, deep, a breath dragged from somewhere buried. The sound carries the weight of the entire day, or maybe, of too many days. His arms come around you slowly, then fully, wrapping you in a firm, unspoken need. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, the words carrying more than simple gratitude – they’re heavy with trust, with love, with quiet awe at the simple gift of your presence.

You smile softly against his chest, pressing closer still, your fingers drawing slow, soothing circles along his side. 

And only then, with you wrapped safely in his arms, your heartbeat anchoring him, does he finally, quietly, drift into sleep.

[aisururozu]

Thank you for giving me this inspiration

ok i deleted the last post and decided to just post the old and the new ones all together instead

Screenshots of Despair ft. Roh

[astraystayyh]

Volcano

pairing : han x reader. enemies to lovers. slow burn.

summary : you've never gotten along with han, your mutual prejudices ruining any prospect of friendship between you both. but you slowly realize that you are more similar than what you originally thought- your darkness recognizing his, and his light yearning for yours.

"I'll take care of you. It's rotten work. Not to me, not if it's you."

cw : depiction of a panic attack, minor injury, both reader and han say mean shit to each other, cursing, mention of alcohol, reader has she/her pronouns.

word count : 13.2k

a.n: highly recommend listening to "Let the light in" by Lana when Han starts playing it in the fic hehe feedback is highly appreciated as always <3

skz quotes series masterlist.

You remember being seven years old, sitting on the floor of your bedroom, while your mom brushed your hair. It was a late July night, a cold breeze swaying your white curtains, akin to the fluttering of a butterfly’s wing. Your eyes were slightly puffy, delicate red veins protruding the white of them. You had just finished watching a Disney movie- the Lion King; heavy sobs escaping your lips when Mufasa died.

There were still faint hiccups coursing through you, a slight shake in your hands as you fiddled with the hem of your shirt. Your mom brought you to her chest, her chin resting on your small shoulder blade. "You’re sensitive, my sweet girl" she had uttered, rubbing your arms soothingly.

It was the first time someone described you as such. You didn’t know what ‘sensitive’ entailed exactly, but it contained the word ‘sense’, so you assumed it was something good, a quality to be proud of you. You could sense, maybe more than others, maybe too deeply. That’s why you cried when you didn’t get a good grade, or when your friends left you alone in the park.

But you didn't mind back then. What was your heart made for if not to feel?

You should’ve paid more attention to the way your mom spoke, to the bittersweetness lingering in her tone. As if she knew exactly what it entailed to be sensitive- to have your heart overflow with delicate feelings for the rest of your life, with no safe destination to guard them in.

☄༄

You’ve forgotten the last time you cried in.

The tears are lodged inside your throat- you can clearly feel them, an uncomfortable weight sitting on your vocal cords, rendering them impossible to use.

You used to cry, freely, so much that you lost count of how much it happened. But you realized that every tear that escaped your eyes, made you vulnerable, weaker, in the hands of the people around you. Every tear that washed over you, only rendered you more transparent for everyone to peer at how they wounded your soul. 

So, you conditioned yourself to stop feeling as deeply, or at least to stop showing it. The sadness, the hurt, the anger were all stored within you; but your face remained placid, not betraying how you truly felt. You were like a pond, tranquil at the surface, raging from within.

But on days like this one, you miss the person you were. When the implications of being sensitive still haven’t weighed down on you. When you could get rid of your feelings in the essence of your tears. When you didn’t yet feel bad for feeling.

Chan's eyes are on you, as you type furiously on your laptop. Your vision is so blurry that you can no longer see your lit screen. But you’re afraid that if you pause then Chan would ask if you were okay, and you hated that question. Because you never truly knew the answer to it. Yes, you were okay. But you haven’t cried in six months and your friend didn’t greet you back this morning and you suddenly feel very small in a very large library.

"Hey," Chan taps your hand with his pen and you suck in a slight breath, before raising your head to meet his eyes. "Are you-" he starts but you’re quick to cut him off, knowing exactly where this was headed. "Did you answer question five? I’m stuck on what formula to use."

Chan raises a brow at you, and you blink repeatedly. His eyes travel to your feet tapping furiously against the floor, and he understands.

 "I'm still at number four," he finally says and you nod in relief. You’ve been close friends for a year and Chan has come to know you- he’s dropping the subject.

"Oh, and are you coming to the party tonight?" Chan asks, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He’s hosting it and there is hope twinkling in his eyes. You feel bad because you’re about to crush it.

"No, need to revise more for the upcoming test."

"Of course, you’ll still be buried in your books," a sarcastic voice quips up, and you stiffen inwardly. Han- one-third of 3racha, Chan’s self-made producing group, and the bane of your existence. You never liked who you were around Han, he brought out the worst in you. Made all your insecurities roar forward, plastered across your body in neon red.

He was friends with Chan, long before you came into the picture, back into their high school days when Han skipped a class and ended up in the same one as Chan’s. A genius, as everyone around you liked to call him. And they were right- excelling came easily to Han, in everything he ever did. Even tapping into each one of your tender nooks and crannies.

He knew how to expertly push your buttons, how to make his tone sound mocking, and taunting, but only to you. Because you were sensitive, and he knew it, finding it almost amusing to toy with you. 

You decide to stay silent because nothing good ever comes out of talking back to him. So, you bite your tongue, turning back to look at your screen. But Han’s elbow grazes your arm, as he leans a bit further into your face. "Come on, live a little, y/n. You’re missing out on the college experience," he makes a big show of opening his arms wide, a single red pen spinning between his fingers. "Quit being stuck up for one night." And it spins, and it spins, and it spins and something ugly inside you crumbles.

"I’m sorry I wasn’t born with a golden spoon shoved down my throat and I actually have to work for my future."

Han’s eyes widen at the raw animosity in your voice, before narrowing down promptly. He’s leaning onto your face again, and his tone is low and cold when he speaks again. "What did you just say to me?"

"Is it so hard to grasp that not everyone is as privileged as you? We can’t all afford to get wasted every fucking night and call it a life."

You’re being mean. This is the rudest you’ve ever been to someone else. You know that your reaction is disproportionate to what he said. But it isn’t just about this instant. It’s an amalgam of every moment Han made you feel small in, because you don’t go out as much as him, because you don’t understand as quickly as him. Taunts thrown your way under the guise of teasing, but you know better.

Still, guilt eats at you as your eyes lock with Chan’s. You should’ve stayed silent, as you’ve been diligently doing for the past year.

"How do you stand being her friend Chan? Is it out of pity?" Han muses, a pout pulling at his lips. You stare ahead as Han tsks lightly, before tapping your cheek with his pen, bringing your face back to him. "I think it is. Because isn’t she so fucking boring?"

Being near Han always makes you hyper-aware of things you never noticed before. Like how a breath has to travel from the depths of your body so you’d be able to release it, and how excruciatingly long it takes for you to draw in a new one. Because Han’s words are never harmless, no, they settle on the confines of your lungs, crushing down any bit of oxygen willing to leave you.

You've had enough.

"When you’re eighty, on your deathbed, and all alone. I hope you know that there is no one around to blame but yourself."

"Don’t cross the line, yn," Chan finally speaks and you scoff, as you get up to grab your things.

"What fucking line, Chan? So, he can insult me all day but as soon as I do it there is a line? Why are you taking his side?"

Chan stays silent and you chuckle dryly. "Of course, you are. You’re only friends with me out of pity after all."

"That’s not true-"

"Well, you didn’t deny it, did you Chan?"

"Yn, I-"

"Save it."

Han’s eyes are glossy as you take one final glance at him. But your heart’s bleeding too much for you to care about his minor cut.

☄༄

For how much time can a conversation haunt someone? Seventeen days, for your case. And you're still counting.

You have nit-picked your fight with Han in the library so much that it's driving you insane. His voice is drilled into your head- the coldness of it as he reeled back from the shock of your words, and then, the pure venom dripping from his tone, as he attacked you where it hurt the most. Chan.

Han chose his words carefully, stitched up the sentence perfectly to hurt you, to stick to your flesh like burnt skin, one that you peeled over and over, each time it threatened to scar.

You haven't talked to Chan in seventeen days. He tried to stop you; on your way out of class, in the line of your campus cafeteria, on the doorsteps of your dorm. But you always fleet away. His eyes were also imprinted into your brain- the disappointment in them when you clapped back at Han.

What about him? You wanted to yell. Why are you only disappointed in me?

But the tears in your pillow have dried. Then fallen again. Then dried once more. And you found the answer to question five. And you miss Chan, terribly so.

That's why you're pacing around his dorm, at 10 pm, when it's also terribly cold outside. Your fingers have gone numb from the ministrations of the wind, but you don't move from your place. You know that the chances of seeing Han- the second person you’ve been avoiding like the plague- would be higher here. But you didn't care anymore.

Your thumb hovers over the call button and you bite your lip harshly. Would Chan pick up? Would he hang up? Was he really your friend out of pity?

"Yn?" a voice calls out, and you startle, turning around to see who it is. Changbin, carrying two bags of groceries in his hand. He's Chan’s friend as well, the final member of 3racha. You like Changbin. He's always being very kind to you. You've grown much closer to him than to Han in the past few months; not that the latter has ever wanted a friendship with you. From the day you met and his eyes narrowed promptly each time you talked. You should’ve known from the start.

"Why are you out here in the cold?" Changbin asks gently, stepping cautiously towards you.

"Chan," you say simply and he nods, understanding what you mean.

"He's not here now, but he'll come home soon. Let's go inside, okay?" he smiles tentatively at you and you hum in reply.

Changbin opens the door and you follow inside. You help him take out the groceries silently, stacking them in their fridge and shelves. Lots of protein powder, and chicken packets. You'd laugh about it if you weren't so sad.

"Chan misses you," Changbin speaks up suddenly, and your heartbeat quickens at his words.

"I miss him too."

"Then you'll be okay."

You try to remember Changbin’s reassuring smile when Chan finally opens the door to the dorm, an hour later. He finds you sitting on the stool in the kitchen. His eyes light up once they settle on you.

And you unravel at the sight.

You're crying, sobs rippling from you as he brings you to his chest. He's patting your head and whispering that it's okay. And you know his shirt is all crumpled from clutching it in your hands. But he doesn't mind. He only hugs you tighter.

"I'm sorry, yn. So, so, sorry. I should've stopped him before, I just... You two are my best friends and I didn't want to add fuel to the fire by talking and-"

"It's okay, it's okay, I'm the one who should apologize for ghosting you."

"I understand why you did it. I fucked up but I missed you so much. Can we please never do this again?”

“Yes please,” you giggle, but the sound withers as the door opens once again.

"What is she doing here?" a cold voice breaks you and Chan apart, as your eyes land on Han. His gaze sucks the breath out of you, and the warmth in your heart fizzles out. Your hold on Chan’s shirt tightens and he takes an unconscious step in front of your body. Han doesn't miss the protective gesture.

"Get out, yn."

"You don't get to kick my friends out of my house," Chan is angry. And you regret ever coming here.

"Last I checked it's my house too." Han doesn't even bother looking at you. He's holding Chan’s gaze as if they're silently communicating. "You know damn well what she said why-" he takes a deep breath, running a hand angrily through his hair. "Fuck this. If she's not leaving then I am."

And with that he storms out, slamming the door behind him. You flinch at the sound.

Chan’s eyebrows are knitted as he stares at where Han stood seconds ago as if trying to conjure him up once again. You never wanted to strain their friendship. You knew how much Han cared for Chan, even if he didn't bear the same sentiment for you.

"Chan, I’ll leave. Call Han and tell him I'm gone."

"You don't have to."

"I know," you reassure, placing your hand on his forearm. "We'll talk more later, okay? It's cold and he has nowhere to go. Just call him, please."

"Fine," Chan concedes. "Call me when you get home, alright?" his eyes finally soften and you squeeze his hand in reply, before heading out as well.

The walk from Chan’s dorm to yours is fairly short, but tonight, it seems like kilometers are separating you from the safety of your bed. There is a heavy weight crushing your bones, most of it being guilt at what just transpired between Chan and Han.

That's what comes with being sensitive- you bear the weight of your feelings and the one of those surrounding you.

Were you out of place with what you said to Han? Yes. Was it eating you inside to see the consequences of your words? Yes. But he was also to blame, you repeated in your head. He was also to blame. Please. You plead, you don't know to whom, maybe to the voice in your head to stop being so mean. 'But none of this would've happened if you weren't so sensitive. So easy to bruise' the voice mocks and you stumble on your feet.

It happens so suddenly it takes you off guard- the way the breath is knocked out of you. You pause, chest heaving as you bend down slightly. Your hand is on your heart as you try to breathe again, but it's shaking so much. Your legs give out under you, and you plop down on the floor, eyes tightly shut. You can't breathe. You can't breathe. You're going to pass out.

"Yn, what-" A hand rests on your shoulder but you shake it off. You don't want to be touched. Not by him.

"Let me help-" Han speaks again, and you scramble away from him, as best as you can anyway. You end up kneeling on the ground once again, your back to him. "Get-get away."

"I know you're mad but you aren't okay and I know how horrib-"

"You aren't helping!" you shout through tears, as your heart threatens to spill out of your throat. "You’ve hurt me e-enough already."

You don't remember how you got home that night, how you managed to open the door or cross the road leading to your dorm. But you remember Han leaving you on the cold ground, just like you wanted. You remember the ache in your bones as you laid on your bed; the burning desire to stop feeling for a night, to cut your chest open and tear off your bleeding heart.

☄༄

One month later

If there's one thing you've always complained to Chan about, it's the fact that his building had an elevator in it, unlike yours.

Today, you’ve come to regret this fact. Tremendously.

You’ve been avoiding going to Chan’s dorm for the past weeks since the last thing you wanted was to see Han. But, he insisted on you coming over, reassuring you that it would only be him and Changbin at home since Han supposedly had other plans.

Well, Chan was wrong. Because Han just walked into the elevator you are in, mere moments before its doors closed.

Your breath catches in your throat as his eyes lock on yours. He looks like he wants to say something but he decides against it, opting for sighing loudly instead, before pressing the button leading to the fourth floor, rather harshly.

Your need to flee has never been this strong.

You watch anxiously as the numbers slowly go up. 1… 2… 3… Then a loud voice startles you and the elevator starts to shake in place. The door is suddenly opened and you are met with a cement wall, blocking your exit.

"What the fuck?" Han groans as you press the emergency button repeatedly, hoping that the elevator will resume its course and this nightmare will be forgotten.

It doesn’t.

"You’re going to break the goddamn button," Han pushes your hand away and you stumble away from him.

"Can you shut up? I’m not in the mood for your bullshit."

"Does it look like I’m happy to be here?" Han scoffs, as a ringtone plays in the elevator, cutting you off before you could respond. 

"Hey guys, this happens from time to time, so no need to worry. Is everyone alright?" Someone speaks and you assume it's the worker charged with the maintenance of the elevator.

"Yes," you both reply at the same time.

"Great. We’ve contacted the mechanics but they said there’s a lot of traffic, so it might take a bit longer for them to get here."

"How long?" Han asks the question that’s on your mind as well.

"Two hours, at most, for you to get out."

"Oh, for fuck’s sake," you groan, as hot tears prickle at the corner of your eyes. This is the last thing you needed today- to be stuck in a cramped-up space with the one person who sucks the oxygen out of any room you’re in.

"Thanks, man," Han sighs and you turn your back to him, facing the wall. You’ve had a horrible day, scratch that, a horrible week. Hanging out with Chan and Changbin was the one thing you were looking forward to, only for the worst possible scenario to happen- being stuck in the same place with Han. You feel an urgent need to sob but you can’t cry in front of him. Not when he’s all claws and your skin is tender.

"Wait, are you claustrophobic?" He suddenly asks, seemingly inches away from your body.

"As if you’d fucking care," you scoff, before heading to a corner of the elevator and settling down.

"I'm not a monster, you know," he mutters in an almost sad tone, one that forces you to look up at him. His hands are deep into his pockets, eyebrows knitted as he gazes down at you. "Do you really think I’m that much of an asshole?"

"Yes," you reply instantly, before staring forward again. The hurt that flashes in his eyes shouldn’t tug at your heartstrings, but it does, ever so faintly, like the last wave that grazes your feet as you get out of the ocean. "I’m not claustrophobic," you add after a while and Han finally sits on the opposite side from you.

It’s hot and stuffy in the elevator, and it’s quiet, too quiet for your liking. You’ve never really liked silence for too long, it made the small voice in your head only grow bolder, louder, impossible to ignore.

Thirty-five excruciatingly long minutes go by and the tension only grows more suffocating. It’s simmering, barely beneath the surface, waiting for the person who will finally make it explode. 

It’s Han.

“Can I ask you something?”

“No.”

“Come on, we have nothing else to do.”

“Have you tried being silent?”

"Yn," he says sternly and you begrudgingly concede. "Fine. Ask me."

You imagine him smirking slightly, the way he does each time he manages to push you over the edge.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

“We’re not doing this right now,” you shake your head, tone adamant.

"When’s a better time for it? We’re literally never in the same place."

“And whose fault that is?” You smile too sarcastically and he frowns. “So, I’m the only one to blame?”

“Can’t you see how full of yourself you are? Fuck, Han, this is exactly what I hate about you.”

“What are you even talking about?”

“You’re so immature, you never sit back to think of how your words might impact someone.”

"What words yn? I was teasing you!" his voice grows louder and so does yours. "You were hurting me!" you yell, chest heaving. There is something utterly terrifying in this confession- to let someone know how easy it was for them to get to you.

"But I didn’t mean to," he drags a hand through his hair, exasperated. "It's not my fault you felt that way."

An ironic chuckle leaves your lips, as you point at him. "See, you're doing it again! You're blaming me for my reaction instead of evaluating how your actions might have caused it."

"Look, yn," he scrambles to you until there are only a few centimeters separating your bodies. "I really wanna fix this, okay? Can we stop screaming?"

"Why are you so hellbent on fixing it?" you question, as you lean further away from him. He notices and takes a step back, giving you space.

"Because although I don't care about you, I care about Chan. And this is hurting him. So, I want to be civil with you."

The mention of Chan feels like a cold bucket of water dousing the fire within you. You know he’s struggling to be in the middle of two people he loves. He doesn’t deserve that.

"Fine," you sigh softly. “You talk. I’ll listen.”

"I didn't... I didn't know that my words would hurt you. In truth, it looked like you weren't affected at all. That's why I kept pushing you because… God Yn you're so perfect it maddens me."

Your eyebrows knit together at his words- the last thing you expected to stumble out of his mouth. "What are you talking about?"

"You never get sad, never get angry. Your emotions are always in check. You're always smiling, always laughing. Have everything figured out from how you want to be now to where you want to be in the future. And you know yourself, you never step out of order. And this is selfish and stupid but it irked me. Because I am the opposite of you. I'm a mess and too human it terrifies me, so I wanted to see if you had a breaking point. But each time I taunted you, you remained placid. So, I kept pushing to see if you'd break one day because, selfishly enough, that would make me feel better about how broken I am."

"Han, you're so stupid. Aren't you a literal genius? You excel in everything you do and you have fun on top of it, every single night. Don't you realize how lucky you are?"

"Do you really believe I find joy in being wasted and not even remembering what happened that night? I do that because I'm in my mind most of the days and it isn't the best place to be in. So, I like to forget."

“Why do you think I always bury myself in my studies? Because it's safe and it makes me forget too. Did you really think I didn’t feel? I feel too much and that’s the problem.”

Han remains silent as you curse under your breath. "Do you even realize how selfish this is? To test a human's breaking point? All because what? I didn't shove my struggles down your nose? Would you go around and do this to everyone who looked fine to you?"

"I know, I know, I was just in a bad place, and this isn't an excuse but I... I felt as if you were just showing me everything that was wrong with me."

"That is how I felt around you," you chuckle bitterly and he hangs his head low. He’s much quieter when he speaks again. “I guess we’re more similar than I thought.”

"Doesn't excuse what you did. You targeted me and made me feel insane because no one was hearing the hostility in your tone like I did."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I really am. I never thought it'd get this bad and I deserve every name you called me."

"You do." You close your eyes, as Han’s words wash over you. There is so much more you want to say, so much you want to spit out in his face because of his selfish coping mechanism. But you also want peace, for Chan’s sake. So, you try to bury your resentment, just like you do with every other feeling. One day it’ll turn into indifference. You’ll make sure of it.

You bite your lip, before clearing your throat. Your tone is softer when you speak again. "I'm sorry for what I told you in the library. About you dying alone and whatnot. That wasn't nice of me."

"You really hit the nail with that one," Han chuckles quietly, and guilt floods your heart at the expression on his face. "And I'm sorry for calling you boring. You aren't. And for everything I said before that."

"Okay. It's okay." You reassure, a tiny smile drawn on your lips.

He nods before a sly grin grows on his face. "Should we hug it out?" he teases, cocking an eyebrow at you and you stare pointedly at him. "Don't push your luck."

"Yes, ma'am."

An hour later, the mechanics finally manage to get the elevator going, which in turn allows you both to get out. Han opens the door to the dorm, and you find Chan lying on the couch, scrolling down his phone.

"Han? I thought you would..." he starts before trailing off as he looks up. "Yn? Where were you, I’ve been calling you for the past two hours."

"I didn't have signal."

"Why where were-" Chan goes to question before stopping once again. He hurriedly stands up and walks toward you.

"You... Are standing next to one another."

"We are," Han replies, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

"And you aren't... Fighting?" his statement comes out more like a question, which makes both you and Han chuckle.

"We aren't."

"We talked it out, in the elevator which we were both just stuck in," you add and Chan’s eyes grow wide, as a breathtaking smile breaks out on his face.

"Oh my god. Finally. We'll talk about the elevator bit later but it's been so hard trying not to be in the same place as the both of you."

"We know. We're sorry," you both pout in sync and Chan shakes his head, before opening his arms wide. You giggle, before walking to him and sinking into his embrace. Han follows you shortly after, and your eyes meet behind Chan’s back. He shoots you a tiny thumbs up.

Is this how a dandelion feels, you wonder, when someone blows on it in the hopes it'll grant their selfish wishes. Only to be tossed away afterward, lifeless.

You drown out the thought before smiling back at Han. It doesn’t reach your eyes.

☄༄

Befriending two-thirds of 3racha holds within it a lot of privileges. The first one is listening to unreleased music, the second is having exclusive insight into their upcoming performances.

Their gigs don't happen as often as they'd like, because they're still students who unfortunately have lots of assignments. But when a window of free time materializes, they unveil their latest productions at vibrant parties, dimly lit bars, or even the occasional club. Which attracts a lot of people, some even coming from neighboring towns to listen to them play.

Everyone can recognize raw talent, even if rap doesn't happen to be their favorite genre.

This is how you know that they'll be performing Heyday, their latest creation, at Seungmin’s party. You've met him in passing, and Chan insisted that you'd come. Not that you needed much convincing anyway, you fell in love with this song the minute you heard it.

There is an exhilarating energy in Seungmin’s mansion, a palpable anticipation preceding 3racha’s performance, as you all gaze at the makeshift stage. The place is packed, bodies pressed tightly to one another. You feel slightly uncomfortable but you swallow it down. You're here to support Chan first and foremost, you can leave if things become too much for you.

The introductory chords materialize abruptly, and 3racha takes the stage. Chan is clad in a white shirt with huge gaps on his sides, revealing glimpses of his chest each time he bends down. Changbin, on the opposite end of the spectrum, is wearing a tightly fitted black shirt, hugging each muscle of his to perfection. Han, the last one to walk in, sports a loose black shirt, with a low neckline. His nails are painted to match the color of his attire, you notice.

The song kicks off with Changbin's incendiary rap as deafening cheers ring all around you. You make sure to scream on top of your lungs too, as Changbin’s loud voice commands the attention of everyone in the room. You’ve always held a penchant for his rap style- how powerful he sounds, and how addicted you quickly become to hearing him on stage. You remember once telling him that any song that starts with his rapping is a successful hit. He playfully nudged your shoulder but his appreciative smile was hard to miss.

Chan’s part is next and you try to rap along, as best as you can anyway due to your fleeting memory. It sounds mostly like gibberish but you don’t mind, especially when your eyes meet Chan’s and he grins at you, before morphing into the mesmerizing stage persona that's peculiar to him. You clearly remember the first time you witnessed him on stage, and how enthralled you were by the sheer power he exuded. His destiny was intertwined with music, no one could deny that. 

A bed squeaking sound comes next, followed by the knocking on the door and you giggle against your will. That was Han’s ingenious touch, as Chan had shared when you'd raised a quizzical brow at him while listening. “Is this based on a real-life experience?” You asked, a knowing smirk etched upon your features, and he pretended to zip his mouth, earlobes turning a vibrant shade of crimson.

Han finally starts rapping in his inimitable style, exuding an effortless, laid-back aura. Your gazes meet at the "let's go play" line, and he tilts his head quizzically at you as he utters his confused "huh?". You raise one eyebrow at him prompting a sly smirk from him, before redirecting his attention to the opposite side of the stage. Yet, your eyes remain on him throughout his entire part.

The boys step off the stage, and you watch from the corner of the room with a wide grin as a swarm of people surrounds them. Congratulations and praise fill the air, and you can tell that 3racha thrives on this moment- it's what they live for, what makes their souls rise up from the ashes. 

Chan catches your eye, and you applaud enthusiastically, letting out a happy giggle. He blows you a kiss, and you playfully pretend to catch it, eliciting a small shake of his head. Changbin, who's standing near him, catches the exchange and winks at you from a distance, to which you respond with two thumbs up.

Even though you're a bit far from them, you're certain the boys can sense the pride radiating from you in waves. There's something truly magical about humans existing in their element, particularly people you care about.

Your gaze shifts to Han, and your smile falters slightly. He's also glowing, but signs of discomfort are starting to creep onto his face. You recognize them fairly well, as you've felt them too at times when emotions become overwhelming. So, after a brief internal debate, you decide to act and begin making your way toward him, pushing through the crowd despite the rising complaints behind you.

They fall on deaf ears.

You grab Han's forearm, pulling him with you through the sea of bodies toward the bathroom. He doesn't fight, following diligently behind you. You open the door and pull him inside, pausing as you realize you don't have a specific plan for bringing him here. This is also the first time you've been alone together since the elevator conversation.

"Thank you," Han whispers, and you nod, your eyes softening. "I'm okay, I love performing, I just needed a breather," he quickly adds, as if feeling guilty for being overwhelmed. 

"That's completely understandable. You are running on a lot of adrenaline, and the room is so crowded," you say with a smile, turning to the mirror to touch up your makeup.

Han remains silent for a while as you powder your face, before reapplying your cherry lip gloss. You can hear him taking in deep breaths, and you avoid looking at him, worried he might feel embarrassed.

"What did you think of the performance?" he finally asks, and you raise your head slightly. You lock eyes with him through the mirror, as he leans against the door, arms crossed in front of his chest. His black t-shirt falls a bit, revealing more of his bare skin, and your eyes trail down for a moment.

"It was really good. I think this song might be my favorite of all yours."

"Really?" Han grins, his words filled with an excitement that warms your heart despite yourself. He's just received heaps of compliments from hundreds of people, yet your words still seem to affect him deeply.

"Yes. I loved your rap, how it started in a laid-back manner, and then you cleared your throat and picked up the pace. It added a unique edge to the song."

"Thank you, really," his smile is genuine, and you giggle softly, shaking your head.

"What's funny?" he asks, walking up to you. You're still facing the mirror, and he's now only inches away from you.

"I didn't imagine you'd appreciate my compliment this much."

"It feels sincere," he shrugs and you nod, finally turning around and leaning against the sink.

"It is sincere."

"Good."

You hold his gaze, eyes only trailing down to go across his face. He looks far different from how he did on stage. Shier, more eager for praise.

"You have..." he steps up until the scent of his cologne tickles your nose. His hand raises ever so slowly to your face, and you hold your breath, as he picks up something from your cheek. His hands are warm.

"An eyelash fell. Make a wish."

A surprised chuckle escapes your lips. "You wish on fallen lashes?"

"You wish on everything when you need hope." his voice is low, a timber so foreign to your ears it sends shivers down your spine. So, you close your eyes, wishing for your heart to quit beating so fast.

"Done," you whisper and he blows the single lash away, his gaze still on you.

"Thank you for coming."

"Of course. I had to support Chan and Changbin." It slips from your mouth before you can stop it, and Han slightly recoils from your words.

"Right, them. Yeah. Of course," he finally backs away, and oxygen fills your lungs once again. "I'm good now. Should we go out?"

"After you," you nod tightly and he walks ahead first, his perfume trailing after him and pulling you into a dizzying dance. 

☄༄

The party Seungmin hosted was your last time having fun for a while. Your preparation for midterm exams began soon after, and you found yourself swarmed with assignments left and right. Thankfully, you and Chan were going through it at the same time, which meant you met at the library each day, revising silently near one another.

Except this time, you were joined by Han.

Goosebumps ran across your skin as he pulled the chair next to you, not the good kind of shivers. You were reminded of the fight you had right here, three months ago. Which still left a bitter taste in your mouth.

You don't hate Han anymore. He's actually funny, and you enjoy listening to his ramblings when you go over to Chan's dorm. He's also really different in his home, much quieter, and softer. Much more like you.

But you're also human, and there is still a part of your brain sending off warning signals at his presence. Maybe because the hurt was never buried properly. You just brushed it off under the carpet after your elevator conversation. Most of it was spent shouting anyway.

"Hey," he greets and you just nod in reply. You can feel his gaze linger on you a bit after that, and a pang of guilt twists in your heart. "Hi," you finally reply, but you tune out his response. Why is it that you're sensitive to everyone's emotions but your own?

Twenty minutes go by, then forty, and you can no longer take the uncomfortable feeling clinging to your skin. So, you excuse yourself, hurriedly stepping out of the library.

Han follows you; you can tell it’s him because someone's chair scraped loudly against the floor as soon as you stood up, and that couldn't be Chan because he is always careful with the silence in the library. So, you put on your headphones and walk faster.

This is childish, surely it is, but you can't control your emotions. You've apologized and so did he, you talk from time to time and you even held his arm and took him to a quiet bathroom. So where is all this bitterness coming from?

"Dammit, yn, how are you so fast?" Han grabs your arm pausing you. He's panting slightly and you just blankly stare as he takes in a deep breath.

"Are you okay?" he finally asks and you nod, turning around to walk away. He stops you again.

"I made you uncomfortable, didn't I?" he asks quietly, and you sigh, rubbing your forehead wearily.

"You didn't do anything, I just... Being in that library reminded me of certain things."

"I know. Me too. Can we please talk?"

"We are talking," you raise your brows and he stares pointedly at you. "Come on you know what I mean."

"Fine," you giggle, "we can talk."

"I didn't apologize properly to you in the elevator. Truth is, I did it because Chan was mad at me and I couldn't stand it anymore."

The bitterness- you understand where it comes from now.

"But I am sorry. Truly sorry. I was selfish and I hurt you and this will sound like a joke, but I hate hurting people. I really do. I was just too wrapped up in my problems that I didn't realize how it would affect you and I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. I also shouldn't have tried to kick you out that day, but dying alone is my biggest fear, and seeing you in my home made me want to lose my mind because I couldn't get what you said out of my head, but it was so cold outside and again I shouldn't have told you to go out and I am so sorry-"

"Han, breathe," you smile, cutting him off and Han sucks in a deep breath, chest slightly heaving from talking uninterrupted for a minute straight.

"I'm sorry I just wanted to apologize, properly this time. I'm doing it because I'm guilty, not because of Chan. Nothing excuses my behavior, I know. And I wish I could turn back in time and actually get to know you because you're really cool and very nice, but I can't. All I can do is apologize. So I'm sorry, Yn. I really am."

"I appreciate it," you smile, and Han exhales a little from relief. "I didn't know that was your biggest fear, but even if it wasn't, that was uncalled for. I shouldn't have said something so mean. So, I'm sorry for it too. But I'm not apologizing for being mad, you deserved that."

"I did, I did, I know." He's quick to agree. "I don't want us to be awkward around one another. I'm not telling you that you have to be my best friend but, we can be friends, right? But you also don't have to. It's enough if you forgive me and... You know what? Never mind forget I said anything, I'm just nervous and-"

"Okay."

"Okay?" he repeats.

"We can be friends. I accept your truthful apology."

"Actually?"

"Yes."

"Like we can start over?" he grins and you chuckle at the excitement in his face. "Yes."

"Can we hug it out?"

"Too soon," you pout and he nods, a faint blush dusting his cheek.

"Right. Should we go back to the library? I saw that you were stuck on a question. I can help you."

"You won't make any comments?"

"No. Pinky promise." he outstretches his pinky towards you and you muse over it for a bit, before wrapping your finger around his. You grin at Han- your first genuine smile since he's known you. His hold on your pinky falters.

"Okay. I'm in."

.☄༄

Five weeks later- 1:13 a.m.

You were still slightly cautious near Han as if you were both threading along an invisible line. You could talk, but not too much, afraid any old animosity would shine through. And you could stay together, but not too long, in case it gets awkward and you wouldn't know what to do. So, you never mixed, just like water and oil, each of you knowing their place, away from the other.

But you still didn't want to miss out on outings with your friends. So, when Chan invites you for a movie night with Han, and Changbin, you don't say no.

The night runs smoothly, the warm beer you had easing your nerves bit by bit. It was also easier to forget that you once hated Han when he brought tears to your eyes from laughing so hard.

2:56 a.m.

An unbearable heat suddenly envelopes you, your very blood boiling from within. You hesitantly look down, to find your entire body bathed in red, as if your skin had melted away, exposing you to the scorching heat embracing your tender flesh.

You are in the heart of a volcano, with lava bubbling dangerously below. Hanging by a frail thread, you dangle over the edge of death.

And then, you plummet. 

You startle awake, your heart pounding in your chest, your hand clutching it tightly. Cold sweat clings to your skin, and it takes you a few moments to realize that you're safe, far from the inside of the volcano that had threatened to consume you.

You glance at your phone- 3:43 a.m. You read. It's only been a mere hour since you went to sleep. You don't think you could drift back into slumber. 

Dragging a hand tiredly across your face, you walk into the pitch-black kitchen. You pour yourself a glass of water, hoping that the icy drink will cool you down. You are safe.

"What are you-" you startle, dropping the glass and spinning around, hand pressed to your heart.

"Han, fuck, you scared me," you sigh, tugging at your hair slightly and he's quick to your side, a string of hushed apologies tumbling from his lips.

"I'm sorry, here let me clean it up," he kneels and you follow suit, grabbing his hands and gently pushing them away. "No, I dropped it, let me clean," you reassure, but your hands are trembling as you pick up the shards of glass, any bit of logic clouded by your racing thoughts.

Your heartbeat's ringing loudly in your ears, you barely register the glass cutting your skin until an uncharacteristic warmth oozes from your hand. Blood.

"Shit," you curse lowly and Han illuminates the place with his phone flashlight. "Did you cut yourself?" he asks and you shake your head, walking over to the sink.

"It's nothing, don't worry."

"Yn, let me see," he's standing behind you, the ghost of his breath grazing your exposed neck.

"Han, really it's-" he cuts you off, grabbing your forearm and walking you over to the couch. He finally turns on the lights before crouching down in front of you.

"Show me?" he asks gently and you're too tired to fight him. You open your palm tentatively, taking a look at your cut for the first time as well. It's not too deep, it won't require stitches. But it's also not shallow, blood oozing from it at a steady rhythm.

Han simply frowns upon gazing at your wound, before walking over to his room. You don't move from your spot, gaze lost into the space before you. What would happen if you never woke up? Would you feel your flesh burning? Bones melting as the searing lava-

"Here," he gently holds your wrist, as his eyes meet yours. "This will hurt a bit. Hold my arm as tight as you want and tell me if it becomes too much, okay?"

"Okay," you simply nod.

He dabs up your cut with a cotton pad soaked in alcohol. You hiss softly, as the liquid burns your open skin. Han abruptly stops at the sound. "Did I hurt you? I'm so sorry I didn't mean to I just-"

"It's okay," you smile reassuringly, "I can handle it."

Han nods, resuming his treatment. He's even softer this time, if that is even possible. He's careful when he rubs a soothing gel on your cut, before wrapping your palm in a gauze. He can't find a pair of scissors so he cuts it with his teeth, his lips brushing against the back of your hand. You account the warmth you're suddenly feeling to the aftermath of your nightmare.

"Why are you even up?" he finally asks as he settles next to you on the couch, eyes looking up to the ceiling.

"Nightmare."

"You’re okay?" he asks gently and he sounds truly concerned for your well-being. You aren't used to this. To Han acting like a friend to you. But it feels nice to be cared for, so you don't mind him blurring the lines tonight.

"I'm still a little bit scared," you admit sheepishly and Han's eyes soften under the dim moonlight.

"It passed. You're okay now."

"Am I?" you drag a hand tiredly across your face and Han frowns, inching closer to you.

"Is it a recurring dream?"

"Mm. It tires me out."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, I just want to forget." 'Help me forget' you want to add, but you decide against it. "Why were you up, anyway?"

"I got inspiration for lyrics so I had to write it down."

"Can you share some with me?" you ask, tone a tad too hopeful. Han catches it and smiles warmly at you.

"Sure. This is probably going to be in the chorus..." he pulls out his phone, heading to his notes app. "This is what I have so far... I let my frustrated screams out hoping that they’d be washed away in the rain. I send it off with a smiling face, down to the last drops left on my fingertips." he pauses, scrolling down a bit more. "I also wrote this; I think it'll be nice in a verse... I’m sure it’ll get better... Just like the earth hardens after the rain and flowers bloom again."

"You're such a talented lyricist Han," you whisper in awe, and Han’s cheeks warm up at your words, reminiscent of a setting sun. "But I also wish it was as easy as this. To let out all the emotions you bottle inside and for them to wash away with the rain." You bite your lip, as Han’s words echo in your head. "I think... I think that's why I get this nightmare. I don't free my emotions anymore, and they show up in my dreams to torment me."

You don't know where these bouts of honesty are coming from. Maybe because you're too weary to keep up a happy facade. Or maybe because you know that the person who wrote these lyrics must understand exactly how you feel.

"Well... It's raining." Han whispers after a while and you look at him, confusion plastered across your features.

"And?"

"Should we test it out?"

"Test what?"

"Screaming under the rain," he says as if it's the most evident thing in the world.

"What? That's insane, Han we will get sick and..." You pause, as the words dissolve in your mouth like the seafoam meeting the shore. "You know what? Let's do it!"

"Really?" he asks incredulously, a huge grin on his face.

"Yes!"

"Okay, let's go!"

You both abruptly stand up, still only clad in your pajamas. You quickly slip your shoes on before running outside. The rain envelops you in a cold hug as soon as you step outside, rain droplets trickling down your clothes. You don't mind, you have lots of bottled-up feelings to free. 

"This needs music," Han smiles as he takes out his phone, putting his playlist on shuffle. 'Let The Light In' starts playing, and you shoot him a thumbs-up.

"It fits the rainy mood," you grin and he nods, squinting his eyes to be able to look at you.

"I think if we scream here, we'll scare the neighbors."

"I know!" you chuckle, wiping away the rain droplets on your forehead. "Where should we go?"

"The empty parking lot!" Han shouts so you'll hear him over the growing rain and you nod. He takes off running and you chase after him. You're both completely drenched once you're a bit far away from the house. But you don't care. Not when there is pure adrenaline rushing through you.

You finally stop, loud giggles escaping your mouth at the thrill of what you're doing. "You should start!" you yell excitedly and Han nods, taking in deep steadying breaths.

"Okay, I'm ready!"

"On the count of three! One... Two... Three!" and Han shouts at the top of his lungs, his screams getting lost in the rain. An incredulous smile breaks out on his face as you giggle loudly, the sound of it ringing out in the downpour.

"You looked insane!"

"I feel insane!" He yells honestly and a fit of laughter takes over you both. You hold his arm to steady yourself. 

"You should try it now!" Han urges and you nod, willing yourself to calm down. 

"Okay, will you count down for me?" 

"Yes," he assures and you clap excitedly. Han can't help but smile at the excitement on your face.

"One... Two... Three!" And you shout, continuous screams spilling from the depths of your soul. Han wasn't wrong- your pain, your fear, your anger are all dripping along the rain droplets, from your bruised heart to the tip of your fingers.

You've never felt this free before.

The two of you don't notice the passage of time, the rain acting as a cathartic release to all your pent-up emotions. It was as if your pain intertwined with each rain droplet, and you were letting go of everything that had held you down. Each scream acted as a break from the burdens of the past, and the worries of the future. 

As you finally stopped, panting and soaked to the bone, you looked at each other with raw exhilaration in your eyes.

"So, how was it?" Han yells over the rain and you break out in a relieved smile. "I don't think I’ve ever been this happy my entire life," you beam at him and the sight makes the rain feel less colder to Han. 

He watches, a small smile on his face as you twirl around, face looking up toward the sky, a deluge of rain grazing your cheeks like a lover's tender touch. The smile doesn't leave your face as you spin around, happy chuckles leaving your mouth from time to time.

You look... free. As if there was an invisible weight on your shoulders that the rain washed away. A heavy burden that you carried within you, like a secret secret. He likes the sound of that. Maybe that's what he'll name his song. 

Han slightly shakes his head as he watches you skip around, clothes completely soaked. You are now standing a bit far away, right beside a street lamp.

Ooh, let the light in

Its light shines on you alone.

Time seems to slow down, as Han’s steps falter. You're smiling, not at him, but at the universe. A happiness so raw filling you that it needs to come out, even if no one's watching.

You're spinning around, delighted giggles spilling from you like the most mesmerizing chorus. Something is building up inside Han, begging for a release. It refuses to come out in a scream- violently. It's tender and soft. He thinks that if you held his hand right now, you'd be able to free it.

Look at us, you and I back at it again

Is it possible to feel something other than an emotion? Because right now, weirdly, all he feels is you.

Cause I love to love to love to love you

I hate to hate to hate to hate you

Your eyes land on Han and there is pure joy dancing in your pupils. He's glad you no longer despise him. He doesn't think he can stomach it anymore.

Cause I want to want to want to want you

You run to him, holding his hand before twirling him around.

I need to need to need to need you

Han can't believe he ever thought you weren't human enough. You are a mosaic of every feeling that makes one human. There are lyrics writing themselves in his head and they're all about you.

Ooh, let the light in

You clasp both his hands, before crossing them over. And then you're both spinning around until the world around you blurs. All he sees is you, and the light surrounding you alone.

Ooh, turn your light on

He thinks he might, if the light is you.

5:22 a.m

"There is a heater in my room, you should come," Han offers as you dry your hair with the blue towel he just handed you.

"It's okay I’ll stay here," you point to the couch but he shakes his head adamantly. "You'll die from hypothermia. Do you know how mad Chan will be if I let you pass away?" he whispers in fear, a hand clutching his heart.

"So dramatic," you giggle, before following him into his room. He goes on his bed first before tapping the spot beside him. You sigh before lying next to him, snuggling further into the hoodie he gave you to change.

"You're still shivering," he remarks, as your teeth clink together.

"It's okay."

"You shouldn't have gone out with just a t-shirt."

"I didn't exactly plan on this, you know," you smile sarcastically and Han chuckles before tapping your shoulder softly.

"Come closer."

You debate for a second before complying, the cold tuning out all the rational thoughts in your head. 

Your arm brushes against his and you can't breathe once again. But it's a different type of deprivation. Han always seems to steal the oxygen from your lungs, but for once, you don't mind. Red embers are burning within you and their flames keep you alive. You press your chest to his back, as your forehead rests on his shoulder. Maybe he'll turn you to ashes. Will you rise from them?

"You're so cold," his hand reaches behind to rub your arms soothingly, an earnest attempt to warm you up.

"I’ll be fine, go to sleep. Don't worry about me."

"I can't control it."

In the dark room, Han can't see you curling your hand into a tight fist at his words. 

"If you stay quiet then I’ll sleep," you say after a while and Han giggles softly.

"That's the goal. You need to rest."

"You should sleep too."

"I will."

"Okay. Good night, Han."

"Good night, Yn."

You think he's fallen asleep when you speak up again. "Hey, Han."

"Yes, Yn?" He replies instantly, voice slightly hoarse. 

"Can you repeat that lyric to me, about the flowers blooming again?" You ask quietly, and you feel him nodding against your chest.

"I’m sure it’ll get better... Just like the earth hardens after the rain and flowers bloom again."

His warm voice vibrates within your body. "That's a nice lyric."

"I hope you'll dream of it instead."

☄༄

Against Han’s strong belief, he's the one who fell sick after your rain-soaked outing. 

You knew of it from Chan, who texted you saying that Han caught a nasty cold, and then got food poisoning, which meant he couldn't be there for their highly anticipated meeting—after their electrifying Heyday performance, a record label expressed strong interest in signing them. 

"Can you come over and stay with Han?" Chan implores as soon as he answers your call.

“That bad?” You ask, a pout pulling at your lips.

"I don't want to leave him alone. He's been really sick for the past week now, and… it's partly your fault"

"I can’t believe you’re guilt-tripping me into coming," you chuckle even though you know he is right. Han wouldn’t have gotten out in the rain if it wasn’t for you.

"I'm sorry it’s just I don't think he's been good, apart from the illness. And I’m worried, and I don’t know I thought maybe you could talk to him. He reminds me of you, in his sadness, so you might understand what's wrong more than me."

You think it over for a second before rising up from your bed.

"I'm coming"

As soon as you step inside their dorm, Chan pulls you for a side hug, placing a quick kiss on your forehead. “Thank you so much,” he whispers, clearly grateful that you agreed to come. It worries you even more for Han.

“No problem. You can go, I’ll be with him.”

“Thank you, Yn” Changbin smiles before hastily pulling Chan outside the door. You wave them both goodbye.

You cautiously crack open the door to Han’s room, to find it completely engulfed in darkness. The stream of light from the door falls upon Han, who squints his eyes, trying to see who disrupted his fragile peace.

"Hi," you speak softly, finding it a bit odd to raise your voice in such a still room. Han attempts to sit up, before doubling over, hand tightly clutched around his stomach.

You rush to his side, kneeling beside his bed. It's the only lit-up part of the room.

"Still hurts?" you ask, your hand moving in soothing circles on his back. He nods, eyes squeezed shut, and you feel your heart crack at the sight.

"Have you taken any medicine?"

"A few hours ago. I need to eat something before I can take more, but I can't get up to the kitchen."

"Why didn't you tell the boys?"

"Didn't want to be a burden."

"You aren't. I'll make you something to eat. Okay? Try to sleep meanwhile."

"You don't have to," Han shakes his head, his eyes finally meeting yours.

"I know," you smile softly, before exiting the room.

Minutes later, you're back in the room, a bowl of sliced fruit in your hands.

"Do you guys live off protein powder and frozen chicken?" you ask, earning a quiet laugh from Han as he lays his back against the headboard.

"We do. Please save me," he jokes and you laugh, shaking your head. "Good thing I grabbed some fruit before leaving."

"Thank you," he grins, eyes slightly squinting closed. 

"Here," you grab a strawberry, bringing it to his lips. His eyebrows raise up in surprise, a sheen layer of sweat coating them. "What? Look at how tightly you're clutching the comforter," you point to his hands and Han sighs, before parting his lips slightly.

His mouth brushes against your fingertips, igniting a cascade of emotions in you. You'll think about what it means later.

You grab a green grape next, feeding it to him gently. A drop of water trickles down the corner of his mouth, and you wipe it away with the back of your finger.

"I can- I can do it," Han mumbles, voice wavering like an unpredictable storm. His trembling hands reach for the bowl, but they struggle to hold it right.

"Han, it's okay, I don't mind," you try to keep your voice gentle, sensing that there is an impending doom awaiting just below the surface.

"No, I- I need to do it. Just let me-" A tear falls into the fruit bowl. "Let me do it, please. I can- I can do it, I’m not useless, I…"

The floodgate opens.

A stream of tears escapes Han's eyes as he looks down at the bowl between his hands. He's crying, eyes tightly shut and the small whimpers escaping his lips feel like a dagger piercing your heart.

"You're sick. Let me take care of you."

"It's horrible horrible work." His voice cracks as his eyes finally lock on yours, and you can tell that his anguish isn't about his illness. These are the words of the shadows threatening to swallow him whole. You have to fight them off with the light.

"I will do it."

As Han lays on his bed, the sound of you washing the dishes resonating from the kitchen, your voice bounces off the dark walls in his head. You didn't try to convince him that it was easy work, you told him you'll do it, even if it's horrible. You'll do it because you want to, not because you can, not because it's accessible. The thought sends a warmth in his chest. It's faint, like a flickering candle trying its best to withstand the wind. But it's there. He holds on to it. He'll shield it with his cupped hands so it wouldn't fizzle out. 

"Hannie, you’re okay?" you peer into the room. Hannie- the candle's flame grows higher.

"Mm," he hums, too weak to turn and look at you.

"You're shivering," you remark, and he tightens the blanket around his body. "It'll pass."

You stay silent, and he thinks you've left the room. But then he feels the left side of the bed dip, with you climbing tentatively on it.

"This worked last time when I was cold," you smile softly at him, before bringing his head to your chest and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He feels frail and fragile in your embrace. You hug him tighter to you.

"Warming up?" you ask and he nods against your chest. He's burning.

"Try to sleep," you urge quietly, your hand moving to pat his back. "It will pass."

"What if it doesn't?" Han asks faintly. Please don't let the candle die, he wants to plead.

"There is always light at the end of the tunnel."

"What if the tunnel is closed?"

"Then you go back to the start and find a new one," you respond.

"Can I find it later? I'm so tired tonight." His voice is drowsy, sleep already clinging to his achy bones. 

"Just rest for now. You did well," you scratch his back lightly, as he nuzzles further into the crook of your neck. 

There was never a candle to begin with- you were the light.

☄༄

Had someone told you five months ago that you'd be lying on Han's bed, watching "Howl's Moving Castle" at 2 a.m., you would've thought they were utterly delusional.

Yet, here you are now.

A lot of things had changed since your rainy outing with Han, as if the universe had shifted into alignment, two stars in the sky finally colliding and making way for something new. You saw him under a different light, understanding that no one picks up a dandelion unless they desperately need the solace it provides.

You've grown to care for him, in the course of the past two months. And funnily enough, you've started to like who you were next to him- just yourself, with no pressure of making conversation, or catering to his expectations of you.

He saw you at your worst anyway, and so did you, there was no use in filtering things anymore.

You've been there through the entire process of writing, composing, and producing Secret Secret- the song whose lyrics had captured your heart. You didn't expect him to ask you to be there with him, he just shot you a text, three days after you came over to his house. 'Wanna be there while I work on the song? I know you liked the lyrics.' It was an offer you couldn't pass up on.

You weren't, in your opinion, much help. Han was gifted in the music realm and song-making flowed naturally from him. But he noticed how interested you were in music, so he called you over each time he worked on the song, even asking for your input at times.

That's why, when the song was finally done and released on 3racha's Spotify account, you decided to celebrate by baking him a cake. You may have dropped an eggshell in the batter (you recovered it later on), and the icing's color turned out less vibrant than what you hoped for. But you managed to adorn it with a garden of little flowers, and with store-bought icing, you wrote the words "after the rain flowers will bloom again."

You showed up to the dorm and Changbin pointed you to Han's room, where he had apparently been holed up all day. You shot him a grateful smile, before pushing the door open with your foot.

"What are you doing here?" Han asked, an incredulous smile drawn on his lips.

"Surprise!" you grinned, pushing the cake his way. "Congrats on making Secret Secret."

"Are you serious?" he chuckled, jumping out of his bed. He peered at the cake, eyes softening as he gazed down at the design.

"You drew a little garden..." he whispered in awe and you nodded, a faint blush creeping up your face.

"I'm glad you recognized what it was. I'm not the best baker," you admit a bit shyly but he shook his head. "It's perfect. I can't believe you did this to celebrate our baby!"

"Your baby," you corrected, although the use of 'our' warmed up your chest, weirdly enough.

"You were here with me every step of the way. She's ours."

"It's a she?" you giggled, and he smiled proudly.

"Mm. Do you accept being her mother?" he mused; hands clasped in front of his heart like he was praying you'd say yes.

"It would be my greatest honor," you nodded solemnly, and he let out a breathy chuckle, grabbing the cake from your hands and setting it on his bed.

"Should we hug it out?" he teased, arms stretched wide but you merely stared at him, unimpressed.

"Come on," he whined, "you can't reject me for the third time. And, in front of our child. On her birthday!" his tone grew louder and you couldn't help but giggle at his mock outrage.

"Try harder."

"Our child won't know what a loving parent relationship is and then she'll seek out unhealthy love from the ones around her and-" you cut him off by finally wrapping your arms around him.

You've always known that being near Han left you breathless, but this time, it felt as though he was breathing life into you. You close your eyes instinctively, as his hold tightens on you. He smells immensely nice, like pinewood and soap. You should've hugged him sooner.

"Thank you," he said quietly, forehead pressed against your shoulder blade.

"You did well," you whisper back.

"We did. She's our child, remember?" he reprimanded and you laughed faintly.

"Yeah, ours."

Hours later, the movie's credits finally roll down, and the finished cake sits idly by Han's desk.

"I should go," you rub your eyes tiredly, and Han stares at you as if you are out of your mind.

"At this hour? Do you want our kid to lose her mom?"

"Han," you drawl, hitting his head with the pillow next to you. "You can't hold me hostage."

"I can, as your husband."

"Since when are we married?"

"Since you agreed to be Secret's mother." Another playful hit to his face.

"Stop attacking my face, how will I get laid then?"

"So, you are cheating on me?" you ask, feigning outrage.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry baby you're the only one I want." You falter at the nickname before hitting him even harder, matching the tempo of your quickening heartbeat.

"You're crazy," he laughs, grabbing your wrists and pinning you onto the bed. He's hovering over you, eyes hooded with a tender intensity as he gazes down at you.

"Will you stay, please?"

"The couch is uncomfortable," you reply, avoiding his eyes. He lets go of one wrist before holding your chin gently, urging you to look at him.

"You can sleep here. We've done it before."

"You were freezing both times. That's why I did it."

"I'm very cold tonight," he pouts, eliciting a surprised chuckle from you.

"Are you now?"

"Very much so."

"Fine. Only because I don't want you to die from hypothermia."

"Thank you!" he grins excitedly, finally letting go of your wrist. You bring a hand to your flushed cheeks, as he tosses a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants in your direction.

"Get changed! There is a spare toothbrush in the cabinet."

You make sure to groan theatrically, before heading into the bathroom, where you splash your face repeatedly with water. You aren't used to this- being a blushy mess, because of Han, nonetheless. It was dizzying you, how things took the complete opposite turn between you and him.

At least, back then you weren't alone in your hate, you couldn't stand being alone in your affection.

So, you'd stop this, whatever feeling that's coursing through you. Tomorrow, you will firmly close the door on the blooming feelings within you. But tonight, you’d both lay on the same bed, arms brushing against one another. It's completely dark and quiet, but there is an entire symphony playing within you.

"Thank you for today," he whispers, turning around and tucking his arm under his head, this way he's facing you.

You mirror his actions, and your fingertips brush against one another. You can't see him but you can feel him. He's everywhere, wrapping around all your senses. 

"Thank you for making this song. It's very comforting to me."

"Why is that?" he questions, inching closer to you, you can feel his minty breath fan all over your face.

"I’ve always felt like I carried too many emotions within me. Like a volcano, bubbling over until the day I explode. I never liked feeling this way, so I tried to hide it," you confess softly.

"Like a secret secret."

"Like a secret secret," you repeat, glad that he understands.

"You don't have to hide with me," he says after a few silent beats, and you swallow nervously.

"I know." you lick your lips as the music inside you grows louder. "Still cold?"

"A little."

"Come closer," you beckon, and he complies instantly, wrapping his arm behind your back and drawing your chest close to his. Your legs entangle with one another, as your face lays on the crook of his neck. It's intimate, far more than any time you've done it before. You don't want to sink in his hold in fear of never resurfacing again.

"Good?" he asks, voice tinged with a newfound raspiness. 

"Mm," you hum, and he releases a relieved sigh.

You've once read that everything in this universe sings. Every atom's vibration creates a sound, contributing to a grand celestial chorus. It's an unscientific, but lovely thought, to wonder who our hearts sing for.

Right now, it's for Han.

☄༄

The music echoes through your being, an ever-present melody that refuses to fade into silence. Even with no audience to enjoy it.

Han always found his way back to your side, no matter how many times you've tried to distance yourself from him. And you couldn't bring yourself to refuse him, because you were friends, first and foremost. And friends don't abandon one another just because a mere glance at them sprouts a blush across your cheeks. 

That's how you find yourself on your way to Han's dorm, for the third time that week. Watching movies together has become your little tradition, for the past few months, and sometimes even Chan joins in. Although he mostly enjoys shooting you a knowing smile, to which you flip him off.

Your phone rings and Han's name illuminates your screen. You smile against your will.

"Can't wait to see me this much?" you singsong and Han's chuckle rings through the phone. It's rich and deep, causing you to tighten your hold on the device.

"Yes. And can you please go to the store? I'm out of snacks."

"What do I get out of it?" you muse, changing directions to the nearest convenience store.

"Snacks."

"Asshole," you giggle on your way to cross the road.

"And my eternal gratitude of course."

"Right, because I can't-" Loud tires screech right beside you and you startle, letting out a loud yelp as you drop your phone.

A hand on top of your heart, you bend down to pick up your fallen device, as the driver gets out of the car that grazed your body, mere inches away from hitting you. 

"Are you okay, miss? I'm sorry I didn't see you." The middle-aged man is quick to your side, and you glance at the small kid in his car, willing yourself to calm down for their sake.

"I'm fine. Just a bit startled. Drive more slowly, there is a kid with you."

"I know, I'm sorry," he drags a hand through his stressed features and you couldn't help but feel sympathy for him. "It's okay, don't worry about it. Just pay more attention to the road, okay?"

"Thank you so much. Thank you," he clasps his hand in gratitude before getting back to his car and you wave him off, your heart still wildly beating in your chest.

You head into the convenience store, picking up the snacks you know Han loves before paying for them. But as soon as you step back outside, you spot a disheveled Han crossing the road, sprinting toward the store. His pace quickens upon spotting you.

"What are you..." your question is cut short as his arms wrap around you, pulling you to his chest instantly. You can feel the frantic rhythm of his heart, and you're confused as he pulls away, hands cradling your cheeks and turning your face left and right.

"You're alright, nothing happened to you, right? You’re okay?" he inquires urgently and you let out a confused giggle, as you grab his arm to steady him.

"What are you talking about?"

"I heard the tires screech and you yelled and then you didn't pick up when I called and I thought-" his voice cracks. "I thought something happened to you."

"No, no. I'm okay. Nothing happened, I promise." you reassure, as he brings you to his chest once again, his hand smoothing the top of your hair.

"I was so scared," he kisses your temple, as his thumping heart resounds within your chest. "So terrified that something would happen to you. I thought I'd lose my mind."

"You don't mean that," you shake your head slowly, peeling yourself away from him.

"Can you really not see how much I care about you? How I crave being near you?" his voice raises a slight octave. The music in you picks up.

"How long do I have to pretend to be cold to have you nearby? For god's sake, I'm never cold around you, yn. When I see you, I ignite." He takes in a deep breath, pressing his forehead onto your shoulder. "And I... I couldn't have lived with myself if something happened to you. I... You drive me crazy, Yn. When we became friends it felt like I was stepping inside a home for the first time, and yet I already knew each turn in it."

He grabs your arms, shaking you slightly as his chest heaves up and down. "My darkness recognizes yours and my light is you and you- you think I wouldn't care if anything happened to you?"

He shakes his head as tears prickle in the corners of his eyes. Has his music always been this loud, were you just not listening properly?

"I'm scared because we didn't start well and I understand if a part of your heart still resents me, I do. But I don't think I can pretend anymore. Not with you," his voice softens as his gaze locks on yours.

"Were you pretending too?" He asks, hope dripping from his tone. "Do you feel it too?"

A split second goes by. A candle flickering somewhere. A dandelion plucked from the ground. The shadow of a cloud passing over the sun- and you pick.

"I feel it too. So much that my heart feels like it’s singing for you, Han."

"I'll sing for it in return," he whispers, before crashing his lips onto yours. His hand slides up the back of your neck, drawing you closer. You drop the bags of groceries as you cradle his cheeks, feeling them warm up beneath your touch. You can't believe you've ever disliked your heart for feeling too much, not when the lovely emotions flowing in your heart threaten to burst it at the seams, submerging you in a warmth you've never known before- Han. 

Two months later

You have 3 new messages from: hannie

"kept this song a secret from you baby but i wrote it for you so you can't be mad"

"i don't know if you remember but you’ve once told me that you are a volcano. as if that’s something that’s supposed to put me off. well, some people dedicate their lives to studying volcanos. and i would dedicate mine to learning you."

"Volcano.mp3."

Light.

[ghostbsuter]

"What exactly are halfas?" Constantine asks, cigarette lit and leaning against the table.

They were in the justice league, having attended a meeting previously and now just lazed around.

Batman loses focus on his laptop screen and openly looks at the two, interested.

Green Lantern, Hal, jerks up at the question, looking between everyone still in the room and trying (and failing) to seem uninterested.

Zatara is glaring daggers at Constantine's back, eyes narrowed.

While flash had no context, having just arrived back with his food to sit with the rest, he appropriately tenses as well, from just one glance around the room.

Superman and Wonder woman aren't different from batman, not as discreet as some are trying to be and just staring at the two.

Slightly amused, Danny decided to entertain the question.

"Unlike ghosts and the undead, halfas are created and not born." He explains, looking at the man when he writes it down.

Who knew the infinity realm were this closed off that John Constantine had to get information from the source itself just to keep updated?

"Care to elaborate?"

Clicking his tongue, he does so.

"Halfas get created during extreme circumstances, it has to be right place, right time and correct amount of ectoplasm." Danny catches the lollipop that Batman throws at him, sending the bat a quick smile.

"Not everyone can become a halfa, our race is a rarity amongst the dead."Constantine raises a brow, pursing his lips. "There are only 3 of you right? Is that a normal amount in the realms?"

Another click. "No, thousands of years ago, when our kind reached its peak of over hundreds of people, Pariah Dark happened."

He briefly shares a glance with Martian Manhunter, he wonders if anyone here sent out a message of phantom story time? Why were they all lounging around?

"It was genocide. He killed off an entire species just because he felt threatened." He shrugs.

Constantine jolts, eyes clear as if he'd just connected the dots.

"So his downfall wasn't only because of rights of conquest but— the reason no one joined nor fought between you and the old King was because it was a revenge kill."

Danny ponders the words over, nodding. Yeah that sounds right.

"Many aren't surprised that Pariah Dark went berserk. It was kind of predictable, considering his soul was brought to the Infinity Realms after he'd died in the Phantom Zone as you know it."

Hal straightens up, Batman tenses and Diana leans forward.

"This previous King of yours– he was a past prisoner of Aethyr's Mind?"

The halfa nods, uncertain now that he'd stumbled upon unknown territory.

"Yes, the Phantom Zone and the Infinity Realms are sister spaces. Were you not aware?"

They were not, he quickly finds out.

Fumbling with his words, mind working overdrive as he sorts through information, he speaks again. "They are the two sides of the same coin, Phantom Zone being non-habitable while the Ghost Zone is filled with unalive."

He briefly struggles with his words, genuinely taken off guard with the lack of knowledge.

"Aethyr isn't just a being, but someone who is connected to the realm itself. Its similar to my position as King of the ghost zone." He summons his crown of ice to simple gesture.

"Besides! Phantom Zone, Zero Zone? Anti-infinite? That's literally the opposite of the Ghost Zone, the Infinite Realms!" he exclaims, throwing his hands up.

"Could you tell us more of your realm?" Superman asks, voice gentle and non threatening. "Some of us have been in the Phantom Zone, so hearing that there is a place being the complete opposite?"

The halfa nods in understanding. "Sure, why not?"

Three simple words yet everyone feels the trust put on them with such information.

"The entire realm is an ever shifting space, we categorise eith the sectors of each afterlife. From the Greeks to the Yetis and different eras."

—

(The tale of his realm lasts longer than expected, it is only when Hal started to get ready to leave does Danny address a certain area in his zone.

"The... Emerald Space is also a sector of the Infinity realm. The sector itself is formed in a sphere like form, we aren't sure what's inside since the fallen lanterns keep to themselves rather."

Hal froze, eyes catching the ghosts, and looked away again. He'd tell OA of this, but now he was going home.

Danny watched him leave and declared it down for now, free for more question the next time and left just as fast.

At least Constantine and Zatara can update their books now.)

[hannya-writes]

Bonus Stage

Title: Bonus Stage

Fandom: Solo leveling

Pairing: Sung Jin Woo x Reader

Other characters: none

Category: romance? Alternative stories

Warnings: violence I guess but I feel like it is not very… violent. Also, there's some spoilers if you have only watched the anime.

Author's note: it's been a long time since I last posted something, hope is enjoyable!

• • •

When the system offered Sung Jin woo an optional bonus stage he didn't doubt it, he just accepted. It was logical, he had promised himself that he was going to use the system instead of being used by the system. He wanted to level up, get to the top.

For a fraction of a second Jin Woo felt like he was falling, in the next blink he was again in that twisted and destroyed version of seoul, only this time there was not a single building standing just rubble from the destruction, making hills.

Then he saw it, a big and magnificent throne over the biggest hill. There was someone there, sleeping on the throne.

Jin Woo got closer and closer, as he was at a couple of meters away he noticed the white dragon sleeping at the feet of that person, like an obedient dog. It was Kaisel, the same dragon he had killed before and made come back as a shadow.

Then there was the woman on the throne, fully dressed as a knight, it reminded him of Igris but this one was clearly a woman and her helmet had a crown on top.

He stepped closer and the eyes of the knight shone bright in the darkness of the helmet.

“Queen of the end lv.???” said the label that floated over her head.

Jin Woo felt a chilly air and out of pure instinct he defended himself with his daggers.

Clank. The sword of the knight of the end clashed with his dagger. He hadn't even seen her move, a Shield appeared in her free arm and she pressed forward. Jin Woo backed away but the king went after him, shoving the shield in his visual field hiding the sword she tried to thrust in his heart.

Clank, clank, clank. The weapons clashed violently, over and over again, every time Jin Woo thought he had found a weakness it was a trap worse? Those were weaknesses she covered right in time.

Jin Woo finally called upon Igris but instead of a final blow his first commander merely took away the helmed of the king.

Jin Woo recognized immediately the woman in front of him, she had her hair a bit longer and messy than he remembered, her skin looked like that of a corpse but her eyes were just like he remembered.

It was you. His first and only girlfriend, the person who had believed in him even when he was called the weakest. The reason why people asked him for romantic advice thinking he was somehow good at flirting or something like that, because how did the weakest hunter managed to date a beautiful S-rank hunter like you. But you had died 5 years ago, you had sacrificed yourself to save the rest of your party from an extremely dangerous dungeon.

It was a test, a trap to make him fail.

Jin Woo groaned, he never thought the system could do something so sophisticated and stupid, he was supposed to doubt? Wrong, seeing you only made him angry. He wasn't going to doubt, he was going to kill that mimicking beast.

When he finally gave the killing blow, Jin woo looked at the monster and waited, waited for the transformation to disappear but the knight body stayed in its place.

— Arise — he ordered and the soul of the creature took form with dark colors but your face stayed in it. Your eyes opened and Jin Woo frowned at his own decisions. What was he thinking?

— Jin woo? — your voice came from the thing making him look at you confused, you glitched like the system sometimes did and — master— you corrected yourself, still glitching.

Assign a name for Swordmaster. Announced the system and Jin woo looked at the creature with attention, her expression was between a serious look and a worried one with the glitches.

He opened his mouth to say your name but before he could speak the space was filled with your name and the blue screen glitched in to accept.

Your stats were so high, the title of Swordmaster was something he hadn't seen but you were not at your top level.

He wondered, if maybe you were really you but from an alternative dimension. If he was right… would you be able to talk like Beru when you leveled up? Would you… would you be able to stay with him?

Your hand touched his cheek and your cold gaze turned warm, soft, caring.

Yes, he knew you would and then you would tell him how you ended in that bonus stage and why you were the queen of the end.

[clairewritesfanfics]

Villain Creation System Chapter 1

Pairing/s: Invincible x Reader x Invincible Variants

Synopsis:

You died. Literally. The process itself was nothing special. The interesting part is what happened after. Instead of the abyss or paradise, a mysterious voice strikes up a deal with you in front of your fresh corpse.

[I am the Villain Creation System, if you want a second chance at life, then you must corrupt the souls of various Mark Graysons across the multiverse.] “Do I have a choice?” [Of course! Agree to our terms, or spend the rest of eternity alone and conscious of your own nonexistence, unable to move on to the next life and barred from what your ilk calls Heaven.] [ ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ ] “...okay, sold.” [Yay!]

You successfully destroyed the lives of different versions of Mark Grayson, but when it's time to claim your prize, something goes wrong and you are stuck in this godforsaken timeline. What's worse was that they have found you.

"Come with me and we will rule the universe together." "Be my wife and bear my children. No harm will ever come to you." "After you died, no one could compare to you, not even your own corpse."

You: (•_•)

Trigger Warnings: you are literally dead, death in general, dark humor (e.g. necrophilia jokes), innuendos, mild swearing, mentions of violence and bodily harm, toxic relationships, the Marks are their own warning

The problem began when you died. 

You didn’t save a kid from a speeding truck or get murdered, no, you died just as you lived: in a remarkably boring, somewhat embarrassing fashion. You fell down the stairs.

In your defence, you just finished a brutal exam and your Red Bull:Coffee cocktail could only do so much for a brain running on 2 hours of sleep. Your eyelids were barely holding on. You didn’t see the “wet floor” sign, slipped and cracked your head on the bottom steps of the stairs. 

On the bright side, you didn’t have to study anymore. On the other hand, you were young, barely half a century old, you had a bucket list that reached the triple digits but you only got to cross out five things. You didn’t get your dream job. You didn’t even purchase your own house yet, never painted and decorated it the way you wanted. You haven’t said your goodbyes. You haven’t experienced love, real, actual, can’t-live-without love.

It wasn’t fair. You always knew that life was unfair, but it was only when you died did it really hit you. You wanted so much more. 

You stared at your corpse, with its elbows and knees twisting into awkward positions, growing colder and stiffer by the second. 

Life wasn’t fair, you knew this. But it wasn’t until you saw yourself at the bottom of the stairs did you realize that life was a bitch. 

Now, there was only one question left. Where do I go from here?

You weren’t an exceptionally good person, but you really hoped you weren't going to end up in Hell. 

Before you could fear for your eternal soul, a disembodied voice, as robotic as it was sweet, greeted you with all the cheer of a kindergarten teacher: [Congratulations on your death! You are the first person to be chosen by the Villain Creation System!]

“...”

[I can tell from that dumbfounded expression that you are confused. Please, let this system explain. Open up your ear holes because I will not repeat myself!]

The thing cleared its throat and a light screen hovered over your dead body, displaying a series of stick figure illustrations.

[As your ancestors have found out, most souls are moved to limbo after death, where they are judged.]

The stick figure in this ridiculous powerpoint presentation died, had its soul enter what seemed to be a judicial court, and was presented with two doors. 

[Depending on the verdict, the soul may reincarnate as another human or a different species, or if they’ve fulfilled all the requirements, they can enter Paradise.] 

A third door appeared between the existing two.

[In special cases, one soul out of 300 trillion is chosen to bind with systems such as I. You already know, but let me reintroduce myself, I am Villain Creation System No. 00001. You see, many fictional worlds are very much real and alive in their own pocket universes. It is a system’s job to ensure a safe and steady existence, preventing the collapse of each dimension.]

The third door moved towards you and you found yourself floating in what resembled the vacuum of space, surrounded by infinite light projections of the Milky Way. 

[Unlike your reality, these special worlds live closely to the void, because its creators–its writers tend to be finite creatures, mere mortals cosplaying as gods.]

One by one, each galaxy turned to dust and you were back at the bottom of the stairs, standing right next to your dead body.

“I think I’ve read about this before…” When you used to have a lot of free time, you would binge read Chinese web novels about protagonists who jumped from world to world, completing tasks and granting wishes, whether it be getting back at cheating husbands or avenging dead relatives. 

“I have several questions.”

[It would be odd if you didn’t.]

This thing sure could talk. “Why me?”

[You mortals truly do love that question.] The thing sighed, as though it was shaking its head at you that very moment. [There’s nothing special about you, if that’s what you’re thinking. We rolled a hypothetical die and got you.]

“ Okay.” Ow. It wasn’t like you believed in life having inherent meaning, but to be outright told by a supernatural creature that you weren’t special still stung.

You pushed the feelings of hurt aside and asked, “Why do you exist? What’s the point?”

[What a boring question. If I told you that “it is fate,” will that be enough? If I say that it is “merely for a petty god’s entertainment,” will you be satisfied? Please don’t bother yourself with such questions, you will only end up hurting your own head.]

“I feel like I’m being insulted.”

[Surely, you’re imagining it.]

You inhaled, more out of habit than anything else because your lungs were decorative now. You calmed yourself. You’d rather not piss off a mysterious entity that seemed happy with your death and had souls dancing at the palm of its nonexistent hands. “All right. What do I have to do?”

[It’s just as my name suggests, you will be sent to different so-called fictional worlds to help create the villains, after all, what’s a story without a great villain? That is a rhetorical question, by the way.]

“You make it sound so simple.” Creating villains, huh. You have watched enough cartoons, read enough books to know that there would be a lot of pain involved. 

[Ding. Allow me to add: your efforts will not go unrewarded; should you complete your tasks, the Almighty One will grant you a redo in your life. If you do everything perfectly, THEY might even give you special privileges.]

“Such as?”

[In addition to your rebirth, you could freely modify your appearance to your liking, or you may ask for knowledge unparalleled in your generation.]

You glanced down at your feet. The blood from your broken skull pooled around you as you weighed your options.

“Do I have a choice?”

[Of course! Agree to our terms, or spend the rest of eternity alone and conscious of your own nonexistence, unable to move on to the next life and barred from what your ilk calls Heaven.] 

[  ˶ˆᗜˆ˵  ]

“...okay, sold.”

[Yay!]

A second chance at life. 

Divine boons, to boot.

It sounded way too good to be true. If anything, rather than speaking with an agent of God (or God’s equivalent) you felt like you were about to shake hands with the Devil.

You totally should have known better. 

The whole thing was fishy from beginning to end, but what else was there to do? Pray?

***

[Mark Grayson of Alternative Universe No. 444 has achieved 100% Darkening. A villain is born.]

[Congratulations on another successful corruption, Host!]

This version of Mark pulled you into his arms. Those who hurt you have become meat paste on the ground around him. 

He touched your cheek, begged you to stay with tears falling like rain on your lashes. It was too late. Often, he was too late. 

“Please,” he cried, holding your face. “Please come back to me.”

You couldn’t even if you wanted to. The system pulled on your soul like the tide returning to the sea. 

[Initiating extraction … ]

[Prepare for a meeting with the Main System. We will calculate your grade and remaining reward points then.]

Finally… You could go back home. You already knew what you were going to ask first, a memory wipe before your second chance. You used your reward points early on and bought a “system cheat” to help alleviate the guilt of everything you’ve done, along with something to diminish the weight of certain emotions, but these cheat codes couldn’t be transferred to your world, the real world.

[ERROR. ERROR.]

Pain shot through every nerve and cut through every vein of your soul. This has never happened before. You writhed in the void until–

Your eyes shot open.

You gasped and sat up. Your heart hammered in your chest and you struggled to regulate your breathing. 

You looked around you. A bedroom. Your bedroom. One of its many variations. 

“What’s going on?!” You demanded from your system. 

You were done. You had just finished your last mission, the final Mark Grayson had been converted, and the system promised that it would send you to speak with its boss and its boss’ boss. You were finally going to get your second chance, free yourself from this damned multiverse. 

However, when you opened your eyes after the extraction process, you could instantly tell that something was wrong.

For one thing, you have awoken in this same bedroom in at least three other parallel dimensions. The posters and pictures on the walls might’ve changed and the bed was next to the window instead of the door, but you knew that this was your room in the many worlds of Invincible.

You yelled at the air and in your mind, “Zero-One? Zero-One, where the hell are you? Hey!” 

No answer.

You fell forward and screamed into your mattress.

You should have prayed. 

Chapter 2: Coming soon

Author's note: As someone who still hasn't finished two other works about world-hopping, I feel a bit ashamed (it's been over three years T.T) but YOU CANNOT STOP ME. Anyway, I shouldn't be doing this, but the hyperfixation gods have their claws deep in my shoulders and I can't study without publishing at least the first chapter. For those who have read my Origin series for the Mark Variants, you may or may not think of this as its direct sequel. I got a crappy memory so continuation would be hard to keep up with. But if you have any questions, feel free to message me. For those who read by my Obey Me fanfic, yeah, this system and the Secondary Character Grievance Delivery System are basically co-workers, lol.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Judy Garland (Meet Me In St. Louis, A Star is Born, Summer Stock)— Judy is the GOAT when it comes to classic movie musicals. The voice of an angel who deserved so much better than she got. She can sing she can dance she can act she's a triple threat. Though she had a turbulent personal life (her treatment as a child star by the studio system makes me mad as hell like Louis b Mayer fight me ((she was made to believe that she was physically unattractive by the constant criticism of film executives who made her feel ugly and who manipulated her onscreen appearance by capping her teeth and using discs in her nose to change its shape and Mayer called her "my little hunchback" like imagine hearing that as a child and not having damage)) she always goddamn delivered on screen and in any performance she gave. She began in vaudeville performing with her sisters and was signed to MGM at 13. Starting out in supporting parts especially paired with mickey Rooney in a bunch of films (she's the best part tbh) she eventually transferred to the lead role. She is best known for her starring role in movie musicals like the iconic Wizard of Oz (somewhere over the rainbow still hits hard and is ranked the top film song of all time), meet me in St. Louis (Judy singing have your self a merry little Christmas brings tears to the eyes she is that powerful), the Harvey girls (she looks like a technicolor dream and sings a catchy af song about trains), Easter parade ( dancing and singing with Fred Astaire), for me and my gal, the pirate, and summer stock ( with pal Gene Kelly who she helped when he was starting out and he helped her when she was struggling). But she also does non- singing just as well like the clock ( her first movie where she sings no songs and is an underrated ww2 era romance), her Oscar nominated a star is born ( like the man that got away she put her whole soul in that and I have beef with the fact she lost to grace kelly ((whom I love but like still not even her best work)), and judgement at Nuremberg (a courtroom drama about the nazi war criminal trials). Outside of film she made concert appearances to record-breaking audiences, released 8 studio albums, and had her own Emmy-nominated tv series. She was the youngest (39) and first female recipient of the Cecil B DeMille award for lifetime achievement in the film industry. Girl was a lifelong democrat and was a financial and moral supporter of many causes including the civil rights movement (she was at the March on Washington and held a press conference to protest the 16th street Baptist church bombings). She was a friend of the Kennedy family and would call jfk weekly often ending the calls by singing the first few lines of somewhere over the rainbow (she thought of them as Gemini twins).She was a member of the committee for the first amendment which was formed in response to the HUAC investigations. Though she died far too young and tragically she remains an icon for her work and her life. As a girl who didn't feel like i was as pretty as everyone else I have always felt a connection to Judy and I just really love her.

Natalie Wood (West Side Story, The Great Race)—She went through so much shit which I know can be said for all these women but Natalie really was a star and her death often overshadows her career and life. She could make you cry, but she also had the capacity to be incredibly funny which I think is lost on people.

This is round 4 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Natalie Wood:

Judy Garland:

Judy's voice alone qualifies her for at least top ten hottest HOT VINTAGE MOVIE WOMEN. She was a truly incredible swing singer, with a stunning voice on top of her technique. Her short dark hair looked incredible in just about any style. Have I mentioned her swagger? I can’t do it justice with words. She had swagger. She was funny as hell, and clever too. Incredibly charming and cool. I adore her.

Her eyes, her voice have bewitched me

I mean how can you beat the one and only Judy? She's beautiful, her smile is contagious, the way she sings with her whole body. You can't help but love her.

Beautiful woman, love her singing voice. And she can do everything between happy or silly and angry or heartbroken

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: you'd never been shy about sharing what you knew about the dead. to hide in plain sight was a decision you'd made behind your mother's back, all while respecting the warning she'd given you those many years ago. because, really, who would believe you?

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

tysm for all the love u guys 😭

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.2

It was the first real day of spring, the sun shining and the breeze warm, and Mathilda had coaxed you and Xavier outside for lunch. You sat in the grass beside the bleachers and were lazily watching the football team run drills when you spotted Maddie and Simon.

They joined you when you waved them over, closing the circle, Maddie beside Xavier and Simon beside her putting him to your left.

You'd seen the way Maddie and Xavier looked at each other, bashful glances and pink cheeks when they thought no one noticed. They'd been cute for each other since you'd gone to the Gorrorcon screening of Grindhouse as a group last month. It was rare that Xavier tagged along for the gory movies, but as soon as you'd mentioned Maddie's name, he hadn't needed much convincing.

While the others chatted idly, your attention drifted, tracking a footballer who appeared to be coaching a boy dressed head to toe in denim. The boy looked uncomfortable on the field, held the football like it was a baby he might drop, and grimaced when the footballer jogged backward a few yards and signaled for the ball.

You knew who they were. Knew you shouldn't be casual about witnessing a moment they thought was theirs. Only, you couldn't help yourself. The footballer was beautiful. Not just hot or sexy or handsome. Beautiful. With dark, fluffy hair and soulful eyes that you wished softened for you the way Xavier's did for Maddie.

Wally Clark, stadium namesake, died doing what he loved.

Even from afar, you could see the way the muscles in his arms bunched when he tossed the ball, had to wet your lips when his shirt rose to reveal a pale stripe of skin. Instead of the sweatpants he usually donned, he wore shorts that, in different circumstances, would've earned Wally a dress code violation. Barely there, they clung to him like paint on a canvas, accentuating the curve of his ass and thickness of his furry thighs.

Have mercy...

"Leave our sweet flower alone, you know she's saving herself," Mathilda said, pulling your attention back to the conversation happening around you.

Whatever comment she'd responded to, it had to have been about your virginity. A realization you shook your head at while Mathilda made herself the picture of an angel. It was one of several tactics your friend group employed to violently drag you back to earth whenever your head was in the clouds.

Xavier chuckled and nudged Mathilda's shoulder with his.

"What I miss?" You asked, glancing between the others, still a little dazed by the image Wally made on the field.

Unfortunately, Simon didn't know the rules and, curiosity piqued, asked, "Are you really?"

"Am I really what? Saving myself?" Simon nodded. You grinned, shameless, and stretched your arms above your head as if embracing the sky, "Of course I am," then dropped backward to lie on the grass.

That wasn't entirely true. Simply, your virginity wasn't something you ruminated on, having never been in a relationship, but you'd also long since accepted that you couldn't do what Mathilda had done, finding an interested partner at a concert and losing it for the sake of getting it over with. "I'm surprised Tilly didn't tell you."

Mathilda scoffed, "About your ghost?"

"Ghost?" Now Maddie was intrigued, glancing between you, Mathilda, and Xavier, seeking answers. "You're saving yourself for a ghost?"

You rolled your head toward her and winked through your aviators, laughing lightly at her shocked expression. You could tell she wasn't sure what to make of it, hovering between interested in hearing what the hell you meant by that and concerned that you were that delusional.

"So, you wanna die a virgin, got it." Simon turned to look you in the eye, expression straight for all of three seconds before he started to shake with laughter.

You sat up and swatted at him; he grabbed your wrist and dragged you to his chest, giving him the angle he needed to grind his knuckles against your scalp. He released you when you shrieked and dug your elbow into his stomach.

Once you'd both settled, "How would that even work?" Maddie wondered, raising a hand to list her thoughts on her fingers, "I mean, a) say you guys can get physical, would it be like sleeping with a corpse?" Ew. God. "And b) don't ghosts haunt the places they died? So, if there was a ghost here, you guys would have to do it in a classroom or...the janitor's closet—" "Another nail in the coffin of Romance." Xavier said. You were surprised and somewhat gleeful that Maddie was willing to lend genuine consideration to such an absurd topic, to the point you didn't see the harm in revealing, "Actually, ghosts can roam as far and wide as they want. They aren't confined the way we are. I mean, they could get stuck in a loop if their death was that traumatic, but, for the most part," You smiled at her, "Ghosts can haunt wherever their spooky little hearts desire."

It's not as if anyone really gave credence to the things you said, anyway. Proven when Simon launched into a tirade that drew a lot of inspiration from a show in the Flanaverse.

Hide in plain sight. An idea you'd concocted when the witchcore revolution had exploded on tiktok, alt kids everywhere boasting a collection of healing crystals and excusing their behavior on Mercury Retrograde. Even your mother had taken advantage of the era, promoting her services via heavily filtered videos she had your sister film.

As far as everyone was concerned, your weird ghost lore was a matter of personal opinion and not the result of your family's unique and extensive library.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

"Now what?" Simon asked, phone pressed to his ear as he watched you retreat into the school. Probably questioning his sanity with every step after the conversation he'd just had with you.

"I don't know." Maddie admitted, picking her nails, "I really needed to believe it was true." Even though, before she'd died, Maddie had been skeptical about your sense of the supernatural.

While you'd been in the bus shelter with them, Maddie had argued at Simon to confide in you about his ability to see her. Thought, prayed, that you were perhaps too afraid to admit you could see her, too. Only, it'd become increasingly clear that you weren't faking how Maddie didn't exist in that moment with you at all.

Maddie's chin fell to her chest, eyes sullen. "She had no idea I was right here, I—" She groaned roughly and fell back against the glass, hands scrubbing her face. "—I don't know what I thought she could do to help, I just..." Hoped you'd have answers; maybe had a way of getting Maddie unstuck so she could roam further than the boundaries of the school grounds.

Too bad it was, as you'd put it, a fraud.

Simon itched to console Maddie, hated that he couldn't. He could tell she was conflicted, emotions warring between sadness and anger and resentment. You'd let her down, whether or not you'd meant to, and it stung.

"Hey," Simon said, trying to infuse some positivity into his tone, "We'll figure something out. Until then, I'll just keep doing the heavy lifting."

Maddie turned her head and regarded him softly, "I don't want to keep putting you in situations like that." She remembered Mr. Anderson manifesting behind Simon that night in autoshop, a tinge of menace in his demeanor, and winced.

"It's not like I have anything better to do." Simon shrugged and gave what amounted to a smile, "I got all this free time since my best friend went missing."

A pungent silence crept in and hung in the air between them, neither willing to address that went missing was putting a delusional spin on it.

💀___________________________

PART ONE - PART THREE

also available on AO3!

MATERLIST

[sulumuns-dootah]

WHB demons as that one Dark Souls 'You Died' meme

⟡ Masterlist ⟡ 

A/N: I love getting post ideas at 3AM while scrolling pinterest :D

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Minhyeok (about MC)

       ༺☆༻

Paimon

       ༺☆༻

Asmodeus

       ༺☆༻

Any angel

       ༺☆༻

Naberius /Buer

       ༺☆༻

Those Beel and Bael cats from HBD Beel home screen

       ༺☆༻

Gamigin

       ༺☆༻

Ronove

       ༺☆༻

Beelzebub

       ༺☆༻

[bewwy1455]

When they first meet, they are both running.

Running. That was all that she was good at. Running away from all of her problems, her fears, her dreams. Running was just easier than facing whatever was chasing her. From the small body in her arms, to the sounds of yells from the distance, to even the warmth of a fire, she never stopped.

She never stayed in one place for long. She never stayed with other people for long either. Somehow, someway, she was always running. Maybe that was her curse.

She heard about the stories of a blue hedgehog who also never stopped running. Who would save people, who was just as much of a hero as he was a mystery. She didn’t know his name, but she knew he was the reason it was like this here.

“Grab it!” They yelled. “Don’t let it get away!” They would say. Hands reaching out to grab her arms and legs, to take her to the darkness where they hide.

It. That’s what they called her. She wanted to pretend that she didn’t know why they would call her that, but she did know. She was foreign to them. The creatures, humans as she knows, of this world despise anything that they didn’t know. It was part of their nature. Fear what they don’t understand.

Running, running, running, she never stopped. Even as she pulled out the ring from her pouch, even as she whispered, begged for a safe place on this planet, even as she ran through and she was falling. Yes, even then, she didn’t stop running.

~

He didn’t understand why he ran, or did run. Perhaps he was running right now. Though not physically. He worked his body, his brain, his heart, everything to make sure he did not think about what it all meant. The moments when the Doctor was still around that haunt his body and soul.

Even when he cleaned the place, trashed the old stuff, ran from the thought of cleaning what the Doctor last left, he found the place just reminded him.

The moments where the Doctor was open, his heart on his sleeve. When it was just him and the Doctor, watching stupid Tele-novelas and drinking coffee. When it was just them, nothing else mattered.

Now, nothing matters. The Doctor died, blowing up in space and leaving him. The words still echo through his head.

“Stone, you were more than a sycophant to me. You were... a syco-friend. I'll miss your lattes with steamed Austrian goat milk... I love the way you make them!”

The words, and their meaning was not lost on him. “I’ll miss you” and “I love you” ring the loudest, like bells. And from those chimes, he ran.

Why. Why did the Doctor have to die and his last announcement be that, a confession that came far too late. A question he ran from, every time it came to him.

Lost in thought, clicking away at the screens in front of him, the telltale sound of a ring opening sounded behind him. Followed soon after was a clunk and a thud. Sending a Badnik to scan, he found that what had fallen was alive, and conscious. Turning around and walking over, he found himself looking down at a small, pink hedgehog.

————————————————————————

This is not beta read at all and done on my phones notes app rip

Also, Amy is in her “I am still learning how to design her” phase, so please be patient with her appearance in a few posts

[facts-i-just-made-up]

Oh ye of infinite wisdom. Can you tell a poor, unenlightened soul what the first horror movie ever made was?

The oldest known horror film, now lost media, is an 1896 short by Eugénie Génin titled "The True House of the Devil."

With the birth of cinema came Georges Méliès, one of its first grand masters. Making dozens if not hundreds of science fiction and fantasy movies with his wife (Génin) he also made the first dark fantasy film, "The Devil's House," in 1896. However, this film is not what he and Génin originally conceived. She had originally written a far scarier movie, but Méliès considered it far too disturbing to make. He instead made his own version, similar to his more carnival exhibition style shorts of the time.

But Génin was happy with her original story, and borrowed his camera each night to film her own version. What she made is a bit of a mystery. Her scripts were burned in the Great Paris Flambé Accident of 1901, and the original film was screened only once and was then immediately destroyed due to the audience's reaction.

Film historian Flynn Asterion explains, "Génin's film, according to the only survivor who saw it, depicted a house with a pit that lead to hell, or perhaps another dimension, where a demonic guide showed the true nature of God and the Devil and the universe in such specificity and accuracy that the audience went insane."

Most of the audience died instantly, became demented and ate their own eyeballs, or ran screaming into the sewer and never returned. The only remaining viewer, Jean-Regarde Quinapas Mangéses Propresyeux, is said to have survived by running naked from the screening, shouting about the end of existence, and filling his socks with horse manure. Arrested soon after for not using the proper Chaussettes d'Excréments for the act, he slowly declined in prison and was never heard from again.

When Méliès learned of the disaster, he shut down all attempts at reproduction or preservation of Génin's film, and the film was lost.

Though this first horror movie was indeed so disturbing that it drove the audience mad, no movies in the 130 years since have matched its terrifying nature. There is good news however, as several viewers of Zack Snyder's upcoming "Rebel Moon" have had similar reactions, with some critics chewing off their own feet to escape the screening, despite their feet not having been restrained. Is a new master of disturbing cinema on the horizon? Only time will tell.

[irisintheafterglow]

to tell you is too scary (so I'll just say something else)

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ now playing: lizzy mcalpine - "pancakes for dinner"

summary: nightmares don't usually translate to reality, but you call sakusa for the first time in years. just to be safe.

wc: 1k

cw/tags: gn!reader and post-timeskip!sakusa, nightmare about a plane crash but nothing descriptive, angst/comfort with happy ending, childhood friends to lovers (??), dialogue-driven, he hates everyone but you

note: yayy first @ficsforgaza gift post for @froggiewonder17 !! i tried out a different layout for the top section of this post, lmk if y'all like it! thank you again for donating to help palestinian families, i hope you like this :)) my f4g masterpost can be found here!

likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated!

Your thumb trembles over the call button next to his contact, hovering and waiting for some unseen force to make you stop. Your hand keeps shaking, no matter how hard you try to stop it; the ravaged skin of your cuticles is stained with dried blood from your constant picking and scratching. Dread crashes again in a wave and you find yourself trapped under the water, gasping for air that wasn’t being inhaled. With a knot in your lungs, instinct takes over and taps your phone. 

The three ascending notes of the phone dialing his number sound far away and you unexpectedly heave out a choked sob. He’d probably changed his number or deleted yours. Maybe he would simply glance at the unknown caller ID and ignore it entirely, returning to his drink with all his teammates at the bar. You didn’t know him anymore. 

You didn’t know him anymore. 

Your palm slams onto the red circle and you curl into as tight of a ball as you can muster, disappearing into the corner of your bedroom. It’s stupid, calling him because of the first night terror you’d had in a decade. When you were kids, he was always your first call when your eyes flew open. I’m with you, I’ve got you, he said. He guided you when adrenaline turned into anxiety, when the void outside your window was unfathomably dark. He’d stay until your breathing evened into a sleeping rhythm and wouldn’t hang up until your phone died or you woke up the next morning. He was there every time you were drowning, and your soul didn’t know what to do without its safety ring except sink, 

and sink, 

and sink…

INCOMING CALL. 

CALLER ID: Kiyoomi💛💚

You stare at your phone screen illuminating the blankets like a beacon. Blinking once, then twice, you wait for it to disappear like a hallucination or a trick of your psyche. It doesn’t, and when you have half the mind to reach for your phone, the screen disappears. You’d missed the call. Maybe it was a trick of the mind? 

(1) MISSED CALL - Kiyoomi💛💚

INCOMING CALL.

CALLER ID: Kiyoomi💛💚

You’re faster this time, snatching your phone from the covers and swiping the “answer call” button to the side. It’s quiet on the other end of the line for a moment, but he’s there. He always was, wasn’t he?

“...Omi?”

“Hey,” he says gently. There’s faint noise in the background of where he is, sounds of conversations and telecom announcements. Even with the sound of rolling wheels, he’s still clear. “You called.” Fifty minutes away, Kiyoomi imagines you nodding in the silence, maybe wiping a stray tear with the corner of your fitted sheet. “You’re safe?” You hum a shaky mhmm, still unable to force out any words. He murmurs your name, coaxing you out of your tight ball. “I need to hear you say it.”

“I’m safe,” you reply after a breath. Based on your voice alone, he could tell the night terror happened no more than five minutes before you called. “I just–I’m sorry if I–”

“I’m here if you want to talk about it,” he reassures you, immediately shooting Atsumu a withering glare when he tries to dance up to Kiyoomi’s less busy part of the airport. The MSBY team’s international flight was canceled an hour ago, but he was still trying to figure out if he wanted to stay with his teammates at a closer hotel. The present situation felt, literally and metaphorically, like you were calling him home. 

“There was a plane,” you say in a broken whisper. He strains to hear your crackling voice and shakes his head adamantly when Bokuto and Hinata try to join Atsumu’s antics. Now was not the time to fuck around with him. “You were on it, and something went wrong, and it–There was an accident and…I just had to watch it happen. I had to watch it happen and I couldn’t do anything.” Your voice cracks and trails off, making Kiyoomi’s chest twist like a wrung towel. Your friendship was strained after Kiyoomi’s second Nationals, fading completely until there was nothing left when you graduated except photobooth strips from third grade. He kept your number, though, in case something like this ever happened. In case you needed him again or he needed you, he never decided.

“Are you–are you home right now?” Another broken mhmm. “Can I see you?”

“You’re not overseas?”

“I was supposed to be, as of an hour ago,” he admits, running an exasperated hand through his curls and straightening his track jacket collar. A flash of light catches the corner of his eye. Cameras, cameras, cameras, always. He clicks his tongue disapprovingly, continuing, “But, the flight got delayed and ultimately canceled because of maintenance issues. We’re probably gonna have to postpone the game.”

“I’m sorry, Omi.” You hear him shrug in that indifferent manner that always seemed to come down when he was with you. All his walls, actually, came down when he was with you. 

“I don’t care, honestly. My question still stands.” He swallows thickly, begging you to say yes for both of your sakes. When his phone showed your contact photo for the seven seconds you called, it awakened grief in him he thought he’d buried years ago. By all accounts, Sakusa Kiyoomi desperately missed you. “I can be there in an hour. I’ll take a car, I don’t care how much it costs.” 

“It’s–it’s fine, you really should stay with your team and rest,” you mutter, always the selfless one worrying about his well-being. You were too good to him, letting him cancel plans for training camps and tournaments, always letting him go. “I don’t want you missing another flight if it comes up.” 

Too bad that, when it came to you, Kiyoomi had decided long ago he’d always be selfish. 

“Say you need me and I will be there.” You don’t hesitate. 

“I need you here, Omi,” you murmur. He’s gone in seconds–mind, body, and soul. His body acted instinctually, running on nothing else but the sole purpose of getting home to you. With a wad of cash and an Olympic athlete’s intellect calculating the fastest way to reach you, he vows that you would never need to say you needed him again.

Because he’d say he needed you instead.

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)