#they got so much hurt/comfort in them i need a fic

[ellecdc]

Hey! I've recently joined tumblr and I'm obsessed with your poly!Marauders×fem!reader fics. They're so so sweet and it just heals something in me. I'm not entirely sure if you're taking any requests at the moment so if you aren't, please feel free to ignore this completely.

Um, i was wondering if you could write about the reader being pregnant and having a scare in the middle of her pregnancy that has them all worried about her and the baby(s? As you wish again) so they rush her to the hospital and their anxiety and relief and how they handle the situation would be sweet to see i feel.

I love me some angst before a happy ending, so feel free to make this as angsty as you wish, I would be more than happy to just have the opportunity to read your work on my prompt.

Thanks for reading, again no pressure to write this if you're uncomfy.

<3

so glad you've enjoyed my works! thanks for your request <3

poly!marauders x afab!reader who has a scare during her pregnancy [2k words]

CW: fem!reader, pregnancy fic, I'm not a doctor nor have I ever been pregnant myself so this is likely not entirely realistic - my apologies for any inaccuracies, reader notices bleeding about halfway through her pregnancy, first pregnancy so they're all very nervous and tense, hurt/comfort, everyone's fine

Your silence was perhaps the most concerning part in Sirius’ mind. 

You were slightly hysterical when you first called to the boys from the bathroom; your voice a few octaves higher and breathing somewhat erratically as you explained that you were spotting. 

Remus, ever the fixer, immediately went into diagnostic mode. Sirius wondered if that hadn’t ultimately contributed to some of your anxiety. How much blood? From where? Was it in your urine or external? Could he see? 

You seemed torn between being mortified that he wanted to see your pink tinged urine and horrified that you’d flushed before he had a chance to inspect it for you.

“That’s alright; hey, it’s okay dove. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He had assured you. You didn’t seem convinced. 

James insisted he carry you to the bedroom, and it was a testament to how freaked out you were that you actually let him, even though the edge of your shared bed was a mere 15 steps from the bathroom. 

James had you tucked into his side as he rubbed soothing stripes up and down your arms, a concerned divot making itself home between his brows as he volleyed questions back and forth with Remus who was quickly making some quick searches on his phone and you stared unseeingly at the carpeted floor. 

Sirius, ever the useless sod, stood with his arms crossed, gnawing on the skin surrounding the nail on his thumb as he kept his worried gaze locked on the side of your face. 

When he got off the phone with your obstetrician, Remus eventually suggested  - in his most calm, authoritative voice - that they take you to A&E. 

You haven’t said anything since. 

Sirius packed you a bag - just in case you needed to be admitted for an extended period of time - whilst James and Remus helped you put on your jacket and shoes before helping you into the car. Again, Sirius knew just how freaked out you were that you even let them fuss over you as such; the fact didn’t seem to be lost on Remus or James either, who shared a concerned glance over your head as James fastened your buckle and Remus shut your door. 

Sirius’ gaze kept darting to the rearview mirror where he could see James’ eyes on you as you kept your own gaze pointed out the window, watching the passing cars as you chewed on the quickly nearing raw skin of your lips. 

“Still feeling okay, dove?” Remus asked, feigning repose. You offered him a hum of quasi-confirmation. 

“We’ll get you all sorted out, angel. You’ve nothing to worry about, okay?” James assured you, clearly going for light and breezy, though his facade fell quickly when a breathy sob escaped you.

“Are you okay, dove?” Remus urged, turning nearly dangerously in his seat to face you. “Does anything hurt? Do you need us to pull over?”

“Remus…” Sirius warned, darting a nervous look to you and James in the rearview mirror.

“Can we just…stop talking? Please?” You begged, sounding so small as you hid behind your hands and rubbed harshly at the tears in your eyes. 

Remus and James both looked as though they wanted to argue the matter, but Sirius quickly agreed. “Of course, gorgeous. We’re almost there.”

Sirius could feel Remus’ helpless gaze settle onto the side of his face, and he casually reached over the console to place his hand on Remus’ thigh as he often did when Sirius drove, though this time he offered his knee a comforting squeeze. 

Remus let out a shuddering breath, and Sirius simply hoped you couldn’t hear it over the thundering of your pulse in your ears. 

He stole one more look at James and exchanged a sad smile with him before returning his attention to the road. 

The admission process passed by in a blur. Sirius sat in a chair with you as Remus spoke to the intake nurse and James paced nervously a few steps behind him. 

Sirius had no words to offer, but you had also been clear about the fact that you didn’t want any, so he simply held you tight and tried to infuse as much strength and love as he could through every point of contact his body made with yours, and prayed that it’d be enough. 

“So, Miss. L/N, this is your first pregnancy?” The doctor asked you as she looked down at the notes in your chart.

You cleared your throat before answering her. “That’s right.” 

“How far along are you?” 

“Twenty weeks.” You offered meekly, shooting a nervous look to Sirius who hoped his encouraging smile translated properly. “And two days.”

The doctor smiled at that. “Half way through. That’s great.” 

Though James tried to smile back, no one else in the room could bring themselves to share in the excitement. 

“So it says here you noticed some spotting. When did that start?”

“Just today,” you responded quickly, “it wasn’t…a lot. Sort of like…like the first day of a period, I suppose? Except…lighter in colour. I don’t know, I’m sorry, I’m not explaining this very well.” 

Sirius itched to reach out for your hand as you started to sound slightly panicked, but fought the urge. Remus hadn’t fought the urge; his hand was promptly shaken off of your form.

“No, that’s perfect. That was going to be my next question; how you would relate it to your cycle.” The doctor assured you. Sirius’ shoulders relaxed when he noticed you take a breath of relief, too. 

“Have there been any other concerns as of late? Any falls, any pain, any cramping?” 

You shook your head no at all of them.

“Okay, let’s take a look then, shall we?” She asked, and Remus supported you as you shuffled towards the head of the bed, this time without pushing him away. 

Sirius didn’t think it was possible to feel more anxious than he did that very first ultrasound after the two pink lines told the four of you that you were pregnant, but he wondered if maybe he couldn’t also ask for one of those plastic bucket things as he felt bile rising in his throat whilst waiting for the doctor to spread some of the gel onto your stomach and press the wand-like camera to the space just above your pelvis. 

It seemed as though the four of you were holding your breath as the doctor moved the camera around and you all tried to follow along with the images even though you really had no idea what you were looking at. 

And then Sirius saw it; a flutter.

“Well, you’re doing a wonderful job, mama.” The doctor said as she turned the monitor further to ensure you could see properly. “Your little one has a strong heartbeat, and they’re very active right now, can you feel them?” 

“Uhm,” You let out with a breathless chuckle, quickly bringing one of your hands up to rub at the tears quickly cascading down your face, “I’m not really sure. Maybe? But I thought maybe it was just nerves or butterflies.”

The doctor laughed in response with a nod of her head. “Yes, that’s often what people think of it as at first; butterflies or even like you’ve just had a fizzy drink.” 

You laughed in agreement, nerves still colouring your breathing as you kept your eyes glued to the monitor. 

Sirius was astounded by the fact that the baby looked so…human. The first few ultrasounds looked like an arbitrary blob that someone who had never seen a human before had a human described to them and then drew it based off of that description. But this…

He could see a neck, and a nose, and hands with little fingers, and the fluttering of a heartbeat he was so worried the bunch of you wouldn’t see. 

He felt a small cold spot on his chest, and when he looked down he realised he’d been crying. 

“Bleeding can sometimes happen during pregnancy; sometimes it’s as simple as hormonal changes or changes to your cervix, but it is always a good idea to get it checked with your healthcare provider.”

“We had spoken with her obstetrician prior to bringing her in.” Remus explained. “He suggested we bring her in just to be on the safe side.”

The doctor nodded in agreement before turning her attention back to her patient. “I’m glad you came in today, Miss. L/N. Your obstetrician probably wanted you to get looked at swiftly seeing as this was your first pregnancy and he didn’t want you to wait the weekend to get looked at. But this is a healthy baby and you’re clearly doing a wonderful job.”

You quickly covered your face as you began to cry in earnest, and Sirius couldn’t help it anymore. 

He perched himself on the edge of your bed and pulled you into his side as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “You’re okay, doll. You’ve done great; you’re doing great.” 

“I thought I was losing them.” You keened, small bump twitching in surprise when James made to wipe the gel off of your stomach. 

“I know, my love.” He assured you, watching Remus approach the bed once the doctor closed the door behind her. “I know, that was really scary.”

“I’m sorry.” You sniffled. 

“What are you sorry for, angel?” James asked, having since tossed the used paper towels as he took both of your hands in his. Remus clearly found that wholly unfair and quickly stole one of your hands to hold between both of his. 

“I don’t know…for scaring you all, for worrying you. For maybe hurting the-”

“That’s quite enough.” Sirius chided as he pulled you further into his side, glaring at James who looked like he, too, sort of wanted to squish you into his side. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing at all.” 

“Pregnancy is not easy, dove. Even if something had happened, it would have in no way been your fault. Okay?” Remus insisted, bending in an attempt to make eye contact with you when you refused to answer. “Do you hear me?”

“Yes.” You nearly wheezed, burrowing further into Sirius’ side; he let you. “Yes, I hear you.”

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” Remus relented, lifting your hand that he had in his to press a kiss to your knuckles. “I’m so glad that you’re both okay.”

“How do you feel about a bath, angel?” James asked then, quickly agreeing when Remus warned ‘not too hot’. “Maybe we could order some takeaway too? What are you feeling? We could pick up anything you want on our way home. If it’s not on our way home, I’ll drop you off and go get it myself. Would you like that?”

“James, how would you feel about a bath and ordering takeaway?” Sirius teased, eliciting a chuckle - albeit a wet one - from you under his shoulder. 

“Oh, I would love that.” James agreed readily, taking your hand that Remus relinquished in favour of packing your things back up and retrieving your shoes and jacket. 

“What do you think, doll? Think you feel up to joining Jamie in a warm bath with some take away?”

You pursed your lips as though considering it before rolling your eyes in faux concession. “Fine, I think I can manage.”

“My perfect girl.” James cheered, pressing a smacking kiss to your cheek. “Thank you, angel. I know that was a big ask.”

“Trying to get James to sit still for an extended period of time?” Remus asked as he held your jacket open for you, smoothing it over your shoulders as James and Sirius both put their own on too. “That really is a big ask.”

Sirius offered James a smile and a wink before taking his hand, thankful that James was more than willing to be the butt of the joke if it meant releasing some of the residual anxiety from your form by means of giggles.

Though Sirius knew that if James couldn’t bring himself to sit still for an extended period of time, especially after the scare you all had today, you had two more-than-willing partners who would quickly offer to take his place.

[det-agency]

payneland yule exchange 2024

@clementiiny

tw: bullying/abuse/ptsd/underage drinking

prompts: pre-canon, hurt/comfort, domestic vibes charles-centric fic

Charles eyes the space Edwin cleared out for him on their homemade bookshelf.

-------- ≪ ｡❅*⋆⍋⋆*❅｡ ≫ --------

It was funny at first, two ghosts were haunting an old abandoned building. Nestled in off streets on some abandoned development project in Southern England. He can remember when they first stumbled in on a mirror hopping exercise, and Edwin taught him how to concentrate so that he could help move the discarded clapboard pallets. The way the pressure built on his hand without the texture of the wood was so alien to him at the time. When the hastily nailed planks finally rose his eyes darted to Edwin automatically.

“Very good Charles,” his smile radiating in his voice and eyes.

“Thanks mate, I think i’m getting-”

The pressure dissipated instantaneously, the rush of sand colored boards falling in a blur and crashing so loud to reverberate in the unfurnished concrete building.

No one spoke or moved for a minute.

-------- ≪ ｡❅*⋆⍋⋆*❅｡ ≫ --------

Now two months have gone by and he has an empty shelf of the same discarded wood. Right next to Edwin’s growing collection of magical tomes and comics.

Somehow.

The sentiment is nice, but Charles isn’t much of a bibliophile. The last book he cracked open himself was probably Warriner’s English Grammar and Composition- complete course. If he had Edwin to read his coursework to him before his midterms- as well as the signs of faery possession- he might have had a better time retaining information.

He lets his mind fidget with the idea. Sneaking around to study with Edwin would have been loads more enjoyable than swotting up everytime he got wind of a quiz. For all the vapid consternated lecturing about their desire to teach the next generation diligence he’s surprised none of the teachers caught on to his more extreme study habits. He needed to revise twice as long as his mates, whilst still keeping on top of his cricket practice. The stench of smuggled coffee in the shared dorm space, sting of untreated paper cuts on his cricket bat, and echo of quickly flipped paper while on the bench-minutes before practice begins- still haunts him. No one can say his scholarship was not merited. To be candid, a few of his peers tried. They should put his name on a medal.

He winces.

They’d probably think that was lame though. With his friends there was always a give and take. Charles would be too excited or too visually distinctive, and then they would disparage him before intervening. He can almost hear them now, in his head, mocking him for caring enough to wonder what books Charles thinks Edwin would want next to his collection. They’d probably ring his bell if they caught him idling, grinning at it, like a gormless old twit.

Charles starts picking up the books Edwin had pushed to the far side of the room and carrying them back towards their place on the shelf. Each one aged into a different neutral hue.

It’s not like getting lumped aside the head is the worst, he’s just had his fair share of it. The sharp painful corrections reverberated through concert gigs, class, and his old house. With his Dad it was something you could count on. Like the chime of a clock or the clunk of his boots on the floor above him when he got home.

The closest he gets to that is when Edwin scolded him when he misplaced a hand-bound copy of Materials Toward a History of Witchcraft V. II.

His hands were steepled and eyebrows were pinched as he faced Charles.

“It is of our best interest to have our books on occultism organized if we are to keep helping any stray ghost that takes your fancy.”

His tone is sincere with “steps to make sure this does not happen whilst they are in each other’s company.”

It had been the first time Edwin had mentioned a future- their future- together.

So…there are more instances where he messes up with Edwin.

His first offense was gathering discarded vinyl records from the estate to solve the case of the mummified musician. He may have gathered more than necessary. The boxes littered their settled office with the crowded oppressive atmosphere of an obstacle course.

“ I don’t understand the importance of collecting memorabilia from his estate if his condition clearly exemplifies a pharaoh's curse, Charles.”

“Except he’s never been to Egypt, and something is wrong with these records, Edwin.” Charles tests.

“Whatever do you mean?” Edwin asks, hands centering more nervously.

Charles takes the dingy milk crate containing the cursed record to the top of their newly acquired office desk. “He didn’t have any photos of his parents in that house. Closest we got to them was that burnt photo with his passport. So whoever his family is in Egypt he isn’t going back to see them often.” He grabs the third vinyl ceremoniously holding it up and points accordingly.

“This band was based in the UK and was underground in the 70s; they did not have the money to parade around publishing records in Egypt, mate. It also doesn’t have English import tax added to the price on the back so we can figure whoever gave it to him wasn’t a distributor. Finally,” He slides the protective sheet from the record. “The Matrix numbers are utter gibberish.” Charles raises his head to find Edwin studying him instead of the vinyl.

“You know an awful lot about vinyl records, how come your interest has never come up before?” Edwin poaches.

“I’m not interested, mate, this case is just stupid convoluted and I’d really appreciate getting this case closed as soon as possible, yeah?” Charles twists away placing the covering back onto the record and into the jacket delicately.

“Right, of course.” Edwin reassures.

The following offense had occurred after a few days of dodgy eyeing on Edwin’s part. The silent treatment had gotten so intolerable he had resulted in point blank annoying him about the local bands when they walked past the building on their way to pick up new comics and magical tomes from the only occult shop in London to sell to “new ghosts.”

The cold morning air clung to the energy around their forms as they made their way through almost empty city walkways. The greys and blues of the world still clinging to the buildings and street as Charles prattles on about trumpet melodies and inconsistent show times. They had been trotting by a street light holding fast against the elements when Edwin had stopped walking and Charles went ramrod straight.

“Did you use to go to shows frequently?” he asks hesitantly, but his eyes are narrowed and posture is straight, holding a brick sized hand bound french magic book and a recent batman issue with the same reverence, snug against himself.

Charles feels the panic, in his arms and stomach, unfurl their tendrils.

“I-er-well, we all had the go-ahead to leave campus, right, but we could never make it back in time if we went too far, did we? This venue didn’t card, so we always found our way here…eventually.” Charles stammers.

Edwin’s eyes drift to the unassuming dark building with torn weathered posters littering its wall. “You mentioned going to see the Po-Goues in January, but the poster says they were playing January 14th, which is shortly after your holiday. So I may surmise, you came back to St. Hilarion's and then went to a concert in which the interim school faculty would be exceedingly vigilant. You must care about them a great deal.” His eyes roam, and lock back onto Charles, assessing.

“Didn’t think you were actually listening, mate.” Charles teases.

“The Kon 5 is playing next week, so we could attend a show, if you are still interested in such things.”

Edwin steels himself, takes a breath, and then points to one of the newer additions to the wall. Charles follows the line of action from the base of Edwin’s shoulder to the mass-produced poster for the stupid band he used to wait in line to see.

-------- ≪ ｡❅*⋆⍋⋆*❅｡ ≫ --------

The building is dark. Metal and Brick both painted over with worn black overcoats. The stairs lead to an expanse of hallway with an open bar and doors. He remembers Mark used to remind him not to be an idiot and forget the stuff they came in with. Abandoned high heels, coats, and a metal bat line the walk-way. If you follow it you can pass the bathrooms to the back and you can see the open floor of an expansive former church turned remodeled stage.

The members come up one after the other. Each fiddling with equipment and performing checks on their respective instruments.

Charles’ energy is erratic. His hand had phased through the bars of the catwalk; they were camped atop up to his forearms. Being inside shouldn’t be putting his nerves on edge. He should be able to differentiate being in the building now with Edwin for one of his favorite bands and the “friends” who introduced it to him.

Nevertheless, every place his eyes rest rip memories from the depths of his mind to the cold air around him. He remembers, agreeing to help one of his roommates move to afford one of the coats everyone wore. Being too scared to decorate it. Skipping class so no one would see him go to a Citizen 8 gig alone. Standing in the dorm’s communal bathroom, looking in one of the mirrors to the shades of purple on his body, no recollection who to inculpate. “It was just a lark, we didn’t mean any harm.”

Getting harrassed.

Getting Killed.

”Hard Lines mate, maybe next time.” muttered at his fucking funeral.

“Are you alright?” Edwin asks.

“What-er- yeah” Charles stutters, “Sorry, we’ve-I’ve- just never got here early before.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Edwin hesitates.

“Oh, yeah, brills.”

It’s strange they don’t have any roadies or stage-hands aside from the band members. Charles points to the stage. “That is the lead singer James doing the mike check. and-” his arm halts its motion as they both watch in horror as the drummer touches his kit, glows red, dives behind the curtain, and begins screaming hysterically backstage.

Edwin looks at him quizzically.

“Well, that was the drummer.” Charles stammers, “Er-‘m sure, he’s fine, mate”

The Kon 5 are about twenty or so minutes into their set. The trumpets and drums are sycophantic in their rhythm drilling the crowd. Shouts of encouragement and lyrics are spurred out from the people around them. He looks to his right, Edwin stands in his school uniform tight and pristine despite the dingy atmosphere and sub-par lighting. His soft, thoughtful expression breaks into a smile when his eyes lock with Charles.

Guilt stabs him inextricably.

Edwin’s face falls and he pulls him towards the front of the venue. The Green lighting is strained on the hallway to the bathrooms that Charles has had the misfortune of painting in sick after a few too many jars.

“It’s okay if you don’t like the set we could head to the office and-” Charles starts.

“That is not the drummer.” Edwin states matter-of-fact.

The words left no room for negotiation, and were left between them.

“The Glowing was reminiscent of faery possession.”

“They just got back from France,” Hammering draws from Charles’s heart and hits his stomach.

“The shows-the tour,” he supplies, “They might have picked it up in Paris. ‘Right, Edwin?”

“You have the list of tour destinations memorized?” Edwin asks.

Charles feels stinging behind his eyes first.

“No, no, I just used to have their albums on tape and the upcoming tour destinations printed on back ‘innit.”

“You had their albums on tape? I had no idea you were passionate about music when you were alive,” he states.

“ We should see if the drummer could lend us some tapes after we rid him of his faery infestation.” Edwin mutters nodding to himself.

“Passionate?” Charles squawks.

“I don’t know why you insist on pretending you have no-interests or hobbies Charles, but you are clearly knowledgeable on the subject at hand.I had hoped your admission to your interest in music had been an olive branch between us, since you are so pliable to my rantings on thaumaturgy and protection charms, but you seem more fretful. ” His eyebrows are knit together before he continues, “I do not want our companionship to be so one-sided. I don't know any of your passions nor do I wish to have our place of residence devoid of your impression.”

“Mate, i didn’t mean-”

“I saw you restocked the bookshelf. Do you not see the office as a worthwhile place to store your belongings?” he continues. “Honestly, Charles, if you have no plans to stay we need not discuss it, but at least give me something to remember you by.”

The clawing in his throat builds with the silence between them.

“I-er,” he tries looking towards the cheap drywall, “This is just the first time it was okay to care about things, y’know?

And- yeah. I don’t, er- ” his voice breaks, and he half expects Edwin to shove him.

He doesn’t.

Instead, Edwin’s hand is steady as it grips his lapel.

He follows the pale pressed fingers to his wrist, up his covered arm and settles his gaze near Edwin’s face.

“Maybe on our return from our next trip from the occult book shop we can purchase some recordings.” He whispers.

Charles feels the buzzing energy in his hands again. He weighs everything said before him. The new revelation stripped the version of himself he had presupposed Edwin saw.

“Five minutes backstage,” Charles surrenders, picking up one discarded aluminium bat.

“Or we are summoning that drummer.” - ------ ≪ ｡❅*⋆⍋⋆*❅｡ ≫ ------

On the way back they pick up a walkman and cassette tapes for the Po-goues, rage parade, and Citizen 8. They leave behind a newly faery-exorcised signed guitar as payment.

When they get back to the office they make it to the middle of the floor before Edwin stands before him with his hand extended.

“What, right now?” Charles asks.

Edwin remains waiting patiently.

The magic canvas bag prognosticates. He swats his hand inside and picks up the cassette player, a tangled mess of earbuds, and the Citizen 8 tape all in one go.

Edwin’s hands dip for a second under the unexpected weight of the cassette player, but adjusts accordingly. Charles presses the eject button and places the tape into Edwin’s other awaiting hand. His fingers hold it in an unconventional manner while Charles stares in awe.

Too soon he presses the cassette into the cartridge and the hand is tucked under the handheld player.

“The earbuds please, Charles.”

Charles' eyes and hands return the mess of wire that he is desperate to untangle. He separates the left and right sides from the main auxiliary cord. Edwin’s hand reaches below and takes the jack and presses it into the aux with succinct precision. He returns, thumbing the earbud from Charles’s left hand to press it to the side of his face. He feels the loss of contact, and then watches Edwin take the earbud from his right hand before putting it to his own ear.

For a moment, he watches the cord between them.

The black wire joining their faces is short, forcing them a little closer than they usually get. His eyes flicker over Edwin’s face, but they find no discomfort. No, Edwin’s face is concentrated as he works. His eyes pinched with the ghost of a smile on his lips. They’re so close he can see the hint of stubble atop his lip and jaw. The coil coupling them taps below his ear twice before-

Edwin pressed the cartridge closed.

The guitar riff expels gruff and triumphant. Five seconds in the drums pick up a heavy beating in the heart of the song. Their lead singer screeches her arrival in a familiar melody.

Edwin’s eyebrows pinch slightly before a soft smile exposes a hint of dimples caresses his face next to the wire joining them. It takes a dull ache in the side of Charles’ face to realize he’s been smiling too. He feels the contact of Edwin’s fingers against his own before realizing he’s unconsciously reached to support the cassette player with him. The weight is lighter than anything he’s held in this new form.

It takes a few minutes before Edwin wanders to pick up his place in a discarded french spellbook. With both ears filled with the rapid pounding of a drum beat he places the remaining two cassettes on his spot on their shelf. With his energy still warmed from Edwin’s presence, he lays a hand on the exposed wood and lets himself press to feel the pressure.

[shadystranger]

dying over how when sam feels helpless he calls for dean

[stardustandash]

How many fics have you worked on since January?

Worked on about 55? I think? Its hard to calculate as I posted whumptober and febuwhump as individual stories but they exist in one doc each on my computer. I've worked on 6 fics that are either as of yet unposted, unprinted in a zine, or just lost unfinished limbo (I need to work on my merrin-focused post nur fic omg)

2. What’s something new that you tried in a fic this year?

I guess I've tried to play more with present vs past tense, and finishing multichapter fics before posting. Did try out a time loop for the first time during whumptober and had fun with that!

3. What piece of media inspired you the most? (This can be the fandom you wrote the most for, the one that spawned the most ideas, the one you thought about the most, etc.)

I feel like Star Wars is the pretty obvious answer, though right at the end of the year here comes Dragon Age with a steel chair after 4 years of not really being involved in the fandom

4. How many fandoms did you write for this year?

Seven, I think! Jedi Fallen Order & Survivor, The Bad Batch, Dragon Age Inquisition & Veilguard, FFXV, FFXVI, Horizon Zero Dawn & Forbidden West, and Twisted Wonderland

5. What ships captured your heart?

As a gen writer its rare for ships to catch me, but thank you Veilguard for giving me Rook x Harding, and M!Rook x Emmrich. (Not a fan of F!Rook x Emmrich sorry yall)

7. What characters captured your heart?

As always Cal remains number 1 in my heart. I love him so much, along with the whole Mantis crew <3 For new this year, I am bewitched body and soul by the Veilguard crew. The writers were cooking with all of them, they're all amazing!!

8. Did you write for any new fandoms or ships this year?

...Does Veilguard count lol? For new fandoms I wrote one FFXVI fic early in the year.

I've got two fics for Rook x Harding and one wip for Rook x Emmrich as new ships!

9. What fic meant the most to you to write?

That's a hard question!! I think I poured a lot of my own personal emotional anguish into a lot of the fics I wrote this year. It's been a rough year for many reasons, and writing out all that angsty hurt/comfort helped a lot

10. What fic made you feel the happiest to work on?

I think finishing 'what makes a family' was honestly one of the best feelings ever! And the fact that I still get comments on it from time to time about people binge-reading it.

11. What fic was the most satisfying to finish writing?

I guess I could go with the above, but actually completing whumptober was pretty satisfying.

12. What fic was the most difficult to write?

'i do not love the bright sword for its sharpness' is at the top of this pile. i think about it constantly but actually writing it is proving super difficult, and it remains unfinished...

13. What fic was the easiest to write?

The one for the Pabu Days zine!! I wrote the first draft in just over an hour, and it was about 1k too many words lol

14. What were your shortest and longest fics posted this year?

of the ones written entirely in this year, 'take a breath before the plunge' wins with its 11k words. If we count just completed this year, 'what makes a family' wins at just shy of 70k

The shortest was one of the whumptober fics, 'where flesh and metal meet'

15. What were your go-to writing songs?

The Horizon games' soundtracks! Less of a song list, but there's too many to put in here.

What was the hardest fic to title?

...all of them. Titling things is the hardest part of writing fics

16. What's your favorite title of the year?

Love and Blood Both Run Red, or maybe Cold But For Your Company

17. Share your favorite opening line

In some way, Tech thinks, it is poetic to die for his family.

From here, at the bottom

18. Share your favorite ending line

He turned, and came face to face with a skull staring back at him. There were holes through the skull, and though everything had been decayed by time, Cal could still see that the skeleton wore Jedi robes.

From then there was nothing

19. Share your favorite piece of dialogue

ooh i don't know! If its humorous then assume its one of my favourites

20. Share your funniest line

see above

21. What's something that surprised you while you were working on a fic? Did it change the story?

I think being able to slip back into old fandoms and characters for whumptober was a surprise. it didn't change the story but it was surprisingly quick to get back into things i hadn't touched in years

22. What writing programs did you use? Did you write by hand?

I use microsoft word for all my fics. which isn't great for longform fic and probably why i don't write too much of it

23. If you had to choose one, what was THE most satisfying writing moment of your year?

Again, actually managing to complete whumptober felt really good!! I've never managed to finish a writing challenge like that so it was a really proud moment

24. Did you do anything special to celebrate finishing a fic?

I don't think I've ever done anything?? Though I am thinking about starting a lil scrapbook of comments or smth like that

25. How did you recharge between fics?

what is this recharge you speak of? I am either possessed by ideas that demand attention or left in a drought of creativity

26. Did you create fanworks other than fic?

I do playlists for myself sometimes. I have ones for Cal, Crosshair, and Omega right now. I constantly wish i had the patience to improve my art skills to do fanart

27. How many events did you take part in? (bangs, exchanges, ship weeks, zines, prompt memes, they all count!)

4 if you count febuwhump and whumptober. I'm in a Bad Batch zine that's in preorders right now - Pabu Days, and participating in a fic/art exchange for new years for Twisted Wonderland

28. If this were an awards show, who would you thank?

firstly I'd like to thank my cat for being the one to hear me talk out plot points and details. I'd also like to thank @pennflinn and @breakfastteatime for being both supportive of all my j:fo fics as well as being inspirations themselves in that fandom! And the whole j:fo fandom at large for being awesome and supportive of each other's works. And I need to mention @fanfoolishness for joining me in not one, not two, but THREE! fandoms here!! As well, shoutout to @shadowcrow for yelling on my rook x harding fics! it's a small corner of the fandom but at least it's got you there!

29. What's left on your to-do list for 2024?

Finish this fic for the new years exchange, and get another chapter of Blood and Love Both Run Red up! Though it may only be one of those that happens...

30. What would you like to write next year?

I wanna finish bright sword and get that post nur Merrin fic postable! And since I'm currently consumed by Veilguard I wanna write more of that next year too!

A slightly revised version of last year's questions! Two ways to play: Reblog and have your followers send you numbers, or answer the whole list!

How many fics have you worked on since January?

What’s something new that you tried in a fic this year?

What piece of media inspired you the most? (This can be the fandom you wrote the most for, the one that spawned the most ideas, the one you thought about the most, etc.)

How many fandoms did you write for this year?

What ships captured your heart?

What characters captured your heart?

Did you write for any new fandoms or ships this year?

What fic meant the most to you to write?

What fic made you feel the happiest to work on?

What fic was the most satisfying to finish writing?

What fic was the most difficult to write?

What fic was the easiest to write?

What were your shortest and longest fics posted this year?

What were your go-to writing songs?

What was the hardest fic to title?

What's your favorite title of the year?

Share your favorite opening line

Share your favorite ending line

Share your favorite piece of dialogue

Share your funniest line

What's something that surprised you while you were working on a fic? Did it change the story?

What writing programs did you use? Did you write by hand?

If you had to choose one, what was THE most satisfying writing moment of your year?

Did you do anything special to celebrate finishing a fic?

How did you recharge between fics?

Did you create fanworks other than fic?

How many events did you take part in? (bangs, exchanges, ship weeks, zines, prompt memes, they all count!)

If this were an awards show, who would you thank?

What's left on your to-do list for 2024?

What would you like to write next year?

[benevolenterrancy]

hi! I recently came across your tgcf fics, and I wanted to say you’re a phenomenal creator. the recovery series fic and the gloves fic and just all of them. thank you for your content and great attention to detail.

do you have any thoughts/hcs on FXMQ and Xie Lian you’d be willing to share? within the original story or the universes of your fics!

Thank you so much, I'm glad you're enjoying them! (ﾉ*^▽^*)ﾉ.｡:*☆

hmm, random thoughts about the FXMQ... a silly headcanon: Feng Xin has very much been hoisted by his own petard by heckling Mu Qing! That is to say, he'll harass Mu Qing relentlessly about something stupid only to be confronted with a similar situation and realise that there's absolutely NO way he can act in anyway similar to Mu Qing or he'll never hear the end of it.

(For example, he has tolerated some truly atrocious divine statues in the past because he's heckled Mu Qing so much about how picky he is with his divine statues that there's no WAY he can say ANYTHING without seeing that smug bastard's face in his head so he just has to bite his tongue and tolerate some unspeakably ugly statues.)

Mu Qing doesn't generally suffer from similar overthinking (he'll just prepare to kick FX's ass if he dares to say anything about it) except for things more directly related to himself. I think he genuinely finds sewing/embroidery/etc rather relaxing work but he'd rather die than have anyone ever see him do it because he's made such a big deal about not doing that sort of "servant" work anymore.

(He actually really enjoyed stitching Ruoye back together because it gave him the perfect excuse -- he's returning a favour!! and Xie Lian is hopeless!! of course he had to!! -- and he secretly considered using white thread to embroider some invisible little designs just because he doesn't quite want to stop... only he knew he'd get caught if he messed with Xie Lian's spiritual device like that and gave up the idea)

[olymphianblood]

ok guys its not funny anymore when is d&p hard lauching im starting to getting anxious /hj

[secondpersonpoetry]

hi! heard the released “Merry Christmas, Please Don’t Call” (which i’ve seen you’ve heard live, if i’m not mistaken!!) this morning and i don’t know if there’s really a particular vibe/dynamic/ship hrpf-wise (personally haven’t yet been able to put my finger on it) that quite relates but the lyrics have been rotating in my head all day and i was wondering if you had any thoughts? hope you have a good one! <3

OH ANON HAVE I EVER SEEN IT LIVE!!! and the second that song came out i zoomed it straight into my fic playlist and unfortunately there are so many guys this could be. right now the one that's resonating is, of course, the golden boy and his haunted ghost themselves: mcstrome.

i am thinking about connor, specifically, after the stanley cup final. that game seven. how angry he was, how loud the silence when they told him he won the conn smythe. how close he's come before and again and again lost. there's nobody else to blame but himself. he's in the empty room and he knows why (1)

at!! your best!!! you were magic!!! oh, golden boy. connor the anointed, of course. at the very beginning of his career we always knew he was something special and who wouldn't have fallen in love with him? weren't all of us a little bit dylan strome in awe of the generational talent? we were all bathed in radiant light just by being in the vicinity (2)

don't even tell 'em that you know me breaks my heart (3). in terms of building a narrative i think i've said before there is a universe where connor/dylan were together before the draft and to protect both of them, dylan breaks up with him. connor says i love you and dylan says i don't. because he doesn't, you know? he loved connor. he loved davo. he can't be in love with connor mcdavid, first overall pick of the edmonton oilers. i'd rather be hurt forever than have to watch us try to make this work and destroy us.

and after connor mcdavid left the otters, dylan strome captained them to a memorial cup win. what a haunted home, eh? to be captain of the team you and your best friend were on, only now he's left you? don't call me to tell me about your rookie season with the oilers--we both know about your broken collarbone. don't call me to tell about becoming the youngest captain in franchise history when i stepped into the shoes of your captaincy here. don't call me. (4)

narratively: dylan's the one who broke connor's heart and his own but by god it wasn't easy. we both know what happened, you went first overall. please don't make this harder on me. please don't call.

this verse can be about the weight of dylan having to live up to connor's standards and always being measured by him. i would just like to bring up the connor stepping stone chart for absolutely no reason as well (5)

we are, at long last, at the potential future of now: dylan strome, happy, smiling, thriving on the washington capitals. connor, on the oilers. i'm not yours, dylan can say. haven't been for a long time. it took some time but i made this. please don't call and ruin this for me, stay out of my life. i don't want you or need you (6)

[p.s. this took a while because when i received this ask i was a) immediately possessed to write this verse by verse breakdown i had never thought of before and then b) immediately plagued by the idea of making you a little graphic (above the read more) and finally got to do it after banging out all the actual lyric thoughts two (?) weeks ago. emerging two and a half hours later from the fugue state of GIMP with 37 layers in this bad boy hope you enjoy!!!]

[ranma0]

Notes from a concerned medical professional who reads too much hurt/comfort:

(These are all things I've seen in Hazbin/Helluva fanfics)

(Tw: for injury, illness, gore, drug use, overdose, a lot of other things)

You cannot drug someone to sleep by overdosing them on melatonin. It will not work

Don't submerge an open wound or stitches in a bathtub/pool/etc it will introduce bacteria to the wound (taking a shower is usually fine, just skip the romantic bath)

On that note, stitches do not immediately stop a wound from bleeding and should not be used to solve every problem (never give yourself stitches unless you have absolutely no other choice they can trap infection inside the body when done incorrectly)

And, if the wound is extremely deep, a person may need several layers of stitches to piece together the skin, muscle, and viscera

You absolutely cannot get high on tylenol or ibuprofen even if you mix it with alcohol.

If you do mix tylenol or ibuprofen with alcohol it can cause internal bleeding/kidney damage/liver failure, so please don't do that

If someone is shivering from a high fever, don't cover them in blankets it will raise their body temperature even more (please try correctly dosed tylenol or ibuprofen for this)

Don't submerge someone with a high fever in ice water, they might go into shock (they also might panic and hurt themselves) in a pinch lukewarm water will do

Don't put ice on burns, run them under lukewarm or cool water instead

If someone overdoses on an opoid (heroin, morphine, various pain medications), there is a medicine called nalaxone (Narcan) that can reverse the effects of opioids (edit: thank you to @queerlybehooved)

If someone is bleeding profusely, don't just hold their head and whisper sweet nothings, put pressure on the wound!!!

If a bullet remains in a person’s body after being shot it most likely should not be dug out unless it's blocking something vital, the bullet is not the problem the damage it made in it's path is

This isn't a criticism of authors who have written things like this. A lot of it isn't common knowledge, and DIY healthcare is absolutely steeped in myth and misinformation. I just worry about disinformation being perpetuated (and I really enjoy accurate hurt/comfort)

If I got anything wrong, please let me know, and I'll edit the post. I'm far from perfect and appreciate good advice

Let me know if you guys want a fic rec list of my favorite Hazbin Hotel whump fics

[reidrum]

close to home | s.r

pairing: spencer reid x reader

a/n: this has been rotting in my brain for days now i hope you enjoy the angsty comfort this brought me <3 my requests are open (guidelines in pinned!) or if you wanna just chat hop in my ask box :) gonna hopefully work on a smut fic in the next week so keep an eye out hehe

cw: angst, hurt/comfort, protective!spencer, afab!reader who uses she/her pronouns, non bau!reader, cm type violence, reader sustains injuries from unsub, vague description of injuries, maeve mentions, derek being a good friend, spencer being so in love with reader, this takes place probably a year after maeve, inconsistencies with tls and characters but who cares

wc: 2.4k

summary: the bau is working a local case when their unsub strikes again mid investigation, hotch tells reid and morgan to go check it out but spencer finds the address of the crime to be a little too familar

_______________________________________________

Whenever the BAU has a case based in the D.C. area, it’s always a little easier on the team. Familiar stomping grounds, ease of resources, no major time difference, and everyone can sleep in their own beds. The hard part about home cases is knowing there’s a serial killer in the place they know deeply, with people they cared about deeply.

Spencer and Callahan are in the middle of the bullpen staring at the giant white board with all the evidence they have so far. The unsub has been killing women in their mid 20s in the local dc area, with the mo currently unknown. there had already been two victims, both killed in their homes. Spencer was currently trying to analyze all the information the case had alongside with what Garcia was able to provide, and he was still hitting a dead end. Morgan had joined them at some point too, trying to offer what he could remember from the crime scenes but to no avail. He felt his eyes straining and dropping so he decided to get more coffee, but was stopped by Hotch and Garcia entering the bullpen.

“Police just got a 911 call about a break in, but there’s a witness this time. She was home when it happened and it looks like he didn’t expect that and tried to knock her out before escaping. I think it sounds like our unsub. Morgan and Reid, I need you to go check out the scene and interview the witness, see what she remembers.” Hotch explained.

Morgan and Reid nodded as Garcia spoke up, “I just sent the address to your phones, it’s a house on Hillcrest so it's not that far from here.”

Spencer froze. he had to have heard wrong, she did not say Hillcrest, “Did you say Hillcrest?”

“Yeah, Hillcrest Drive. It’s like, a 15 minute drive, not that far.”

He felt his heart drop to his feet, a sinking feeling building in his gut. That was the street you lived on. He tried to ground himself with logic, the probability of it being your house is only 10%, but he was dreading asking the fated question.

“Garcia, what’s the house number?”

“Reid, I already sent it to your pho-“

“Garcia, what is the house number,” he spoke again. 

Please don’t say 1159. Please don’t say 1159. Please don’t say-

“1159.”

Fuck. The color drained from his face, and the nausea was building to a head quickly. Spencer hurriedly tried to think through the last time he spoke to you. Last night? This morning? He doesn’t check on you as much as he does when he’s not on a case, but oh my god why can’t he remember the last time he saw you.

“Reid,” Hotch bellows, finally breaking spencer out of his trance, “What is it? What do you know?”

He shook his head, “Nothing. Morgan, let’s go.” he grabbed his jacket and booked it out the door.

Morgan, Garcia, and Hotch all looked at each other in concern, before Morgan spoke up, “I’ll see what’s up.” The latter two nodded softly, though the worry didn’t let up in their eyes.

Morgan walked up to the car to find Spencer repeatedly trying to call someone on the phone, clearly unable to get through and getting really frustrated.

Spencer was alerted by Morgan’s presence hearing the car unlock but he didn’t even look at him, just immediately got in the car and strapped his seat belt. Morgan joined him in the drivers seat giving him a wary look before turning the car on and pulling out of the bureau.

“Okay Reid, spill it. It’s obvious you know who lives here.” Morgan speaks up.

“Just drive, please.”

“Because if you know something, something that could help the case, it would be helpful if we knew.”

“Morgan, just drive.” he borderline yells.

He raises his eyebrows at his raised voice, “Listen kid, i’m just trying to help you. I can see you’re upset but we’re on the same side, you know that.”

Spencer takes a shaky breath, feeling another shade of guilt at yelling at one of his friends, for something he didn’t even know about. He’d kept you a secret for many reasons— your relationship with him was still new, and he just wanted to keep you to himself for a bit. After what happened with Maeve, he felt especially more responsible at keeping you safe and making sure you didn’t get tangled up in his line of work.

Some job he did of that.

The one thing he regrets about how he handled the Maeve situation, was not asking for help until it was almost too late. For not doing anything about her stalker when he was part of one of the most famous fbi teams built to find people like that. He’d always live with that guilt, but he vowed not to do that with you.

He loved you so much. You were so kind, and smart, and beautiful. A breath of fresh air after feeling lost in a dark tunnel for so long. You were so understanding when he explained what he did for a living, and what had happened to him and people he cared about as a result. He still remembers what you said to him when he told you that you could have an out, if you wanted.

“Any risk is worth taking if getting to be with you is the consolation prize.”

Tears welled up in eyes thinking about the memory. If you were willing to take any risk, then he should be able to as well.

He cleared his throat, and Morgan’s ears perked up, “My uh, my girlfriend lives there. Where the unsub, at- attacked.” he voiced softly.

Morgan looked at him for a beat while driving, Spencer missing the way his face dropped. He tightened his hands on the wheels, and without hesitation he turned the lights and siren on and shifted gears to speed up.

__

The car pulled onto your street and the first thing Spencer sees is the flashing light of the ambulances. Morgan doesn’t even put the car in park before Spencer’s bolting out hoping he can find you quickly.

He’s asking all the paramedics he’s passing if they’ve seen you or know if you’re being treated, were you transferred to a hospital and he didn’t know. The tunnel vision slowly overtaking him until he hears a voice breaking through like sunlight call out his name.

He whips his head in the direction he heard it come from, and he’s never been more grateful to be met with the beautiful sight of you. You watch his eyes widen and let out a sigh before running over to where you were sitting in the back of the ambulance. He’s definitely not thinking when he goes in to hug you, not even knowing the extent of your injuries. He’s overtaken by the desperate need to hold you in his arms so he knows you’re safe and okay.

“Hi,” you choke out muffled, “Funny seeing you here.”

He pulls back to inspect your face, taking note of a small cut above your left eyebrow and the beginning splotches of a bruise forming on your lower jaw. His heart aches so much looking at you, knowing what happened to you and who did this to you.

“Hi, honey,” he lets out tearfully, “Are you okay? I mean, of course you’re not. But what did the paramedics say? Did they give you anything? Are you sure they checked all your injuries? You know what, let me go call the guy over. I’ll be two seconds.” his panicked ramble fading off as he rounds the truck you’re sat in to find the emt.

Upon his extensive questioning of the man who treated you, he found out that you had sustained a minor concussion from when the unsub swung at you with an umbrella, superficial cuts caused by a broken vase you threw to defend yourself, and a dislocated shoulder from getting shoved into the wall.

You were okay, but at what cost.

The EMT leaves you two and Spencer sits himself next to you on the rig. He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you as tight as he can and the other hand cradles your head into the crook of his neck, holding you so tight he’s hoping he can squeeze the bad memories out of you. It’s at this moment of feeling safe and sound in his arms when the adrenaline of your attack wears off.

Spencer hears a small whimper and feels a few hot tears trickle down his neck, your breathing gets faster as you’re attempting to beat your body’s fear response. The slow build up of sobs starting to rack your chest, and he immediately holds you tighter.

“It’s over, baby, they won’t hurt you anymore. I promise.”

You sniffle, “I know, I just can’t believe this happened. To me. To us. It’s not fair to you.” trailing off the last two words.

“To me? Wh- what do you mean?”

You take a deep breath, “I don’t mean to bring it up again, I just know how eerily similar this is to a past experience you’ve had. and I hoped that I wouldn’t be in a position to make you feel that way again. I don’t know why this happened, I'm sorry.”

He looked down at you incredulously, genuinely unable to believe that you were sitting next to him on an ambulance, beaten up with bruises and scars after a home invasion attack, worried about how he would feel when he got to you. It was enough to finally let the swell of tears saved up in his eyes fall.

“Oh sweetheart,” he chokes out, realizing you’ve been trying to be brave for him this whole time, “What happened is not your fault, do you understand me? My job is to always worry about you and your safety. When Garcia said the address I…I couldn’t even process it, I don’t even know how I got to the car,” he shook his head, “But I am the last person you need to push your emotions down for. I will always take them in stride and love you even more for that, okay?”

“Okay,” you take a shaky breath, “I love you.”

“I love you.” he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head.

Both of your heads look up at an approaching figure, who you quickly recognize to be SSA Derek Morgan. You knew Spencer hadn’t told the team about you yet, so you tried to sit up independently as fast as you could before he came over and suspected something.

Spencer’s grip didn’t let up when he bent down and whispered, “It’s okay, he knows.” You look up at him with wide eyes when derek finally reaches you.

“Reid, I already talked to the detectives and we’re good to go when you’re ready,” he turns his body to you and gives you a comforting smile, “Hi sweetheart, I’m Derek Morgan, it’s nice to meet you.”

Spencer rolls his eyes at the nickname while you giggle softly, “Hi Derek, I’ve heard so much about you. It's nice to finally meet you too.”

“I wish it were under better circumstances,” he sighs, “Listen, I know it’s all still really fresh for you, but it might help the case if you’re able to come in for a cognitive interview, or even talk to a sketch artist.”

Spencer doesn’t miss a beat before protesting, “Absolutely not. We can do it later, it’s fine.”

“Reid-“

You look up at him placing your hand on his chest, “Spence, It’s okay. I want to help, please.”

He rests his hand on top yours and gives it a light squeeze, “Okay, but i’m not leaving you alone for a second.”

“I didn’t think you would.” you smile.

“Alright lovebirds, you can have your private time later, we should go now.” Derek teases.

Spencer groans, “See, this is why i didn’t say anything.”

“You think I’m bad? Wait till Penelope meets her.”

__

The three of you pile into the car before starting the drive to Spencer’s apartment so he could get you a change of clothes and other things you might need. You end up falling asleep in the back seat, the final stage of your shock sinking in like a rock. Spencer checks on you from the rear view mirror and sees you passed out, and smiles.

“She’s cute,” Derek starts, “Can I ask how long?”

“Nine months.” he replies, fishing for something out of his pocket.

“Pretty boy hid a girl from all of us for nine months? Maybe we’re not as good profilers as we thought.”

“Imagine that,” he laughs, and gestures to the item in his hand, “Look.”

Spencer’s holding out a well loved photo booth strip with three pictures, of you and Spencer from the time you went to a local county fair. You’re sitting in his lap, mostly due to the cramped space and the expansive limbs. The first picture is the two of you holding up finger guns attempting to be as back to back as you can. The second picture, you intended it to be a normal one where you both smile at the camera, but spencer couldn’t take his eyes off you and the picture captured the love struck gaze he had on you. The last one you were about to tell him the idea for it, when he grabbed your face and pulled you closer to kiss you, neither of you knowing when the final picture snapped.

The edges were worn out and frayed, clearly broken down by the oils on his fingers from pulling it out frequently. It was his most treasured item, a constant reminder of what was always waiting for him when he got back from grueling cases, and how lucky he was to have you in his life.

“You look really happy, kid.” Derek says, thinking about the many times he’s seen his friend at rock bottom, the things that have been so brutally taken from him, and the suffering he’s had at the hands of his job. His heart warms for his friend, who seemed to finally catch a break.

“I am.”

[reidsworld]

A Different Kind of Training

Summary: When sparring with Logan turns into something more.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Fem!Mutant!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warnings: sparring, cursing, mentions of alcohol, teasing, flirting, kissing, making out, tit sucking, fingering, heavy petting, p in v, rough sex, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), creampie, knife play? (the claws come out), use of Y/N, pet names (baby, bub, darlin’) — you are responsible for the content you consume, if you are not comfortable with any of these warnings or are a minor, DNI!!

Word Count: 2.8k

Mars speaks… Two fics in one day? What can I say, I’m a sucker for writing (and Logan Howlett). I originally wasn’t gonna write smut for this but I locked in and nearly 1.4k words of smut later, I’m happy with how it turned out! I was imagining Logan in X-Men but this gif is too hot not to use.

Masterlist

The sun was setting over Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, casting a warm, golden light through the large windows of the gym. The usual buzz of activity had quieted down, leaving you alone to get in some extra training. The silence was almost calming, a rare moment of peace after everything that had happened over the past few days.

You were lost in your thoughts, practising your kicks against a heavy bag, when the door creaked open. Without needing to look, you knew who it was. There was only one person who could move so silently yet make his presence known so effortlessly.

“Looks like someone’s been working hard,” Logan’s gruff voice came from behind you, a teasing edge to it. You could practically hear the smirk in his tone.

You turned, arching an eyebrow as you met his gaze. “Just trying to stay sharp. Didn’t expect you to drop in. Thought you’d be nursing a beer somewhere.”

He shrugged, leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Beer can wait. Figured you could use some real training instead of beating up that bag.”

You couldn’t help but grin. “Oh, so you’re volunteering to be my punching bag?”

Logan pushed off the wall and strolled toward you, his movements fluid and controlled. There was always something captivating about the way he moved—like a predator, always aware of his surroundings, always ready to strike.

“Something like that,” he said, his voice low as he came to a stop a few feet from you. “If you think you can handle it, bub.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the smile that tugged at your lips. “Big words, Wolverine. Hope you can back them up.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. “Guess we’ll find out.”

The session began as it always did—circling each other, testing the waters with light jabs and quick footwork. But there was an underlying tension tonight, more than usual. Maybe it was the way Logan’s eyes kept straying to your lips, or the way your heart raced every time he got close.

“You’re getting slow, old man,” you teased as you dodged a punch and spun away, landing a light tap on his shoulder.

Logan’s lips curled into a smirk. “And you’re getting cocky. Might have to teach you a lesson.”

His words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, you both just stood there, staring at each other. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, you both lunged forward, fists flying in a blur of motion.

The sparring intensified, the lighthearted banter replaced by focused determination. But even as you fought, there was a spark of playfulness, a dance of words and movements that only the two of you shared.

“Is that all you’ve got, bub?” Logan grunted as he blocked a kick and spun you around, his grip on your arm firm but not painful.

You twisted out of his hold, a sly smile on your lips. “Wouldn’t want to hurt your ego too much, Wolvie.”

His laughter was low and genuine, and it made something warm unfurl in your chest. Logan was a hard man, but moments like these—when he let his guard down, even just a little—made you feel like you were seeing the real him. The one beneath all the gruff exterior and adamantium claws.

As the session continued, you found yourself pushing harder, testing his limits just as much as your own. Each time he got close, you felt the heat of his body, the brush of his skin against yours, and it was becoming harder to focus on the fight and not on how much you wanted him.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of back-and-forth, you saw your opening. With a quick feint, you managed to sweep Logan’s legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the mat with a surprised grunt.

You didn’t waste a second, straddling him and pinning him down with a triumphant grin. “Looks like I’ve got you.”

Logan looked up at you, his eyes dark and intense, but there was a hint of amusement in his gaze. “Seems so. What’s your plan now, darlin’?”

The way he said “darlin’” sent a jolt through you, and suddenly the playful atmosphere shifted into something heavier, more charged. You leaned in closer, your faces just inches apart, your breath mingling with his.

“Maybe I’ll make you beg for mercy,” you whispered, your voice low and teasing.

Logan’s lips curled into a slow, wicked grin, his hands coming up to rest on your hips. “Or maybe I’ll turn the tables on you.”

The challenge in his voice was clear, and you felt your pulse quicken in response. But before you could think of a retort, Logan’s grip tightened, and with a swift, effortless movement, he flipped you over, reversing your positions so that he was the one hovering over you.

“Gotcha,” he murmured, his voice rough and gravelly, but his eyes were soft as they searched your face. He wasn’t pinning you down, not really—there was still room for you to escape, but neither of you made a move to do so.

The tension between you was palpable now, crackling in the air like electricity. Logan’s gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, as if asking permission. You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest, but you gave a small nod, unable to find your voice.

That was all the encouragement Logan needed. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was as fierce as it was gentle. It was like everything that had been building between you two—the banter, the flirting, the unspoken tension—was pouring out into that one kiss.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, your hands threading through his hair, pulling him closer. The rest of the world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you, lost in each other.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other’s. Logan’s eyes were still closed, his grip on your hip gentle but firm as if he didn’t want to let you go, while his other hand was on the floor, positioned next to your head.

He leaned down to lay passionate but gentle kisses against your neck.

You bit your lip, suppressing the almost vile moan that was on the tip of your tongue, feeling the warmth of his breath against your skin. “I’ve been waiting for you to make the first move.”

Logan chuckled, raising his head to look at you. “Guess I’m not as patient as I thought.”

You laughed softly, your fingers tracing the lines of his face. “Guess not.”

The mood between you had shifted, the playful teasing giving way to something deeper, something more intimate. You felt a connection with Logan that you hadn’t allowed yourself to fully acknowledge before, and now that it was out in the open, it felt right.

“So, what now?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan’s eyes darkened with a new intensity, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. “How about we take this workout somewhere more private? I’ve got a few ideas on how to… optimise our training.”

A shiver ran down your spine at the suggestive tone in his voice. “Lead the way,” you murmured, your heart pounding with anticipation.

Logan smirked, pulling back just enough to help you to your feet. But before you could move, he captured your lips in another heated kiss, this one more urgent, more demanding. It left you breathless, your knees weak as you clung to him for support.

When he finally released you, there was a hunger in his eyes that mirrored your own. Without another word, he took your hand and led you out of the gym, his pace quick and determined. The cool night air hit your skin as you stepped outside, but you barely noticed, too focused on the man beside you.

Logan’s room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows on the walls. The air was filled with a quiet intensity as you both entered, the door closing behind you with a soft click.

Logan’s gaze was fixed on you, his eyes dark with an unspoken promise. He stepped closer, his rough hands finding your waist, pulling you gently towards him. The world outside seemed to fade away as you stood there, the anticipation crackling between you.

You looked up at him, your heart racing, as his hands slid up your back, his touch both firm and tender. “So, this is your idea of a private training session?” you teased, your voice breathless.

Logan’s lips curled into a smirk as he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “Just thought we could continue our workout in a more…personal setting.”

Before you could respond, Logan’s lips were on yours, his kiss fierce and hungry. The sudden intensity took your breath away, but you melted into it, your hands finding their way to his shoulders, gripping him as you kissed him back with equal fervour.

His hands roamed your back, pulling you closer as if he wanted to absorb every inch of you. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent as you both lost yourselves in the sensation. The roughness of his hands contrasted with the softness of your skin, creating a delicious tension that only heightened the experience.

Logan’s lips were warm and insistent, moving with a rhythm that made your pulse quicken. He gently pushed you against the wall, his body pressing against yours, the heat and strength of him undeniable. You responded eagerly, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer, your lips moving in perfect harmony with his.

The kiss was a dance of passion and exploration, each touch and caress filled with a mix of tenderness and desire. Logan’s hands slid down to your hips, his grip strong and possessive as he pressed you closer against him. You could feel the heat of his body, the hardness of his muscles, and it only made you want him more.

“Jump,” Logan said, though it sounded more like a grunt than actual words. As you jump, his arms catch you, holding you by both of your legs as your hands threaded through his hair. You could feel him straining against his pants while he walked you over to the bed. You looked up at him with a smirk from where he tossed you on the bed. You slowly begin to undress, leaving you bare in front of him with the exception of your bra and panties.

“Stunning,” He muttered under his breath as he stared at you in a trance. His hand travelled down to his aching bulge, palming himself at the sight of you.

“Just gonna stand there and stare or are ya gonna do something, Wolvie.”

He let out an almost animalistic growl as he climbed on top of you, capturing your lips with his. His rough hands hands felt smooth against your skin as they travelled across your body. He pulls away from you, looking at his hands as his claws come out. He gently slides a claw under your bra, snapping it, freeing your breasts.

His claws retract and discard the bra across the room. His head quickly dives down to your tits, mouth latching onto one of your hard nipples as his hand kneads at the neglected breast. A yelp escapes your lips as he gently bites down on your nipple.

Your hands twine themselves in his hard, tugging gently as he moves his attention to your other breast. As he focuses on your breast, he shifts so that his elbow is holding him up while playing with your breast. His free hand slides down your body, slipping into your panties.

His fingers brush over your clit, making you let out a very solicited moan. His fingers run up your slit, making him groan.

“Fuck, you're already so wet and I’ve barely done anything yet, bub,” you let out an almost pathetic whimper in response. You feel him rut against your leg, attempting to get some much-needed relief. One of your hands leaves his hair and moves to push off his pants before planning him through his underwear, earning a groan from his lips.

You gasp as you feel one of his thick fingers enter you, pumping and curling in and out. It feels so good, all you can do is moan out his name. Looking into your eyes, he pulls you into a kiss as another finger slips into you. He swallows your moan with his mouth.

“Logan, ‘m so close baby,” you moan into his lips before whimpering at the loss of contact as his hand pulls your of you.

“Need to be inside you, want you to cum around my cock, darlin’” he says making you nod quickly, pulling your hand away from his groin.

He stands up, pulling off his boxers. As his cock frees, it slaps against his stomach and you almost whimper at the sheer size of it. His claws slowly extend out of his fist. He crawls back on top of you before using one of his claws to gently rip off your panties.

He positions himself at your entrance and looks up at you for approval.

“Please Logan just fuck me already.”

Gently and slowly, he pushes himself inside of you. His head falls back at the feeling of you around him. You wince at the slight sting from the size of him. He slows down and looks at you. You nod at him and moan as he bottoms out.

The two of you stay still for a minute as you adjust to him.

“Ok, you can move now, Lo.”

“How d’ya want it darlin’?” his raspy voice sounds out, making you even wetter.

“Rough baby, I thought this was supposed to be private training not–,” you tease him but are quickly cut off by your own moan as he roughly pulls out to the tip before slamming back in. His hands grip your legs, pulling them over his shoulder before moving to tightly grip the pillows next to your head. Your arms move up my your head, loosely wrapping around his.

The room is filled with loud moans and grunts as he fucks you. One of his hands moves down to circle your clit, making you cry out at the feeling. He drops one of your legs off his shoulder, changing the angle slightly.

“Oh fuck, right there!” you scream out as he pistons into your sweet spot. He throws his head back with a loud growl as your pussy clenches around him.

“Holy shit bub, so fuckin’ tight, wrapping around me just right.”

You hear the loud noise of his claws right next to your head as they extend into the bed. He uses them to give him more leverage as he fucks you harder, making you arch your back.

“‘M so close baby,” you moan into his ear as his head drops to your neck.

He doesn’t give up his relentless pace as he brings you closer to your orgasm. The sounds of his feral grunts in your ear throw you over the mess, making you scream as your insides tighten and you cum around his cock.

“Almost there,” he says as his thrusts become sloppier and his dick twitches inside of you.

“Where d’ya want it?”

“Inside, please,” you say, desperately.

Logan moves to kiss your tender lips roughly as he cums in you with a loud groan. His thrusts slow down before he comes to a stop. He drops on top of you with heavy breaths as you both lie there in silence.

Slowly pulling out of you, Logan rolls onto his back next to you before you both turn your heads to look at each other. He grins at your fucked-out expression.

“That was even better than I imagined,” he admits.

“Same,” you agree as you lean over to kiss him, smiling against his lips and muttering as you pull away,

“This was definitely a different kind of training, but I think that I still need a little more work on my form, think ya could help?”

Mars speaks... (again) I don't think I've ever locked in more than I did for writing the smut part of this. Any feedback is greatly appreciated🫶

[purple-plum-petals]

Hi! Is it okay if I ask for another homicipher fic? I just got all the endings, and I'm obsessed. What about Scarletta trying to be physically affectionate with MC after seeing how protective Mr. Crawling is with them (perhaps even secretly peeking/knowing how often the crawling man hugged you, you two petting or shaking each other's heads, and using the word "cute" on each other.) I need Scarletta jealous 🫣

⊱ Blood-stained Lips ⊰ || Mr. Scarletella X Reader

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Character(s): Mr. Scarletella (Homicipher/文字化化) Reader Type: Human (Gender-Neutral Pronouns) Warning(s): Spoilers for Homicipher (MC’s Lore and Specifically Scarletella Rain Ending), Canon-typical Mentions of Violence (and Horror Elements), Mild Jealousy, Slightly Suggestive. Anything spoken in the other world’s language will be bolded. Genre: Drabble, Light Angst (Hurt/Comfort), Pre-established Romantic Relationship (It’s Complicated, honestly). Word Count: ~2,140 words Request: “Hi! Is it okay if I ask for another homicipher fic? I just got all the endings, and I'm obsessed. What about Scarletta trying to be physically affectionate with MC after seeing how protective Mr. Crawling is with them (perhaps even secretly peeking/knowing how often the crawling man hugged you, you two petting or shaking each other's heads, and using the word "cute" on each other.) I need Scarletta jealous 🫣” Author’s Note: Okay so, like… Mr. Scarletella is probably one of the more nerve-wracking characters for me to write for, but I absolutely adored this ask, so I gave writing him in drabble format a shot! (It’s also pretty funny how the fandom has unanimously agreed that Mr. Crawling and Mr. Scarletella would not get along and would be actively antagonistic toward each other lmao). I think his dynamic with the MC is fascinating… the whole parasocial relationship the two of them have going on throughout the game is such a unique choice (love the simp energy he gives off, too, since I wasn’t expecting that from his character haha). This ended up being kind of suggestive at the end?? Nothing too crazy or anything, just him being very happy about being able to touch you. Anyway, I hope this isn’t too OOC – enjoy! 

→ If you enjoyed my work, please reblog it if you can! Exposure on Tumblr is based on reblogging content rather than liking it, so your support would be much appreciated!  ♡

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Even though his memories had been forgotten, parts of himself and his identity erased after you successfully defeated him, Mr. Scarletella occasionally found himself thinking of moments he couldn’t even recall witnessing. 

In his mind, he sees you with another resident of the realm, their long black hair cascading down their form while their laugh echoes through an empty corridor. He sees their fingers threading through your hair, moving their hands up and down along your scalp, and tousling your locks… 

Mr. Scarletella hears your laughter fill the space, too. The sound is light and airy, and he finds his chest tightening at the hazy memory. It’s an uncomfortable feeling and certainly was not one he enjoyed experiencing. It almost felt like knives being shoved repeatedly into his torso, a stinging and aching sensation that spread throughout his entire body from a singular point.

Almost absentmindedly, his hand comes to rest on the left side of his chest, the side where a heart would be located if he possessed one like you did. Mr. Scarletella hears a gentle murmur interrupt his thoughts, a noise that cuts through the fog in his mind like a saw slicing through flesh and sinew. 

“You okay?” Your voice echoes, and his pitch-black eyes dart down to meet with yours. You’re holding a red umbrella – his very heart and soul – in your hands. Your hold isn’t painful, nor is it gentle. It was perfect, just like you, he thought to himself. 

Rain drips down the water-resistant material of the umbrella that was permanently stained a bright, bloody red, and it falls onto the clear rubber of your raincoat before sliding down your form. Both the umbrella and your coat effectively keep your body dry from the elements. Mr. Scarletella, on the other hand, was completely soaked, having no issue walking beside you while the rain clung to his clothing and chilled his skin.  

If he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the heat of your body spreading throughout his chest and warming his form from the inside out. Oh, how happy he would be if the small flame within him sparked into something more, forming a fiery inferno inside his body. Even if you were to burn him, set an uncontrollable blaze within him that only left an empty husk behind, he would be content.  

Your brows are furrowed while you crane your neck back to look at him, the sound of rain around the two of you, effectively breaking up the long stretch of silence. He was acting a bit strange today, you thought to yourself. While the man dressed in red was never really normal in the conventional sense, he was much more quiet today than usual. 

Mr. Scarletella’s gaze used to be immensely nervewracking, his hollow stare once being able to cause the hair on the back of your neck to stand on edge, but you had grown used to it after spending so much time together. The two of you were in your old realm, the one you left behind to stay in the other world. You were fairly close to the haunted apartments he used to call his home and the site where you would dump the bodies of anyone unfortunate to cross your path… The start of everything that led you to where you are now. 

“You quiet… What you thinking about?” You ask him, shifting the hold of the umbrella in your hand to the other. You hadn’t brought your weapon today, wanting to give Mr. Scarletella a chance to experience a “typical” date, one that didn’t consist of violence and murder for a change. However, he had been in a daze since the two of you arrived, and that was somewhat out of character for him. 

Shifting your stance to better face him, your feet sink slightly into the mud beneath you. You look down at your boot-clad feet and frown. While you had grown used to being in a constant state of uncleanliness since the other world didn’t have showers readily or easily available, it was still quite annoying to clean mud from the soles of your shoes. This was the type of mud that threatened to pull your shoe from your foot if you were to try tugging on it, but you pushed your frustration to the side to focus on the man in front of you. 

Mr. Scarletella hums and reaches his hand out to your head, placing his palm against your hair, and you freeze. Your hair sticks to his deathly cold hand, almost as if static electricity was coursing through his fingers. 

It was soft under his skin, your hair, yet he could feel that some knots had begun to form near the base of the strands. Then, he begins to rub his hand back and forth, effectively messing your hair up even more. Your mind blanks at his sudden movement, the action reminding you of Mr. Crawling.

“Why… you touch me?” You ask, staring up at him as the rain begins to fall even harder, your grip on the umbrella in your hand tightening around the handle. The rain was so heavy that you could barely see into the distance, the horizon completely covered in a thick, gray mist. A sudden gust of wind blew Mr. Scarletella’s red hair, and within his usually hollow eyes swirled something you had never seen within them before. 

It reminded you of a storm rolling in across the ocean waves, a variety of emotions spiraling within his ashen irises. His hand never once leaves your body, instead sliding down the side of your head to cup your cheek in his palm. Whenever he touched you, it felt like TV static against your flesh, and you could see white-and-black dots begin to dance across your vision as a light hum filled your ears. 

Mr. Scarletella’s flesh is cold, and it reminds you of a corpse the chill his touch leaves in its wake. His head tilts to one side and he whispers to you, his voice barely audible above the rain crashing around you, “I want you – want to touch you.” 

Before you can even speak or formulate a response to his words, he quickly pulls his hand away from your skin. It felt like you had burnt him, yet he found himself not minding the stinging sensation that danced across his flesh. His hand dropped lifelessly to his side before he muttered an apologetic, “Sorry. Shouldn’t have touched you.”

After taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you shake your head and tell him, “...You okay,” before turning on your heel to walk away. You glance at him over your shoulder, his form becoming further soaked from the storm. It was kind of amusing, you thought, seeing such a previously powerful entity look like a stray, sopping-wet cat. 

Eventually, you gesture for him to come with one hand, the order of, “Follow me.” coming out of your lips, loud enough for him to hear.

He teleports to you before you can even finish your sentence, staring down at you with those unnerving eyes of his as he waits to see where you want to go. A huff of air forces its way out of your nose, chuckling at his obedience before you lightly graze his hand with your nails. It’s strange touching him, his form more like an illusion than a body made of flesh and blood. 

The two of you make your way across the waterlogged fields and flooded, muddy roads. Your footsteps splash in the puddles beneath you as you walk while Mr. Scarletella moves without making a single noise, merely a ghost in this world. Soon, however, the abandoned apartments come into view, and you lead him inside the old concrete structure. 

You pause as soon as your feet make contact with the cracked floor of the building, making sure that you can’t hear the sound of another living being within the hollow corridors. You close the umbrella when nothing catches your attention, making sure to shake it a few times to try and remove the raindrops that have accumulated on its surface. You watch as the water falls to the ground, making small, dark grey circles on the concrete. 

Looking over your shoulder, you watch as Mr. Scarletella watches you in return while holding the umbrella, waiting patiently for you to say something as a shiver runs down his spine. His hands that were hanging at his sides were closed, and he was clenching and unclenching his fingers almost like he was fighting the urge to place his palms against your skin once more.  

You can’t help but chuckle at his demeanor, placing the now-closed umbrella down so it was leaning against the wall. You do the same, leaning back on the wall before you hold your arms out to him, saying with a small smirk, “You can touch me.”

You jumped slightly at the speed at which he appeared in front of you. His body hunched over yours while he watched your expression intently, his black eyes partially hidden behind the thick curtain of red hair that cast shadows across his sickly complexion. Mr. Scarletella places his palm on your head, telling you smoothly, “Thank you.”

One of his hands begins to tentatively pat your skull while he enjoys the feeling of your hair against his palm. Then, his other hand soon joins, and you close your eyes while you allow him to pat you like a dog. It felt a bit demeaning in a way, but also strangely comforting, and it reminded you of one of the friendliest residents of the other world you had met. 

Your eyes flutter shut almost out of habit, allowing the man in front of you to enjoy the rare moment with you. His hands started out resting against the top and sides of your head, the movement of palms against your hair causing it to become messy and sticking up because of the static he created. 

Then, they tentatively travel to your face, cupping your cheeks before he brushes his thumbs underneath your eyes. You jolt a bit when his cold hand brushes against your neck, swallowing harshly when you feel him trace a finger down your SCM. Your breathing hitches while he explores your skin, and your teeth dig harshly into your bottom lip in response. 

Then, you feel his touch pause, and Mr. Scarletella whispers against your neck, the pad of his thumb swiping against your lips, “...blood.” 

“Oh, uh…” You open your eyes and look at him, seeing the way he’s staring up at you while his face remains close to your jugular. Your hand goes up to your lips, and you wince when you feel the soreness. When you pull your fingers away from your mouth, you see the blood that clings to them. Geez, you didn’t think you had bit your lip that hard. 

You tell Mr. Scarletella, patting his head much like how he had been doing with you, “I’m okay. Don’t stop.”

He smiles widely and lights up at your words. Suddenly, he grabs your face and hastily presses his lips to yours. Your eyes grow at the sudden act, and a strangled noise leaves your throat. It wasn’t a bad noise, per se, you just hadn’t been expecting that from him. Typically, he waited until you permitted him to do that... He must have been too excited to hold back this time around.

You were speechless when he pulled away from you, noticing your blood that was now smeared across his lips. He licks it away, his tongue peeking out from behind his lips before he asks you, “...You happy?”

You can’t help but laugh at his question, reaching up to place your hand on his head while your giggles echo throughout the empty hallways, patting him softly. Mr. Scarletella’s smile falters while he focuses on the feeling of your touch, on burning the memory of your expression and the sweet sound of your laughter into his mind. It made him feel strange knowing he was the one making you react in such a way, but it was good.

He wanted to do it more. 

“Yes, I happy. You cute.” You reply, smiling warmly at him while he stares at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the world. 

“I like you.” He says, sounding almost breathless as his body hunches over more, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck while his hands explore the rest of your body, stroking and touching and petting you. Mr. Scarletella didn’t want this moment to end. 

You chuckle as his breath fans against your skin, telling him gently as you feel his fingers work out any knots in your hair, “I know.” 

“I like you, I like you, I like you…” He murmurs against your flesh, “I love you.”

[forlix]

𝐚𝐜𝐞・h.h.

— volleyball superstar and your personal hell hwang hyunjin proposes a trade-off you can't refuse: his matchmaking services for a passing anthropology grade. the plan is foolproof in theory; in practice, it is something else entirely.

words・15.2k

pairing・volleyball player!hyunjin x tutor!reader (gn)

genres・college!au, sports!au, fake enemies to friends to lovers, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn. two polar opposites sharing one soul. a seungjin fic if u squint. loosely inspired by the manga/anime haikyuu!!

warnings・mentions of anxiety, fear of failure, heartbreak, loneliness, and self-image. course language and callous banter (as always) ft. suggestive flirting and one kms joke. some of the referenced players and coaches are real; this fic is not.

playlist・collision by stray kids・value by ado・waiting for us by stray kids・eternity by bang chan・dreaming by smallpools・fly high!! by burnout syndromes

a/n・writing this felt like returning to my roots tbh. i love volleyball and i love sports aus and i love, love hwang hyunjin. thank u to my sahar for bringing this fic to life with me, as always; i can no longer write for him without also writing for you. i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i adored writing it. happy late birthday, our jinnie, our hyunjin, our forever ace; you are so unbelievably loved ♡

“Not a word out of you,” you say, tossing your backpack onto the floor of the lecture hall with a heavy-handed flick. “I’m serious.”

Hyunjin glances up at you with a frown. “When did people stop saying good morning?”

Your lack of an immediate comeback tells him the situation is dire. He observes you for a moment, his mouth falling open, hanging still, then curving into a slow, serpentine smile.

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Please, angel.”

“No! Leave me alone.”

Hyunjin slumps back into his seat, thinking hard. The solution occurs to him with a poke of his tongue into his cheek. “Coffee on me for a week.”

At this, your hands stop rummaging in your bag. You cock your head, your interest piqued. Got you. 

When you finally humor him and turn around, you’re flinching like you’re in pain, eyes closed and breath held and all. He giggles and leans in for a closer look. Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He could’ve counted your eyelashes if he wasn’t so flummoxed by the state of your forehead.

“What the hell did you do?”

“Tried to cut my own bangs,” you sigh. “It didn’t go very well and now I look like Rock Lee.”

Hyunjin lets out a forceful laugh. “You’ve seen Naruto?”

You open your eyes. Only then does Hyunjin remember how little distance he left between your faces, when he’s staring straight into them and all the strange, starry speckles they hold.

The air between you curdles like sour milk.

Things are awkward between you often, he’s realized recently. What’s more, he didn’t think he was capable of being awkward with anyone anymore until he met you. It was your ill-fated seat that he chose to sit next to on the first day of ANTH 111, your ill-fated lap onto which he chose to spill his Americano, and the rest was history (or, in this case, anthropology). His tongue ends up in sailor’s knots with every smart-aleck comment and pitiful laugh you’ve given him since. Maybe there’s more to it, maybe there isn’t—Hyunjin doesn’t think about it much. He doesn’t like thinking in general.

You pull away from each other in unison. You clear your throat, glancing elsewhere. 

“Of course I’ve seen Naruto,” you quip, and everything is normal again. “Why do you seem surprised?”

“Because you’re so scholarly.”

“I am not scholarly.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You go to a park to play chess with old people on weekends.”

“I need to get my steps in somehow.”

“You didn’t know what Urban Dictionary was until I told you to look up—”

“God, I learned so much about you that day."

“Your favorite social media platform is Quizlet,” he bursts, exasperated. “Quizlet.”

“It is not.” An introspective pause. “Or is it?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Hyunjin throws his feet up on the chair below him, jabs in your direction with a bandaged finger. “There is no way you enjoy watching 2D men beat each other up in your free time. I don’t buy it.”

“Honestly, I thought you’d have more to say about my current appearance than my hobbies.”

He does, though. Matter of fact, he’s been curating a list since this conversation started: Vector from Despicable Me, Dora the Explorer’s hot older sibling, Spock. You face-planted into a lawnmower. You mistook a paper shredder for a hat. It goes on.

But then his head turns. Your eyes meet again. He’s reminded that it’s hard to sustain an inner monologue and look at you at the same time, Vector resemblance and all.

He reaches up, nudges a lock of your hair over a centimeter or so, and gives the patch of forehead a gentle flick.

“Watermelon,” he mumbles with a sickening smile.

You divert your attention to your lecture notes with a disappointed click of your tongue. “You’re getting soft.”

He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.

“I only get coffee from that one place on the east side of campus, by the way,” you say as you’re strolling out the building together, “and I get it a very specific way. Can you handle it?”

“Your faith gets me out of bed in the morning,” Hyunjin deadpans. “I’ll handle it, love. Text me your order.”

All of a sudden, you position your hands close to your stomach, the lapels of your jacket casting them in shadow. Your fingers begin to move in a sequence that he’d recognize anywhere.

“Body flicker jutsu,” you whisper, and then you’re scurrying off without another word—but you do glance back at him to gauge his response. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the main quad’s busy thrum.

Hyunjin gapes at your retreating figure for so long that phosphenes start prancing around his field of view. Then he heads to the gym. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram.

“Hwang, I need you in my office.”

Hyunjin stops lacing up his shoes to see Coach Bang standing on the court’s sideline with a grim air about him. He glances at his captain, confused.

“Don’t look at me,” Minho says mid-stretch. “Godspeed.”

“Thanks, cap.” Useless.

Head volleyball coach Christopher Bang’s workspace reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. It’s all fluorescent lights and spotless white walls, the only decorative fixture a picture of his siblings, parents, and dog in front of the Sydney Opera House, framed and facing him atop his desk. Hyunjin once snuck the thing into the bathroom, an innocent plot to satiate his curiosity, and promptly discovered the man’s propensity for violence. He’s packing beneath those dry-cleaned polos, by the way.

Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. “You can read, right?”

“Yes, coach,” he sighs. Everyone’s expectations for him are subterranean.

From: Park Jinyoung «asiansoul_jyp@snu.edu» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «cb97@snu.edu» Subject: Not good See email from Hwang’s antopology professor below . He submitted the complete script of the Trolls movie instead of his mid term paper and now he’s failing the class . Not good . Sort out ASAP JP Sent from my iPad

Bang snatches up his mouse and scrolls, his ears turning scarlet. “Wrong email.”

“Yep.”

From: Kim Kyeyoung «kyeyoungkim@snu.edu» To: Park Jinyoung «asiansoul_jyp@snu.edu» Subject: Regarding Hwang Hyunjin To Director of Athletics Park, I am writing to inform you that, as of yesterday, Mr. Hwang Hyunjin has a D- (64.9%) in ANTH 111: Cultural Anthropology, due to his submission of the complete script of a kids’ movie instead of his midterm paper. It is disappointing to see Mr. Hwang trivialize and ridicule my class to such a degree. Please see to it that he reorganizes his priorities lest his Student-Athlete Participation Agreement do so for him. Regards, Kim Kyeyoung Professor of Anthropology

“That’s bullshit!”

“We’re in agreement there.” Bang folds his arms over his chest, throws his foot over his knee. “Do you know what your Student-Athlete Participation Agreement says?”

“Does anyone?” Hyunjin scoffs. Bang whips out a form and brings it to eye level, the thing covered from top to bottom in microscopic Times New Roman. “No way you just had that.”

“I had it delivered ten minutes ago,” Bang confesses, then clears his throat and begins to recite. “All student-athletes must complete the academic term with a C or higher in all courses, should they wish to continue their participation in athletics thereafter.”

Hyunjin stiffens. “What the fuck? I’ve never heard—”

“If any Department of Athletics personnel,” Bang continues, raising his voice, “have reason to believe that a student-athlete will not be able to satisfy this requirement, they are encouraged to utilize resources such as academic advising or peer tutoring in guiding said student-athlete back onto the correct path.”

He shoves the piece of paper across his desk. “Read that name aloud for me.”

Hyunjin stares at the signature at the bottom of the page, scrawled so carelessly that most of it deviates away from its designated line. There is a rare hollowness in his chest that he recognizes as anxiety. With it comes a glimpse of a life without volleyball, the question of what little of him would remain.

“Hwang Hyunjin,” he says under his breath.

The office goes silent. Bang tucks the form back into his drawer. It closes with a gentle click.

Then comes the yelling.

“The Trolls movie? Trolls?! Are you fucking with me, Hwang?”

“It was a cultural reset! The pinnacle of modern media! How’s that for anthropology?”

“BAD!” Bang explodes, gesturing to the email emphatically. “VERY, VERY BAD!”

Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.

“You’ve never had trouble with school before.” He leans over his desk imposingly. “What the hell happened this semester? What changed?”

Nothing is the first answer that comes to mind, but Hyunjin’s pulse spikes like a lie detector. Upon the inside of his eyes replays a scene of a certain someone with watermelon bangs doing teleportation jutsu at him from a few yards away, wearing a smile made of some kind of space dust that astronomists haven’t discovered yet.

He grits his teeth, annoyed. This is what happens when he thinks.

“Beats me,” he fibs. “Typical junior year stress, maybe.”

“Does any of it have to do with Piazza?” 

Hyunjin shudders.

It just might, actually.

Modesty has no place in the career he’s had: high school national champion turned ace hitter in both the South Korean U21 roster and regular rotation for Seoul National University, the best collegiate volleyball team in the country. His name has lived at the top of ranking lists and the center of gold medals since he turned old enough to qualify for them; the press believes him the instigant of South Korea’s imminent volleyball revolution. It’s a mouthful, he knows.

It was never a question that he would go professional; the question was who he should talk to and where he would go.

At the start of the school year, Bang, acting in place of the agent he was advised to find and never bothered to, gave him a list of people to reach out to. On the very top was none other than Roberto Piazza, the chairman and head coach of Allianz Milano, one of the most eminent club teams in the world—and current home to Hyunjin’s personal idol, outside hitter Ishikawa Yuki.

Hyunjin thought his poor coach had finally succumbed to his old age. The thought of stepping onto the same court as Ishikawa felt sacrilegious, let alone donning the red, white, and navy blue of Allianz Milano with him. But Bang slapped him on the back of the neck and reminded him that going professional was equal parts preparation and opportunity; he was never going to know the answers to questions he didn’t ask. Hyunjin was coerced to fire off an introductory email despite his reservations.

Piazza replied within the week.

For the last five months, Hyunjin has been fighting with tooth and nail to manage his expectations. He scrolls past the team’s social media posts like they burn his eyes. He replies to Piazza’s emails right before working out with Changbin under the assumption that whatever the shredded libero does to him will eviscerate his brain. If his world is made of dreams, this is the one at its very core, imbued with destructive potential the second it became attainable.

But that’s the last five months. The last five weeks have been you kicking him in the shin because he’s laughing (or trying to make you laugh) and the professor is staring; you listening to him rant and rave about volleyball when he knows you couldn’t care less about the sport; you relaying the contents of your class readings like hot gossip, your eyes wild and hands flying around because you can’t contain your excitement. You, you, you.

He cards a hand through his air, regaining focus. “You know how I feel about Piazza.”

“Expect the worst, hope for the best.” Bang’s chair skids backwards as he stands up. “I think it’s a good approach.”

Suddenly, he is directly in front of Hyunjin, low enough to meet his eyes. His hands rest upon his shoulders firmly.

“But hope is hungry, and it will consume you if you let it,” he says. “Do not let it, Hyunjin. I’m not asking.”

Even while being squeezed to a pulp and regarded with the cold intensity of a statue, Hyunjin can’t help but feel anchored, somehow, to the floor of this miserable office. Protected.

Bang lets go of him. “I’m not asking you to find a tutor by the end of the week, either.”

Hyunjin groans. “Yeah, yeah. I’m on it.”

A set of bandaged fingers appear in your periphery to place a paper cup onto your laptop. Accompanying the smell of fresh coffee is that of smoky rose, as decidedly douchey as ever.

“I thought you said your order was complicated.”

You look up from your phone to see Hyunjin plop into the adjacent seat. His long, caramel-colored hair is damp and unstyled in the aftermath of a morning shower, droplets of water pearling on the lapels of a navy blue windbreaker, layered over a white long sleeve. You recognize the outfit by now as game gear.

“Was it not?” You ask.

“It was an Americano, love. I walked up to the cashier and placed an order for an Americano.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure if you could handle that much.” He flips you off as you squint at the cup. “Someone wrote their number on the lid, by the way.”

“What? Really?”

“No.”

He shoves you hard enough for your upper body to drape over the opposite armrest; you’re still cackling by the time you’ve straightened up again.

“Why did you get this, anyway?” Hyunjin grumbles. “I thought you had a sweet tooth.”

“I do, but you don’t.”

Only then does the fool understand that you had no intention of charging him in coffee just for a haircut reveal. He takes back the coffee hesitantly.

“Thanks,” he says at last. “Nice of you.”

“I know, right? Hated it,” you respond, and he almost chokes on his first sip.

You almost choke on nothing when Kim Seungmin materializes in the aisle adjacent. He holds out a hand in Hyunjin’s direction. “Yo.”

Hyunjin dabs it up mid-sip. “I fully forgot you were in this class.”

“Well, I’m due for my weekly appearance.” Seungmin slips into the seat directly below you, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Hi,” you say, somehow managing to stumble over the single syllable the word has. You thank your lucky stars that you fixed your hair yesterday.

You like Kim Seungmin. Not just in the cutesy, crushy way, but in the “I would relinquish all of my rights for you” way where you spend every waking moment cursing out whatever stroke of misfortune placed Hyunjin in the seat next to you instead of him. He’s funny, gorgeous, and talented—a vocal performance major with a student-athlete contract—and you think your infatuation is more than justified. Hyunjin thinks it’s hilarious.

You side-eye your blonde adversary, prepared to see one of three things: a suppressed laugh, a dramatic eye-roll, or a mature kissy face that usually results in the first option. You’re met with something far more worrisome.

He’s thinking.

That can’t be good.

Suddenly, his phone screen lights up with a text that temporarily wipes the conspiratorial gleam from his eye. Hyunjin scans it over and groans. “Can this guy do his fucking job?”

“He wouldn’t have to if you didn’t quit,” Seungmin answers. “I’ll never forget you, Manager Hwang.”

“Shut up.” You peer at Hyunjin, silently requesting an explanation. “Our captain is forcing us to help him look for a new team manager. We need one for playoffs because of some stupid U-League rule—Seung, why do you look morose?”

“I’m mourning.” Seungmin does look morose indeed. “Hyunjin committed larceny last year and our coach punished him by making him our team manager for the rest of the season. It was so funny.”

Hyunjin slides down his seat. “It was the worst experience of my life.”

Neither man seems inclined to elaborate on the mention of larceny. You choose to digress. “Can I ask why?”

“He had to be responsible,” Seungmin whispers. “For other people.”

The top of Hyunjin’s head stops right next to your armrest. You reach over and pat his hair in faux sympathy. “Poor thing.”

“Hardass refused to do it again this year, so now we’re recruiting.” Seungmin props an elbow upon the back of his chair, looks at you contemplatively. “I don’t suppose you have four hours to spare every day.”

Hyunjin scoffs from below you. Loudly. “This one? Team manager?”

“I can see it.”

“I can see killing myself, maybe.”

The next time you reach for him is to hit his forehead. A crisp smack resounds around the barren lecture hall. Hyunjin cusses into his seat cushion.

“Seems like a great candidate to me,” Seungmin muses, and the warm smile he gives you mirrors onto your face before you can think better of it. God, it’s pretty. You wonder how it would feel pressed against your own.

Hyunjin is now completely out of sight and halfway onto the floor. “I miss when you didn’t come to class, Seungmin.”

Eighty minutes later, you’ve just emerged from the classroom when Seungmin calls out to you. You come to such a sudden halt that Hyunjin almost trips over you, but you barely notice him stumble, utterly enraptured by the hand Seungmin brings to the strands of hair by your ear, the fingers that dust your cheek as they pluck a small piece of lint from out of the tresses.

“Sorry.” He flicks it away with a sheepish smile. “I couldn’t unsee it.”

You manage to thank him just before your whole body ceases to function. Hyunjin sidesteps the two of you, yawning.

Seungmin excuses himself not too long after you reach the main quad. You also turn to leave, sparing Hyunjin a curt farewell in the process. He hooks his pointer finger around the handle at the top of your backpack and lugs you backwards with infuriating ease.

“I didn’t like that at all,” you say.

“I don’t care. I have something to tell you.”

“You have a kid, don’t you?”

“Wha—huh? Who do you think I am?”

“The one-night-stand’s poster child. The champion of the contraception industry.”

“Yeah, contraception industry. It’s right there in the name.”

You can’t argue with that. “What do you have to tell me?”

A shadow of hesitation flits across Hyunjin’s face. Your smile falters. Is it possible that you’re about to have a serious conversation with him for the first time? Maybe you should’ve saved the secret son bit for another time.

“I’m failing anthro.”

So much for a serious conversation. 

“Come again?”

He repeats the mystifying statement.

“You’re joking.” The look on his face says otherwise, though, and your eyebrows disappear into your hair. “You’re failing anthro?”

“I just said that, yes.”

“You’re failing anthropology?”

“Mhm.”

“Just so we’re clear—you’re failing Introduction to Cultural Anthropology?”

“Yes. I’m glad you’re having fun.”

This is the best day of your life. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“Yeah, well, our professor has no media literacy,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Hyunjin clears his throat. “Anyways, I was thinking—”

“Wow! Congratulations. That’s a big—oomf—”

Hyunjin puts his entire hand over your face. Your mangled noises of protest go unacknowledged.

“I was thinking,” he continues, pushing your head around like a stick shift, “you and I can work out some kind of deal.”

You shove his wrist off you with a revolted groan. “I think I just ate some athletic tape.”

“Happens. You wanna hear the deal or not?”

“Does it involve ingesting more sports equipment?”

“Do you want it to?”

“Just tell me the deal, boy.”

“Alright.” He takes a deep breath. “If you help me pass this class, I’ll set you up with Seungmin.”

Your head performs a triple-axel on your neck. You are unable to respond for what feels like multiple hours. Finally: “I’m gonna need you to elaborate.”

“On which part?”

“All of them. Everything.”

Hyunjin sighs, then scans the courtyard. His gaze settles on the student union a little ways off. “Are you hungry?”

You pick up a sandwich and a smoothie in a state of nervous stupor. One would think it’s the prime minister you’re about to have lunch with and not an imbecilic left-side hitter eating from three different entrees at the same time.

He’s chosen a table a few yards away from a planter of flowering cherry blossom trees. You feel jealous eyes on the side of your face as you take a seat across from Hyunjin, but they don’t know that his telephone pole legs still bump against yours even with them drawn as close to your body as anatomically possible. Or that he’s drawing up a literal Ponzi scheme on your sandwich wrapper. You wager you’ve had better company.

“You like anthropology. I like listening to you talk about anthropology.” He traces over the wrapper’s left corner. “And I kinda want you to boss me around. That weird?”

“Yes, definitely,” you mumble around a mouthful of bread. “Go on.”

“Conclusion one: you should be my tutor.” He taps in place as if applying a finishing touch, then swaps to the opposite side. “You also like my teammate, but he’s neck-deep in volleyball and music this semester, which makes him hard to get a hold of—for most people.”

“Let me guess. Not for you.”

“Ten points to Ravenclaw.” His British accent is nightmarish. “Seung and I live in the same building. We get dinner when we go back from practice together. Conclusion two: you should come with us.”

“To dinner or to practice?”

“To both. Which brings us to my third and final conclusion—”

He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.

“—you should manage our team.”

“I knew it!” You slam the table as well, your smoothie wobbling upon impact. “You’re trying to swindle me! You can’t pay for my labor with more labor. What do you take me for?”

“It’s not labor, dumbass! Ask our last manager! He didn’t do shit!”

“Yeah? Who was your last manager?”

“Me!”

Oh, right. “But you hated it!”

“I hate everything that isn’t playing volleyball. Try again.”

You fold your arms over your chest. “You said you’d kill yourself if I managed you.”

Hyunjin starts balling up your sandwich wrapper. “It’s true. I thought about you and my coach getting along and promptly got a rash. But it makes so much sense: you do whatever you want during practice, tutor me afterwards, and then you and Seung can eyefuck over ramen or something. My coach hops off my dick, you hop on Seung’s—”

“STOP!” A girl drops her receipt not too far away, startled by your outburst. “Stop right there. I get it. Stop.”

“It’s a good plan.” He slings the paper ball towards the nearest trash can. It drops into the hole without so much as a brush against the rim. “You know it is.”

You’re loath to admit that you do. “When did you even come up with all this?”

He flicks a thumb in the direction of your anthropology class. No fucking wonder he’s failing.

“What is this, mock trial?”

The owner of this voice is the third man you’ve seen today donning that navy windbreaker, white long-sleeve combo. He has a face that reminds you of your neighbor’s cat from back home, sleek and sharp and only slightly sinister. There’s a dash of humor in his expression as he approaches your table like he’s enjoying the company of a court jester.

“Slamming tables like fuckin’ tariff lawyers,” the cat-man hums, lifting a hand in Hyunjin’s direction. “I could see it from all the way inside.”

“Captain!” Hyunjin crows, dabbing him up without missing a beat. They really do that like breathing. “Just the man I was hoping to see.”

“Really? I thought you’d be avoiding me like the rest of our homunculus team.”

“I would never.”

“You did. Yesterday. When you saw me and started running in the opposite direction.” He pauses for emphasis. “As fast as possible.”

“Well, that was yesterday. Today is a new day.” Hyunjin tosses you a proud glance. “And today, I bring you a new team manager.”

You stiffen. “I haven’t—”

“Is that so!” When the stranger smiles at you, you feel the same satisfaction you did every time the cat let you scratch her on the chin. “Music to my ears. What’s your name, cutie?”

You catch Hyunjin’s eye across the table; he nods enthusiastically as if saying go on, then. You briefly picture yourself strangling him with his own athletic tape. You then picture yourself hopping on Seungmin’s—

Rigidly, you throw a hand out to the cat-man, your face aflame.

“Y/N,” you grumble. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

He shakes on it heartily. “Likewise. I’m Minho. Welcome to the team.”

“Yes, welcome to the team,” Hyunjin parrots, looking positively jolly. You gnash your teeth together so hard your jaw throbs.

He’s lucky that his proposal holds so much water. He’s lucky that you don’t plan to strangle him until after you try that eyefucking thing.

You do kick him under the table, though.

The team has five weeks to prepare for the Korean University League, the biggest college-level volleyball tournament in the country. You have five days to learn how the hell athletic tape works. You can’t tell which is the bigger endeavor.

“I’m going to cause him irreversible skeletal damage,” you tell Changbin.

The team’s libero is twice as kind as he is talented, a full-time sweetheart working part-time at the university’s sports medicine clinic. Only your first week on the job and you’ve already decided he’s the only person on Earth you would permit to usher you through the gym at 6:45 A.M., a roll of athletic tape pressed to your back like a pistol.

“You will not,” Changbin answers. “One, because this won’t involve his skeleton, and two, because I wouldn’t ask you to help if it did.”

“You’ve misunderstood me,” you return as the two of you stop in front of an examination room. “I want to cause him irreversible skeletal damage.”

“Oh.” He opens the door with a frown. “Oh dear.”

Inside, Hyunjin is sitting cross-legged on top of a taping table, fitted in a loose gray tee and athletic shorts. He watches in pessimistic silence as you enter the room and beeline straight towards the shelf on the right. You slip a thick binder into your hands and bury your nose inside it without so much as a greeting.

“I am going to get maimed,” Hyunjin tells Changbin.

“Have some faith, both of you,” Changbin replies sternly. You find the pages you’re looking for and begin poring over them like you’re cramming for an exam. “You’ll be fine, Jinnie. Y/N studied.”

“Studied?” He repeats. “For this?”

“I’m pretty sure Quizlets were made.”

“Three, to be exact," you interject, sticking out your hand. “Now tape me.”

Hyunjin mouths the words tape me in baffled silence. The latter obliges your request with a smile. “See? What could go wrong?”

The answer to that, actually, is a lot. Especially after Changbin gets called away to help stretch out a teammate named Felix who allegedly “sprained his ass,” leaving Hyunjin to you and your binder.

You detect no smoky rose in the air around him today, just the subtle smells of cedar and cypress—laundry detergent or shampoo, maybe. Figures he doesn’t wear that insufferable cologne to practice.

“Go easy on me, yeah?”

While Hyunjin’s tone is teasing, yours is downright somber.

“I can’t promise anything.”

With that, you turn your palms face-up in a silent request for his hand.

A few strands of hair fall into your face as you lean in for a better look. It’s the first time you’ve seen his fingers untaped; they’re pretty, long and slender and surprisingly manicured, but also battered in their delicacy, the veins running over the back of his hand and forearm prominent, his bottom knuckles discolored from the healing bruises they bear. His hard work is palpable upon the smooth skin as evidently as if tattooed.

Hyunjin says your name in close proximity. You respond with an absent hum.

“You’re not nervous, are you?”

“No. Maybe a little.” You let his hand fall free and go to rummage for supplies. “Fine, yes. Very.”

“But you made Quizlets. You’re prepared for anything.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” You realize only after spotting the gentle smile on his face that he’s making fun of you. “I hate you.”

“Actually,” he hums, “I think you care about me, love. That’s why you’re nervous.”

“Nonsense—I care about disappointing Changbin. That’s it.”

“And me. And hopping on Seungmin’s dick. All these things don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

You try to tackle him. Hyunjin catches your hands a few inches away from his face, fingers closing around your wrists with obnoxious agility.

“Have you lost your mind?” You whisper-shout, your face on fire. “Don’t bring that up here. I’ll maim you for real.”

The laugh that explodes out of him throws his entire body backwards, turns his eyes to crescent moons and his mouth into a little rectangle. You hate that you don’t hate when that happens.

“My bad, my bad. It slipped out. I won’t—”

One incremental shift of Hyunjin’s body later, you find that you’re precariously, alarmingly close to one another.

So much so that you notice the mole beneath his left eye for the first time, that you're nearly cross-eyed looking at it. That the tip of your nose actually brushes against his before you pull away with a quiet intake of breath. 

Things are awkward between you often, you’ve realized recently. You’re both professional yappers, always quick to digress, quick to find a new topic to bicker about before the awkwardness marinates. But hours later you’ll look back on the interaction and still remember how the air shifted: like a layer of dust had been blown away and something untouched and unknown was discovered just underneath.

Since you’ve met him, Hyunjin has spent more time on your nerves than on your mind. You’re not exactly losing sleep over such a circumstantial acquaintance; you know that his presence in your life will end the way it began, naturally and anticlimactically and inside the ANTH 111 lecture hall. Still, it doesn’t go unnoticed when your heart and stomach launch into an elaborate gymnastics routine in the wake of something he says or does, just as they’re doing now.

Hyunjin glances into your right eye a moment, then your left. The mole just below his left eye disappears when he smiles, the expression soft, saccharine, and sincere. How anyone casually looks the way he does is beyond your abilities of comprehension.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Your face continues to burn, now perhaps for different reasons. “What for?”

He lets go of your wrist, sweeps the lock of hair that keeps getting in your eyes behind the cuff of your ear.

“Caring about me.”

Then he flicks your forehead. You recoil with a quiet ow.

“Now stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.”

“Okay,” you mutter, rubbing the injury tenderly. “No need to get violent.”

It turns out the arduous taping procedure described in the instruction manual is for serious hand injuries. Hyunjin splints his fingers together for support, not rehabilitation, so it takes all of five minutes for him to talk you through his process. You finish taping both of his hands with nineteen minutes to spare. So maybe the Quizlets were overkill.

As you’re walking him down to practice, you take his hand and lift it to eye level, scanning your craftsmanship dubiously. “It’s not too tight, is it?”

“It’s perfect.” He swivels the hand around and grabs onto your entire face, the sensation by now eerily familiar. “Want another taste?”

You shove him down the stairs that remain. Unfortunately, there are only two. “You are truly grotesque.”

The gym has come to life since you arrived earlier this morning, now illuminated by shining ceiling lights in addition to the sun spilling through high, narrow windows. Most of the team has yet to step onto the court, still stretching or jogging along the sidelines: Minho and Coach Bang are talking strategy on the bench, the coach taking notes on a handheld whiteboard every now and then; Changbin is leaning over a recumbent Felix below the scoreboard, presumably trying to fix his ass.

The only one already with a ball in hand is Seungmin, setting to himself by the net. Once, twice, thrice straight up in the air, and then he glances in your direction and sends the fourth towards the left side of the court in a buoyant arc.

You only glean bits and pieces of the next few seconds. Hyunjin is at your side one moment, making a break for the net the next. His arms draw backwards in perfect synchrony. Feet hit the floor with laserlike intent. His entire body unravels like a fraying chrysalis as he rises to meet the ball, pounds it over the net and into the ground at an angle so clean that the sound of its landing resounds within your ribcage. It rebounds over the railing of the second floor and barely misses the doorway of the examination room you just emerged from.

Hyunjin drops lightly back onto his feet, following the ball’s tumultuous trajectory with proud eyes. A leftover breeze tosses a strand of hair over the bridge of your nose, and time starts moving again.

“Oi, this isn’t your backyard! Go pick that up!” Their coach booms, though his words lack their usual bitterness after what he just witnessed his ace hitter do.

Hyunjin swivels towards Seungmin first. “Crazy bitch. What the fuck was that?”

“Lower and faster. Further from the net too,” Seungmin returns. “How’d it feel?”

The grin on Hyunjin’s face reminds you of a wildfire, untamed and all-consuming and frightening in its fervor. “Like we just won everything.”

He tousles your hair as he jogs past you and back up the stairs to fetch the volleyball. Seungmin waves at you with one hand and palms another ball into his other. His face is warm and bare, his slim build flattered by his volleyball gear. You’ve witnessed few people so nice to look at and even fewer things as elegant as his setting form. But you are still thinking about Hyunjin—and you can’t move.

It is debilitating, watching somebody do the very thing they were destined for.

A little less than a week later, Hyunjin is approaching hour three of spewing hot garbage into a Word document when he decides to give up and call you. 

“Hello?” He immediately starts laughing. “Where the fuck are you?”

You poke the top of your head into the shot of your ceiling, gesturing to your headband. “My face is preoccupied at the moment.”

“Oh, you have to show me. Please.”

You flip your phone up for no more than half a second. A camera shutter goes off, followed by a shriek so loud that it peaks your mic.

“Motherfucker!”

He basically sprints to his camera roll. His prize: you with your face slathered in cleanser, hair pinned back by a Miffy headband, looking like the abominable snowman if he liked cute merchandise.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. “I’ll treasure this forever.”

“You’ll be punished, Hwang.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You brandish your middle finger at him in response. He props his phone up against his computer screen with a chuckle. 

“Aaanyways, I have a thesis statement to run by you.”

The first thing you did as Hyunjin’s tutor was help draft an email to Professor Kim, begging her to let him resubmit the two essays he royally botched. She replied with a lengthy quotation from her syllabus, specifically the section that talked about (and prohibited) resubmissions, but ended up making an exception for Hyunjin on account of the “truly piteous timbre” of his email. You fell out of your chair laughing when he read you her response.

“You should’ve opened with that.”

“I tried, hello? Someone distracted me!”

“Read. It. Before I change my mind.”

You spend a few minutes at most on the thesis itself, advising him to avoid passive voice, answer the prompt, establish a refutable argument, the works. Then he asks you a question about the research topic itself, allusions to the afterlife in Ancient Egyptian artwork, and the tutoring session takes a turn into what feels like a podcast episode.

You talk about the God of Death, Anubis, and his connections to the underworld; the elaborate, lavish funerary rituals intended to ensure the souls of the dead traveled safely; the vibrant murals that flanked their final resting spots as pictorial requests for divine protection. And you talk about them all with such confidence, such eloquence, that it’s as if you’re leading him through a history museum rather than talking to your phone as you do your skincare. He could listen to you for hours. He does, actually.

Around 1 A.M., Hyunjin stops typing mid-sentence when you come into frame for the first time, collapsing into your bed with a sigh of relief. Your eyes are soft and sleepy as they blink at your screen, strands of damp hair clinging to your cheeks. He feels his heart physically shift inside his ribcage when your mouth stretches into a yawn. It is the same sensation as the time you shot him a smile over your shoulder and he couldn’t move for ten minutes.

With that, his attention span has run its course.

“Baby,” he interrupts gently. “Let’s stop here, okay? You seem tired.”

You open your mouth as if to protest, only to yawn again.

“I suppose I am. Will you keep working tonight?”

“I think so. I hit my stride.”

“Text me if you have questions, then. I’ll respond when I wake up.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Your lips curve into the smallest of smiles. It copies onto Hyunjin’s face incurably quickly. 

“I had my doubts about this tutoring thing, you know.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, you told me this class was the closest thing to daily naptime you’d experienced since preschool.”

“It really is.”

“You also told me you would rather slam your tongue in a car door than read more than three sentences in one sitting.”

“I really would.”

“And you once referred to academia as ‘Virgin Village.’”

“Didn’t you come up with that?”

“No, hello? I live in that village.”

He grins. “I know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ah, don’t threaten me with a good—”

“What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t think you would take this seriously, but I’m happy to be proven wrong.”

Hyunjin leans back. “Well, turns out I might give a fuck about anthropology after all.”

“Really?”

“No.”

You pretend to punch him through the screen. It’s so cute that he forgets to think before he opens his mouth next.

“But I do give a fuck about you.”

There’s nothing crazy about the statement. You’re friends, sort of. You manage his team. It would be strange if he didn’t. But the seconds that follow are terrible, a silent prophecy of something disastrous, like a cloud of rubble before an avalanche, the standstill during a star’s final breath. And Hyunjin’s heartbeat is hounding against his ears like a performance of traditional taiko.

He says good night in a haste. The call ends. He stares at the wall of his bedroom in a muddled haze for who knows how long.

Then he opens his texts.

Hyunjin: We have team bonding tomorrow btw Hyunjin: Don’t forget Y/N: i forgot. Y/N: pick me up at 6:45? Hyunjin: 🫡

He picks you up at 7:53.

You approach his car with your fists balled and your eyebrows knitted together like a mean old curmudgeon and he’s walking too close to your lawn.

“His fault,” Hyunjin says before you start yelling.

Minho simpers at you through his open window. “Hey, you! So glad you could join us!”

You fix the man with a judgmental glare as you slide into the backseat. “Aren’t you the captain? Why are you this late?”

“Whoa, okay. I would’ve scheduled this for earlier if I knew right now was honesty hour.”

“You did schedule it for earlier,” you say. “You scheduled it for way earlier.”

“Yeah, well, you’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me, Minho.”

“I can too. Tell ‘em, Hwang.”

“I want nothing to do with this.”

When you step through the doors of the arcade, you’re met with a surge of sensory input that you haven’t experienced in years. The air hangs thick with the smells of greasy concessions; everywhere you look are flashing screens and neon signs, stuffed animals and fading posters; clamoring against your ears are the sounds of games being won or lost, of balls being pocketed or launched, and of a horde of fully grown men spectating a match of Dance Dance Revolution so passionately (and loudly) that they’ve scared everyone away from that side of the room. You recognize the current competitors as Changbin and Jeongin.

“I’ll go pay,” Hyunjin says. “How much time do we want?”

“Infinity,” Minho answers. Hyunjin doesn’t move. “Two hours.”

He flashes him a thumbs-up. “And you?”

“I’m okay, I think.”

“No you’re not,” the two men answer in perfect unison.

You glance between them warily. “I don’t mind watching, seriously. I don’t even know how most of these games work—”

“There’s Tetris,” Hyunjin cuts in.

You purchase an hour.

One would imagine the point of the evening is to break the SNU men’s volleyball team, not to bond them. You’ve never seen so many strained blood vessels in your life. Nor have you heard of half the insults they spew at each other as the night goes on. Felix has to pay a fee for lodging an air hockey puck in the side of the MarioKart machine. Changbin loses at skee-ball and has to down an XL slushie like it’s a shot. It’s a scary amount of boyishness expressed in scary ways.

But they’re happy. You’ve picked up on it when they’re on the court, noticed the raw elation they emanate just from playing together. Yet, their closeness has never been more evident to you than tonight. The men are either laughing or making someone else laugh, arms draped over each other at all times, equally happy to celebrate victories as they’re eager to punish losses. It dawns on you at some point that you’re glad to be here with them, grateful to be a part of something so special—especially because there’s Tetris.

“Have you ever considered going pro?” Hyunjin asks over your shoulder.

You waited until most of the team was distracted to slink off to your beloved machine. Hyunjin tagged along, undoubtedly with the intention of making fun of you, only to be rendered speechless by your mastery. He’s been watching in a state of stupor, forearms propped against the back of your chair.

You don’t respond for a while, too focused on a precarious patch to even blink, let alone partake in conversation.

“I already did,” you finally answer.

“Sorry, what? You played professional Tetris?”

“In middle school. Then I got bored and switched to backgammon.” You pause. “Then I got bored again and switched to chess.”

“How do you look like this with these hobbies?”

Your run ends a few minutes later with a somber sound effect. You turn around in your seat with an anguished groan. “I think I’m washed.”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You just set a new record by three hundred thousand points.”

“It’s a small pond,” you say, and an idea occurs to you. “Do you wanna try?”

“I get the feeling I don’t have a choice.”

“Then you’re smarter than you look.”

“Well, you look—”

His eyes move between your shoes and your face, and then his voice is an inaudible mutter as he sinks into your seat. You think you hear something along the lines of unfair.

“What was that?”

“Ugly. I said you look ugly.” He cracks his knuckles. “Now let’s break some fuckin' blocks.” 

When Hyunjin learns that the pieces can be rotated (so six or seven attempts later), a man walks into the arcade. 

He has hair the color of dark chocolate, the face of a fairy prince—and he’s with someone. The two of them appear arm in arm, laughing at something he said. He looks at this person the way astronomers do to the sky.

Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.

Your hands loosen around the back of Hyunjin’s chair. You can’t watch. You can’t think. You can only feel a void of disappointment rip open, stretch over you like an elongating shadow.

“Seung!” That’s Jisung, you think. “You made it!”

“Yo, sorry we’re late.” That’s Seungmin. That is undoubtedly Seungmin. “Dinner took longer than I thought.”

“Min, are you sure I’m allowed to be here?” You don’t know who this voice belongs to and you’re not sure you want to. “I feel like I’m intruding—”

“Hwang,” you say suddenly. “I have to go.”

He turns around, confused. An unattended block falls into a terrible spot on the screen behind him. ”Already?”

“I forgot I had an important call to make.” You turn away, training your eyes on the patterned carpet. “Sorry. I’ll see you around.”

You have touched Hyunjin’s hands many times. He’s asked you to tape his fingers every day since the first; he likes the way you cut off his circulation, says it helps him hit harder. But you never hold his hand so much as you examine it, the act stiff and unfeeling, cordoned within the professional pretense of athletic treatment. 

Now, Hyunjin catches your hand like a gardener repotting their favorite flower: delicately, careful of leaving its roots intact and petals untouched, but firmly, securely, so the flower continues to stand tall even when it’s been extracted from the soil, not even a speck of dirt slipping through the cracks between their fingers. That is the image you conjure when he slips his between yours, his metal rings cold where his fingertips are warm.

He says your name. There is a pinch of pain in the word, and you know that he knows.

“Do you want to be alone?”

You have never been asked such a thing—you have never asked to be asked such a thing—but, for some reason, the question brings tears to your eyes. 

“Yes, please,” you whisper, and you pull your hand away.

When you stalk past him, you hear Jisung notice you, call out to you, a note of worry in his question. You also count three pairs of eyes on your back: one concerned, the next confused, and the last you are wholly incapable of meeting. 

Unknown to you is the fourth pair fixed upon the top of the Tetris machine, where you’ve left your phone.

You emerge into the parking lot. The frigid air stills your mind for a fraction of a second, the last moment of mental quietude you will allow yourself that night.

Hyunjin’s right; the team manager doesn’t have to do much.

Coach Bang allows you to come to whichever practices and games you feel like, during which you might at most lug around a ballbag or fill someone’s waterbottle before holing up somewhere to do your own thing. But you like the people you work for too much to do so little for them, so you attend everything  your schedule allows. 

Last week, you could be found helping Minho put up the volleyball nets before practice, your laughter echoing throughout the spacious gym as he complained to you about his biochemistry professor’s distinct “cabbage scent.” Or running to grab materials for Changbin as he treated his teammates’ injuries like you were assisting an orthodontist giving someone a root canal. The dinner invitations you extended to Seungmin were always turned down, but his teammates were more than happy to assist you and Hyunjin in your quest to establish the best kimbap joint in the area once and for all. You even had a heart-to-heart with Coach Bang during one of the team’s water breaks, in which you managed to get half a smile out of the guy; Hyunjin was convinced that was his way of asking you to elope. You spent more time in the gymnasium those ten days than you had your entire college career.

Then came the arcade.

Five days have come and gone. You haven’t attended practice since, but you still see Hyunjin every morning at anthropology. The two of you sit in uncharacteristic silence for most of the lectures. You’ve taken the best notes of your life. He doesn’t mention the previous weekend; he doesn’t mention much of anything. 

In person, that is.

That Friday afternoon, you’re reading on the terrace of the library when you receive a text. It’s from Hyunjin, a two-minute voice note. You hesitate for a moment, stick a pencil into the gutter of your textbook to save your place, and slip your earbuds in. You listen to it.

Then you listen to it again.

And again as you wrap up your study session and go home. Again as you cook yourself dinner and load the dishwasher. Again as you shrug on a jacket and pocket your keys, setting off on the familiar trek to the gym.

As for what you plan to do there on a Friday night, long after the team has finished practice, you haven’t the slightest clue. You continue to move regardless, fueled by the feeling that there is where you need to be.

Coach Bang is leaving the building just as you’re approaching it. He halts in his footsteps and raises his eyebrows when he notices you. The man has always been difficult to read, but his face is exceptionally opaque now. Maybe it’s the shadowy landscape; more likely it’s the uneasiness that began to mount within you once you noticed the lights in the gym were still on.

“It’s been a while,” he greets.

“Coach,” you return, lowering your head. “I want to apologize for—”

“Save it,” he says, not unkindly. “There’s nothing to apologize for, alright? The team is lucky to have you.”

You manage a grateful smile. “I’ll be back starting next week.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He starts to walk away, stops himself, and glances into the illuminated building. “I would give him some space, by the way.”

Your uneasiness morphs into anxiety as you watch his broad back retreat into the shadows. You remain outside the gym for a few minutes more, accompanied by the distant melodies of cricket chorales and the muffled squeaking of shoes against laminated hardwood, the harsh sounds of flesh meeting leather.

Briskly, you walk home, rummage around, and return to the gym ten minutes later with your textbook tucked beneath your arm. This time, you unlock and enter the building without a moment of hesitation. 

Hyunjin is positioned multiple yards behind the service line, rotating a volleyball in his hands. A high toss, two resounding steps, and a collision like the crack of a whip. The previous ball has barely landed in the furthest corner of the court when he’s picking up the next, retreating to the same spot to do it all again. His tank top is the color of charcoal over his sweaty skin, his hair auburn where it’s plastered to his neck. He’s alone.

You only catch sight of Hyunjin’s face when you descend the stairs. His expression is crystalline, hardened with concentration and fortified by courage, but fragile all at once, rendered delicate by fatigue and fear, spilling from his every seam and splintering off his person like a broken vase. You recognize it as clearly as if you were looking at a picture of yourself from the worst years of your life.

“I was told to give you space,” you call out, and Hyunjin drops the volleyball he’s holding.

His lips fall apart. Nothing comes out of them. The only sounds to follow are your footsteps as you make your way towards the bleachers, a vertical wall of plastic now that they’ve been retracted for the night. You fold your legs into a criss-cross as you take a seat at their base.

“Is this enough space?”

More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.

“Don’t make me go further, please. I’m not ready to die.”

Finally, this earns you a smile. It’s not much, but it loosens the nervous coils in your heart, permits your lungs to contract once more, and it remains on his face as he swipes the ball back into his hands. You open your textbook.

The rest of the night elapses in turning pages and soaring volleyballs. You don’t care for minutes or hours; you give him all the time in the world, as he did you.

The only time you glance at the clock on the wall is around midnight, when Hyunjin hobbles to the middle of the court and collapses. You’re worried at first. Then he rolls onto his back and releases a guttural groan into his hands, and your held breath comes out a laugh. You set down your book and stand up.

There’s a lake of perspiration forming around him. You pay it no mind and flop onto the floor, your eyes instantly narrowing beneath the fluorescent lights. 

“How do you see under these things?”

“I don’t,” he returns. “I complained about it to Coach once.”

“And?”

“He made them brighter.” Sounds about right.

Hyunjin spends the next few minutes catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in your peripheral vision. You sift through your mind for phrases of consolation or gestures of support and come up empty. You wish you had Hyunjin’s way with words.

But you think about the way his smile reached his eyes as he thanked you for caring about him, the tenderness with which he caught your hand at the arcade, the I give a fuck about you he blurted before ending the study call. You think about the voice note. It’s not that Hyunjin has a way with words; it’s that he’s brave enough to break the silences that you can’t, like he perceives your anxiety for the aftermath, shouldering the responsibility so you won’t have to.

This cannot be his burden alone.

You inhale. “What’s on your mind?”

Hyunjin doesn’t answer right away. You give up on squinting and close your eyes. The lights are still bright enough to dance around the murky darkness.

“I don’t think I know how to put it into words.”

You nearly laugh; you know how that feels. “Don’t think, just talk. I’m here.”

The same advice you gave yourself seems to work on him as well.

“Do you remember Ishikawa Yuki?”

His role model.

“He’s currently playing for a club team in Italy called Allianz Milano.” He blows out a deep breath. “I’ve been talking to their coach, Roberto Piazza, for the last six months.”

The gears in your head creak in their effort to process the implications of these words. “Holy shit, Hwang.”

“He emailed again, this morning. Said he was coming to the tournament later this month, he’s excited to see me play in person, whatever. And it hit me, finally, that this is all real. Like, this is actually happening to me. I spent all of today freaking out and asked Coach to let me stay back after practice. Usually, it wears out my brain if I tire my body, but it only half-worked today. I couldn’t wrap my head around anything. I still can’t.

“I am who I am because of that man, and now…I have a shot at playing with him. I keep asking myself why I’m not—not happier. I should be bouncing off the fucking walls, no? If I told my past self that this would be happening to him one day, he—he would—”

You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.

Hyunjin is sitting up next to you, staring intensely into the bleachers. You first notice the tip of his tongue prodding into his cheek, then his shuddering breath. He lifts a hand to his face, pressing against his eyes.

You stop thinking after that.

You sit up with him. When you settle your fingers around his wrist, he allows you to pull his hand back to his side. But he turns away as if trying to hide from you; he squeezes his eyes shut as if that would obstruct your view of his pain.

You reach to cradle his face, bringing him back to you. The cuff of your sleeves wipe at the saltwater on his cheeks, push the hair off his forehead with gentle sweeps. The two of you are close, close enough that your lips would meet the space between his eyes if you so much as lost your balance. His gaze traverses to your face, but you resolve not to meet it. You know you will traipse into uncharted territory the moment you do.

“Don’t fight it.” You trace over the hill of his cheek. “Healing becomes easier if you let yourself hurt. Trust me, Hyunjin.”

His first name should feel foreign on your tongue, yet you suspect the syllables have accompanied you all your life.

“You don’t have to continue if you can’t.”

“S’okay.” Hyunjin lifts your hand away from his face, presses a kiss to the base of your palm. “I want to.”

You feel yourself stumble ungracefully into the uncharted territory from before; does he do the same?

“I used to play volleyball on this expanse of cracked blacktop, behind my primary school. It was pretty brutal on my feet—I blew through so many different pairs of sneakers my mom almost made me quit.” He smiles at the memory. “But every time I came close to quitting, I’d go home and rewatch the same USA vs. Poland match from the 2008 Summer Olympics I asked my dad to record, and I’d promise myself it would be me on some other kid’s screen someday.

“That kid would tell everyone who’d listen about how cool I am. That I’m a secret superhero. That I’m living proof humans can fly if they really, really try—just like I talked about the volleyball players I grew up watching on my TV.

“The other day, Coach told me that hope would consume me. I thought it was just some senile drivel at the time, but..I think I get what he means now. I would do anything and everything to make that kid proud—even if it meant losing myself.” He lowers his head, auburn strands falling into his eyes. “That’s what’s on my mind.”

Amidst the ensuing pause, a storm approaches. It does not come in the form of rain or snow, sleet or hail, no; it is a gathering of words unsaid and emotions unacknowledged, all emerging from the deepest chambers of your heart in synchrony. The same entities you used to scapegoat for all the times things were awkward between you and Hyunjin when you were the culprit all along. You and your blind cowardice.

The storm tears open the seam of your lips. You do not resist; it’s long overdue.

“Every time Changbin sees you, he turns into a smitten schoolgirl,” you say. “He is physically unable to contain how endearing he finds you. He told me so himself.”

Hyunjin looks at you with widened eyes. You think you can see your own reflection in them, and you are the spitting image of a lighter dropped into gasoline, unstoppable in your vehemence.

“Jeongin comes to you for advice before anyone else,” you continue, “even for things related to school—which I still find hard to believe, I’m not gonna lie. But you have his best interests in mind, and it shows in everything you do for him. Of course your opinion matters more than anything in the world.

“I know you think he can’t stand you, but you are the reason Coach Bang loves this job, why he loves this sport. It’s written all over his face every time he calls you something mean, every time he makes you run another lap, every time he looks at you. You’re like a son to him. Everyone sees it but you.”

“Then there’s me.” You pause to catch your breath. “When I think about what my life used to be, I remember a lot of things. I remember loneliness. Insecurity. I remember my books and my backgammon boards and the way I taught myself to disappear inside them so the world would never find me. I remember avoiding mirrors like a vampire because I didn’t like seeing my own reflection. I remember feeling like I had to put on someone else’s personality every time I left the house because nobody would want to know me for me. All I ever wanted was a place where I could be myself, love myself, without consequence. I have yet to find that place.

“But I found a person. Someone who wouldn’t know time and place if they kicked his dick into his body. Someone who thinks instant ramen is high in nutritional value because it comes with dried vegetables. Someone who sweats the same amount of rain the Sahara Desert receives yearly—your body is not normal, by the way.”

Hyunjin giggles; it is soft and short, a small, tearful huff into the quiet air that makes you feel like you’re flying.

“Don’t get me wrong,” you say. “Your sense of humor sucks and your taste in coffee is so boring and you are the one with no media literacy, not Professor Kim. But I love spending time with you. I love who I am when I’m around you. And none of that has to do with volleyball.”

The next time you blink, you discover that he’s not the only one with tears in his eyes. How long has that been going on?

“There’s so much about you to be proud of, Hyunjin.” You give him a watery smile. “That kid will be spoiled for choice.”

When Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, you fall into each other like going to bed after a long day. Your face burrows into the crook of his neck in your embarrassment; he is laughing and crying at the same time when he mumbles something into your shoulder: “I knew you cared about me.”

You are so happy for the comedic relief you could sob. It helps that you already are.

“How the fuck are you still sweaty?” You choke out, and you think you like his cologne after all.

Six days later, Hyunjin opens the door of his apartment.

A fun-sized flurry of black and white barrages into the hallway outside and almost runs headfirst into the figure waiting there. You fall to your knees like you’ve just been gravely wounded, emitting an ear-piercing wail to match. All it takes is a few good head scratches for Kkami to stop yipping bloody murder and start whining for attention instead. 

Upon minute five of watching you and his dog cuddle in the hallway directly outside his home, Hyunjin sighs.

“Can you come inside, please? My RA will think I’m doing some freaky shit again.”

You side-eye him as you walk into his apartment, Kkami perched happily in your arms. “What, exactly, does freaky shit entail?”

He smirks as the door falls shut. “You want me to tell you or show you?”

You turn to Kkami, disgusted. “Your owner’s a bit of a pervert, my dear.”

Kkami licks you on the chin. Hyunjin’s eyes narrow to slits.

“Traitor.”

Naturally, Hyunjin’s parents chose the eve of his final anthropology exam—and the week before the tournament that will determine the trajectory of his career—to ask him to look after Kkami for a few days. He nearly canceled their plane tickets himself, but his impromptu roommate is currently ransacking your face with kisses on his couch, and he thinks your laugh complements his studio better than any decoration. 

“Do you want anything to drink?” He calls from the kitchen area.

You meander over, Kkami (still) perched happily in your arms. “What do you have?” 

“Alcohol.” He opens his fridge far enough so you can peer over his shoulder. “Americanos.”

He stops speaking.

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Wait—and apple juice.”

“You are about to be a professional athlete.”

“What the Italians don’t know won’t hurt them. You want apple juice, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

“Maybe. Can you open it for me? My hands are full.”

Hyunjin does so with far less reluctance than he feigns. You thank him jubilantly, popping the straw into your mouth.

“Let’s get this over with.”

At 10:32 P.M., all is calm. You are sitting on the floor, your back against the side of his mattress. Hyunjin is where the universe intended: curled up in bed, both him and his laptop lying on their sides. You have studied eight out of ten units in only two and a half hours, and the night is still young. Kkami is but a fluffy, sleepy Oreo by your waist.

At 10:33 P.M., the Oreo begins to retch.

You startle a foot into the air. Hyunjin is out of bed and on his feet in the blink of an eye, the very image of a dog dad on duty. He grabs three different things off the kitchen counter with one hand and scoops up the long-haired chihuahua with the other, and then he’s kicking open the door.

Seungmin appears out of thin air carrying two heaping bags of groceries. Hyunjin nearly knocks him and a month’s worth of fresh produce down four flights of stairs.

“Hyun—Kkami?” Seungmin swivels. “Yo, what the fuck is—”

Hyunjin is already out the door.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin squats off to the side, pouring fresh water into a portable dog bowl. A little ways away, Kkami is throwing up ebulliently; a set of footsteps approaches.

“What is this thing?” Seungmin squats down next to Hyunjin, picking up the piece of patterned fabric lying on the grass. 

“Kkami gets sad after throwing up,” he sighs. “His blanket makes him feel better.”

Seungmin watches the chihuahua for a few moments, a soft flinch crimping his features. “He ate too fast again?”

Hyunjin rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t get it. Nobody’s gonna take his food from him.”

Seungmin laughs. “I didn’t even know he was on campus.”

“I picked him up last night. My parents are traveling for work—they say hi, by the way.”

“I say hi back. I miss your mom’s cooking.”

“Me too,” Hyunjin says, smiling. “She would love to cook for you again—she’s always saying you’re too skinny.”

“She really is.”

A beat passes; it is then that Hyunjin has an epiphany.

Seungmin was the one who put a volleyball in his hands for the first time. Back then, Hyunjin was the lesser troublemaker between the two of them—a concept that neither of them can wrap their heads around to this day. Seungmin suggested they use the clotheslines in Hyunjin’s backyard as a makeshift net, despite Hyunjin’s dissuading; half of Hyunjin’s father’s wardrobe caught on fire, Seungmin had a black eye for a week, and nobody knows what happened to that volleyball. The two of them have been attached at the hip ever since.

It is a crazy thing, having your best friend as a teammate; a singular flick of the wrist or a point of his shoe and Seungmin will know exactly Hyunjin wants the ball down to the net’s fraying fibers; Hyunjin will be exactly where Seungmin needs him down to the flecks of paint on the volleyball court. Hyunjin has always been Seungmin’s hitter—Seungmin, always Hyunjin’s setter. Nothing will ever change between them so long as that remains the case.

At least, that’s what Hyunjin used to think.

Learning that Seungmin was in a relationship was as much a wake-up call for Hyunjin as it was for you. At first, he was just fucking pissed; how could Seungmin be so stupid as to turn down someone like you, especially when Hyunjin had shot his mouth off about his wingman services? More importantly, how long had his best friend of eighteen years been in love, and why was he the last to know? 

Only now, as they wait for his nine-year-old chihuahua to finish barfing, does Hyunjin realize that he can’t remember the last time he and Seungmin talked. Not “talked” as in a brief exchange inside the locker room or the lecture hall, about a new approach he wants to try or what Seungmin got on number four or if he wants a ride to practice—“talked” as in talked, about Hyunjin, about Seungmin, about the eighteen years they shared, about all the years yet to come.

Hyunjin sees his setter every day; he stopped looking for his friend a long time ago. 

“Yeonwoo, right?”

He senses surprise in Seungmin without having to look at him. But he also senses a smile, a subtle show that Seungmin recognizes what he’s trying to do—and forgives him.

“Yeonwoo,” Seungmin affirms. “We’re in the same songwriting intensive this semester.”

“Also a singer?”

He shakes his head. “Piano player. Performed at the Carnegie Hall in the United States at, like, seven years old. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so talented.”

“Wow, that’s—hi, old man. You done?”

Kkami walks over with his head hung low and tail between his legs, and Hyunjin hurries to drape the pup in his favorite blanket, pulling the bowl of water in front of him in tandem. Seungmin runs a hand over the top of Kkami’s head as he hydrates.

“You’ve suffered,” he tells him solemnly, and Hyunjin snorts.

“As I was saying—that’s crazy to hear, coming from the most talented person I know. You guys looked so good together.”

“Thanks. It’s weird. I’m happy.”

“You deserve it. You really do, Kim.” They exchange smiles, and Hyunjin gives Seungmin a playful nudge. “When are you introducing us?”

“The arcade wasn’t enough?”

“Don’t insult me.”

“Whenever you want, then.”

“Dinner with my mom, dinner with Yeonwoo,” Hyunjin recounts. “I’m holding you to it.”

“Bet.”

They shake on it. If Hyunjin wasn’t already reassured by Seungmin’s smile, he knows by his clasp around his hand that they’ll be okay.

“What about you?” Seungmin asks. “Are you together yet?”

Hyunjin knew this was coming. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Seungmin strings his hands together, letting them dangle in the space between his knees. “Someone you have questions for that you’re too scared to ask. Someone who’s lived in your mind since the day you met. There’s someone like that, isn’t there?”

Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek. 

Ever since that night on the gym floor, Hyunjin’s been having these dreams. By the time his alarm goes off in the morning, every detail of the dream has eluded him, leaving behind only a ghost of emotion, akin to the breeze that grazes your face moments after walking past another person.

But then he’ll get out of bed, and walk to that café on the east side of campus, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. There, he’ll order a vanilla latte with extra sweetener, then turn around to see you standing five feet away, holding an Americano and trying not to laugh. And he’ll just know, with everything in him, that you are where his head goes when he’s not keeping watch.

He still addresses you by the pet names you hate. He still finds any excuse to be close to you; he still pesters you like a child with a crush. But now, he calls you his baby like one wishes on a star; his eyes drift to your lips every time you’re within two feet of each other; he makes fun of your likes and dislikes only because he’s happy to know about them at all. Ever since that night on the gym floor.

It’s impossible for nothing and everything to change at once. Two people teetering on the precipice of something cannot withstand a gust of wind so powerful. He’s already hanging off the ledge, losing his grip; where are you?

Next to him, Seungmin lets out a soft laugh. “There is.”

Hyunjin doesn’t know what to say.

“It might’ve been me, at some point,” he hums, returning his hand to scratch the back of Kkami’s ears. “But it has always been you, Hyun.”

Four floors above them and inside Hyunjin’s place, you are pacing between his fridge and his bed, nervously awaiting his and Kkami’s return.

Something catches your eye, wide and flat and hung on the wall by his bathroom door. You approach it curiously, your lips pulling into a fond smile the moment you realize all that’s in front of you.

Many of the photographs are of Hyunjin: him in his preteens, dead asleep in bed while dressed head to toe in volleyball gear, braces visible because his mouth is open; an action shot taken at what must’ve been a U21 match, the South Korean flag stitched into the shoulder of his jersey; him with half a birthday cake in front of him and the rest smeared all over his face. There are headlines, too: Underdog team earns district’s first high school volleyball state title; Hwang Hyunjin proves himself worthy of “ace spiker” label at South Korea V. Croatia U19 match; Coach Bang “Christopher” Chan leads Seoul National University to second consecutive KUL championship. There’s one—Who is Hwang Hyunjin? Meet the twenty-year-old instigant of South Korea’s imminent volleyball revolution—beside which he’s written the singular word “mouthful.” You laugh; you agree.

But pinned to the corkboard is also a photograph of Minho, surrounded by stray cats in the alleyway outside a K-BBQ restaurant; his parents cradling Kkami in an apple costume; his high school volleyball team silhouetted against a pretty sunset. Him and Seungmin as kids, covered in grime and scrapes but beaming nonetheless; him and Seungmin at age nineteen, stadium lights on their backs, unadulterated elation on their faces as they charge towards each other, beaming still. Changbin piggybacking Felix through the hallways of the gym, neither of them wearing a shirt; Jisung offering Coach Bang a beer while the latter looks direly unamused (you make a mental note to ask about that one later); what looks like a Rock Lee cosplayer grimacing in the middle of your anthropology classroom.

You rush forward as if decreed by gravitational force. Not too far away is another picture of you, in which you boast a Miffy headband and a face full of foaming cleanser. Then another, your eyes narrowed like that of a sniper taking aim as you’re playing Tetris; you with so many volleyballs piled into your arms that you can’t see your own face; your cheeks squished by a bandaged hand after you lost a bet about pandas (they can swim); you clutching your stomach on the library floor, brought to hysterical tears by Professor Kim’s email. You, you, you.

You bring your pointer finger to this last image, tracing it over the curve of your own cheek. You see a dimple on your face you didn’t know you had. You realize it only comes out for him.

It has always been him.

The front door opens. A man with telephone poles for legs and a long-haired chihuahua in his arms appears behind it. You sense in him that something has changed since you last saw each other. The two of you lock eyes. 

It’s not awkward this time.

Multiple yards behind the service line, Hyunjin is rotating a volleyball in his hands. It feels solid and sentient, an extension of himself held in cotton-clad fingers. He knows how this story will end.

He moves his eyes to his best friend’s back. Four fingers flash back at him twice, signaling a high lob set to the left, the very play they’ve practiced tirelessly for the last five weeks. The breath Hyunjin blows out of his cheeks seems to crystallize in the air, almost solid in all its exhilaration. 

He bends low and throws high. His arms drop behind his body like a spread of feathered wings; his feet fall into place below him like a meteor shower, two consecutive strikes against the earth that fissure its mantle. The lights overhead are bright. His palm pulls taut when it slams into leather. He knows how this story will end.

The volleyball tears towards the ground. It trembles as if scared by all that it holds: the guarantee of a flawless denouement, the catalyst of a radiant future. Hyunjin’s heart is beating hard enough to crack his ribs when he lands back on the ground, when the volleyball lands in the furthest corner of the court. He’s not scared at all.

He balls his fingers into fists.

“JUST LIKE LAST YEAR, BACK TO BACK ON AN ACE—”

An arm seizes Hyunjin’s neck; another drags him onto the floor. His head thuds onto the hardwood with a sound he hears over the whole world detonating. His vision fills with the faces of the people he cares for most, some covered in tears and others rivaling the ceiling with their blinding smiles. He can’t feel most of his body; his sweat drips into his mouth. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.

“—DEFENDING THEIR TITLE FOR THE THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEAR—”

His eyes find Seungmin’s among the fray. Their hands clap together with such force that Hyunjin cusses at the impact. Seungmin’s gaze burns into his with a ferocity that Hyunjin plans to take to his grave. His setter. His best friend.

He says something inaudible, but Hyunjin reads the words off his lips, and his eyes fill with tears: we win everything.

“—YOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!”

Hyunjin’s post-game interview is a lawless affair. He is allowed at most half an answer before a new teammate is barreling over with an animalistic screech or a new friend is screaming congratulations from out of frame.

The reporter is visibly agitated by her final question, unpursing her lips to ask: “Is there anyone you’d like to thank?”

Hyunjin exhales. “You want the short answer or the long—”

Changbin seizes him by the head. Hyunjin bursts into a peal of high-pitched laughter as the libero litters kisses all over his face, nearly crumpling to the floor in his attempt to escape.

“Love you,” he yells before hurrying off. 

“Love you too, Bin.”

Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.

“The short answer,” she deadpans.

He starts counting off his fingers. He thanks his family—his first and last teammates, his eternal anchors. His other family, his actual teammates, the best boys he’s ever known. His coach, who will let him call him Chris someday. His best friend and setter, Kim Seungmin, who set a clothesline on fire once and changed his life forever.

In the distance, a figure emerges from the locker rooms. There’s a navy blue SNU banner draped over your shoulders, two overflowing duffel bags in your hands. Jisung and Jeongin run over to take them from you, and the smile you give them is wide and flushed, a remnant of the elation you shared from afar. The three of you start walking out of the gym.

Hyunjin thanks you.

You didn’t ask for the position, he tells the reporter, but some idiot roped you into it, and they’re all so grateful that you decided to stick around. You know the team better than they know themselves—it’s hard to believe you’ve been with them for five weeks instead of five years.

What are you like? What aren’t you like, is the better question. You’re caring, smart, strong; you see so much goodness in the people around you, all while unaware that it is your warmth that brings it out of them. Flowers only bloom in the sun’s doting radius, and so did he.

You have the sort of soul that incurs the scorn of the stars. They are the only ones to deserve you, they'd argue; you’re wasting your potential among humans when you belong to the sky, and they’d be right.

Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed.

“Why the fuck am I still talking to you?” 

“Pardon?” The reporter returns, but Hyunjin is already vaulting over the bleachers, making a mad dash for the exit. She gives her cameraman an affronted glare. He shrugs.

He explodes onto the concrete, looking around in a frantic haze. He finds the blue banner heading toward the team bus and flanked by his teammates with ease.

He calls out to you.

You glance backwards. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the area’s busy thrum. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram again, but he’s used to this feeling by now. Jeongin and Jisung make themselves scarce.

You’re beautiful. God, you’re fucking beautiful. That was the first thought to enter his mind when he spilled an iced Americano on your lap all those months ago and you looked at him like he hailed from another planet. And it is the first thought to enter his mind now, when he runs up to you and cradles your face in his hands, his touch infinitely, impossibly gentle, and you look at him like he’s everything that has ever existed, everything that ever will. 

Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He could’ve counted your eyelashes—if he didn’t have something far better to do.

“Tell me now if you don’t want me to do this,” he whispers.

A stupid smile crosses the face of the smartest person he knows. “My lips are sealed.”

Hyunjin kisses you. He kisses you until the banner around your shoulders is wrinkled under his touch, until your hands are tangled in his hair and aching his scalp, until the breaths you take are breaths you share, passed between your mouths like a puff of smoke before they’re colliding again.

He kisses you until he’s crying, again, until he’s no longer tasting your lips but your grin, and he kisses you only harder when those scornful stars start to dance before him, for you are his, not theirs, and he’s really won everything, now.

“Hwang, I need you in my office.”

Six months later, Hyunjin sees Coach Bang standing a few yards away with a grim air about him. He stops in his footsteps and glances at his captain, confused.

“I know nothing,” Seungmin says, walking away. “Good luck!”

“Thanks, cap.” Hyunjin swears he’s had this exact exchange before.

Head volleyball coach Christopher Bang’s workspace still reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. But there are two picture frames on his desk now: one of his family in front of the Sydney Opera House, the other of a band of boys clad in navy blue, draped over one another in exhausted bliss. The latter lends the room a much-needed sense of vitality. Too bad it still houses a rusty cyborg.

Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. “Read.”

From: Nicola Daldello «ndaldello@pvm.com» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «cb97@snu.edu» Subject: Re: Allianz Milano V. Pallavolo Perugia practice game Christopher, Allow me to apologize for my delayed response as I shared your request with Chairman Piazza. It is my great pleasure to inform you that we would love for Mr. Hwang Hyunjin to participate in our practice game versus Pallavolo Perugia. The match is scheduled for Monday, October 7th, 5-7 P.M. CET in the Giurati Sports Centre in Milan. Mr. Hwang will be playing for Allianz Milano as an outside hitter alongside Mr. Matey Kaziyski, Mr. Osniel Mergarejo, and Mr. Ishikawa Yuki. Please let me know of your availability to call regarding Mr. Hwang’s travel logistics. His transportation and lodging costs will be paid for by the club. I’m looking forward to speaking with you and welcoming Mr. Hwang to Italy once and for all. Yours, Nicola Daldello Assistant Coach, Allianz Milano

“I told you, some opportunities just present themselves,” Bang says, turning his monitor back around. “As for next steps, I need a holistic calendar view of your entire month of October, including social ev—Hwang, is that foam coming out of your mo—NOT ON MY CARPET! HWANG!”

In a park about a ten minute walk away, a small crowd of elderly people are scattered across a few stone tables, hunched over the fading chess boards painted into the granite surfaces. Mrs. Choi whisks away Mrs. Baek’s king with a triumphant yelp.

“I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! That opening is unbeatable!” She swivels towards you, shaking a fist threateningly. “You! Get over here. Your reign is over.”

You are sitting cross-legged in the shade of a broad magnolia tree, clearing out your storage. You tried to take a picture of a particularly rotund pigeon to send to Hyunjin earlier and couldn’t even do that. It was then you decided you couldn't live like this anymore.

“As excited as I am to beat you again, Mrs. Choi, I need ten more minutes,” you call back. 

She presents you with an unpleasant hand gesture. You turn your attention back to your phone, grinning. Two new notifications sit at the top of your lock screen.

Hyunjin: Omw now. Sorry had to talk to Chris Hyunjin: Same park? Y/N: yes Hyunjin: Who’s our opponent today Y/N: mrs. choi Hyunjin: Not that bitch again Y/N: ?

He’ll be here in eight minutes.

You return to the task at hand. You’ve already cleared out your apps, your documents, and videos; all that’s left is the audio files. You conduct a quick mental review. Surely you’ll live without your downloaded music and accidental voice memos.

Instead of hitting the “delete” button, you extract a pair of tangled earphones from your jacket pocket.

You go back to your texts with Hyunjin, open the shared attachments tab, and scroll for a long time before you find the voice note he sent you seven months ago.

He finds you a sobbing mess.

“Hey, hey, whoa.” He’s on his knees in an instant, gathering your hands into his, a world of concern in the brown of his eyes. Your earbuds fall out and clatter onto the cement below. “Baby, what’s happening? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you say in a flustered haste. “Yes, I’m okay. I don’t—I don’t really know what’s happening.”

“Did that hag do this to you?” He asks this question so seriously. “I’ll beat up a senior citizen, I don’t give a fuck—”

“No!” You let out an ugly laugh through your tears. “No, no. Leave Mrs. Choi alone.”

“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

Eventually, your vision clears enough for you to look at the man kneeling in front of you. His roots grow out longer every day, his hair by now nearly equal parts gold and black. A spot of sunlight infiltrates the magnolia leaves and lands on his left eye, turning it the hue of melted bronze.

Your fingers drift to the sides of his beautiful face as you lean in close; he smells like a combination of smoky rose and tropical coastlines.

“I’ll tell you later,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his hairline. 

He is dissatisfied with this, hooking a pointer finger beneath your chin, guiding your face back to his. He laves the saltwater from your lips, your tongue, and then you’re smiling again, barely able to remember why you cried in the first place.

You rest your foreheads together. “Have I told you that you look like a bumblebee these days?”

He smiles. “Does that make you my flower, then?”

“Because you’re irresistably drawn to me?”

“No, because I wanna put my pollen in—”

You shove him away. “You are grotesque.”

He returns in a flash. “You love me.”

You kiss him again. And again. And one more time for good measure, during which you mumble I do against his lips, and then you remember something.

“Why did Coach hold you back, by the way?” You pull away, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “Are you in trouble again?”

“No, no. The opposite, actually.”

Your brow furrows. “The opposite? What—”

“In this lifetime, please,” Mrs. Choi hollers from the chess tables. You roll your eyes. Hyunjin smiles helplessly.

“Duty calls, my love.”

“Tell me your thing later too?”

“Of course.”

You dust yourself off and stand up, making your way to the battleground. But not before you whisper to Hyunjin, “now watch me beat up a senior citizen.”

He laughs with his whole body, his eyes the shape of crescent moons, his mouth a little rectangle.

“Hypocrite.”

Hyunjin: [1 Audio Message]

This is my seventh take and I’m not recording an eighth. What you get is what you get. I don’t care anymore.

I understand if you don’t wanna talk about what happened at the arcade. I wouldn’t, either. I just wanted to say that you don’t have to do this tutoring thing anymore. I won’t be able to fulfill my end of our deal, so…yeah, it wouldn’t be fair to you. You’ve already done so much for us. For me.

As for team manager, you’ll have to talk to Minho and Coach Bang if you wanna quit. Doesn’t sound like a fun conversation, I know—but if that’s what you decide, I’ll have your back. They don’t scare me. Well, they do. But only sometimes.

You’ve been…distant, this week. I’ve known peace and quiet for the first time since we met, and I fucking hate it. I realized I couldn’t care less if you’re my tutor or my team manager or whatever—I just don’t want you to be a stranger. Maybe that’s selfish of me to say, but I’m tired of pretending the idea of losing you doesn’t terrify me. It does. It really fucking does.

I’m gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I’ll genuinely commit homicide if I have to do all this again. Sorry that this got so long, and…I’m sorry about everything. You deserve better.

Come back to me whenever you’re ready, okay? I’ll be waiting.

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© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support ♡

[dollfacefantasy]

CRY IF I WANT TO ♡

pairing: negan x fem!reader

summary: life has been different since you've been taken to the sanctuary. you're not sure how you fit in here. some may call you one of the wives, but you don't think that's accurate. maybe his pet? his doll? as the days pass, you're not sure it really matters. the distinction doesn't get you any closer to escape.

cw: nsfw (18+), dark fic, smut, dubcon, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), kidnapping/captivity, stockholm syndrome, coercion, forced ddlg/daddy kink, humiliation kink, dacryphilia, violence (from negan, simon, and reader), hurt/comfort sorta

wc: 10.9k (oops lol)

a/n: ermmm... hehe yeah. i've been wanting to write this so i hope someone likes it. reblogs, comments, and asks are appreciated <3

kinktober slot: day 13 - mindbreak (i think)

"Rise and shine, little lady. We got a lot of things to do today."

Your eyes flutter open, the bright light from the window in front of you broken up by the silhouette of the man at your bedside. The sight of him, even just the outline of his body, sends a nauseating crackle of dread through your bones. It's a feeling you can't verbalize of course - not if you want this day to resemble any sort of pleasant.

"There she is," Negan says, speaking with his signature cadence that made you want to rip out your hair, "How'd you sleep, babydoll?"

"Fine," you rasp as you slowly sit up. The mornings were the only time you could get away with dull answers like that. Any small bit of attitude could be blamed on you being 'cranky' rather than feelings of hatred that hadn't been broken down by this point.

He smiles at you, his rough hand cupping your jaw.

"You're so pretty in the mornings," he mumbles, sweeping a thumb over your pouty bottom lip.

You pause for a second, but so does he. Like he expects a reply. Unfortunately, you know the words he wants to hear. Swallowing the last sliver of dignity you have, you force out the response you'd been trained to say over the last however-long.

"Thank you, daddy."

He grins even wider if that's possible and pats your head. "You're welcome. Now let's get you dressed. Like I said, daddy's got a lot to do today."

You get out of bed and follow him over to the dresser that held your outfit for the day. The chill of cold air bites at your legs as the lack of blankets leaves them exposed. The generator had been out for the past day or so, leaving the Sanctuary victim to the harsh Winter raging outside. You were hoping he'd take that into account when picking your clothes, but you didn't hold out too much hope.

The two of you shuffle around the gray furniture of Negan's room. Even though you'd been in here more times than you could count now, you still marveled at the quality of the chairs and sofa. Items like these seemed luxurious with how the world was outside these walls.

When you reach the dresser, you follow the routine you'd become used to. You peel the small shirt you're permitted to sleep in off and drop it in the basket nearby. Your panties are next to go. You pull the dainty garment down and toss it to the same place as your top.

You can feel his eyes on you with every move you make. They watch how your breasts bounce when freed from their confines. They admire the curve of your ass when you bend over. They glimmer with smug satisfaction as you stand there nude before him.

"I'll tell you what. I never get sick of seeing this," he teases.

You offer a weak smile in return. The lack of energy almost seems to please him more.

He walks around to stand behind you, giving you a light pat on the ass as he does. His hands land on your hips first and then slide up to cup your breasts. He pulls you back, positioning you flush against his chest.

"You know I'd keep you like this all the time if I could," he murmurs in your ear, "Sweet and ready for me. Ripe for the pickin' whenever I felt the need."

The deep, gravelly rumble of it seems to trigger a flicker of heat in your lower belly on instinct, and you despise yourself for it. Shame burns so hot in your heart, it threatens to take the nausea you felt earlier into a full on dry heave. You're glad there's not a mirror in front of you. It's easier to keep a docile look plastered on your face when you don't have to stare yourself in the eyes.

The rough pads of his fingertips pinch and tweak your nipples, causing you to squirm a bit where you're standing, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of a noise. You can feel the warmth of his breath fanning across your neck.

You choose not to say anything to his last statement. There's no guarantee that he hasn't actually considered that, and you don't want to find out. Displaying you in that way in front of everyone doesn't seem like his style, but back when he had you lined up on your knees with the rest of your group, you wouldn't have imagined yourself ever calling him daddy either.

As you'd quickly learned in regards to most things around here, the risk just isn't worth it.

"I'd never do that to you though. Don't think anyone could keep their hands off if they saw all of you, and I just can't have that," he whispers, calming your fears for you. He pulls his hands away from your breasts and steps back to grab the pieces he'd be putting you in today.

He starts with panties. This pair is pink and ruffly just like the last. You step into it with rehearsed timing. One foot then the next. He slides them up to your hips and lets the elastic snap into place against your skin.

You had no clue where he got this shit. You didn't want to believe that his hold on his men was so strong that they'd waste an entire supply run raiding a Victoria's Secret, especially for women they never even got to touch.

It wasn't worth thinking about though. It's not like discovering the origins would spare you from wearing the damn things every day.

Next, Negan shakes the wrinkles out of your dress. You step into that too, just like you did with the underwear. Looking down, you catch a glimpse of the garment.

It's just as humiliating as all the rest he makes you wear. The fabric is bright white and baby pink. Like everything else, you have no idea how it was kept so pristine. The waist is accentuated with a pretty pink ribbon wrapped around it, tied into a large bow at the front. It's extra tight up top and melts into a puffy skirt down below.

He shimmies it over your body and yanks the zipper up in back. The dress conforms to the shape of your figure, leaving little to the imagination in terms of how much the neckline shows and how high the hem of the skirt sits.

Spinning you around, he whistles when he gets the full picture.

"Good God Almighty. Pretty as a picture," he praises, reaching out to pinch your cheek.

Again, you force yourself to smile.

He'd already dressed himself for the day before getting you up, so the rest of the time before you leave the room is spent working through the remnants of your morning routine. He takes you into the bathroom connected to his room to brush your teeth and do your hair.

"Say ah, sweetheart," he smirks before jamming the brush into your mouth.

He's not careful or attentive. He only does it long enough to let the weight of humiliation settle in your stomach. It's always obvious when it kicks in. You get this look on your face like that of an abandoned puppy. Only then does he let you spit and move on to the next task.

He styles your hair into something cute, though you hate it anyway. Like the dress, it's only intended to make you stick out. To draw attention to your status as his possession.

The last thing he does is put your socks and shoes on. Your feet get covered in a pair of frilly ankle socks before he slips a pair of chunky sneakers on you. At least if this place got overrun and you had to bolt, you wouldn't be totally fucked.

"You ready to go, honey?" he asks you when the first part of your torture has finally come to a conclusion.

Again, you nod while looking up at him.

He grins at you. "You're quiet today," he says.

"Sorry, daddy," you respond. The way he said it sounded like teasing, but you could never be too careful.

"Don't be. I like it," he says.

You don't know how he does it, how he deflates you so easily without even trying.

He turns and grabs that stupid bat he carries everywhere, swinging it to his side before facing you again and sticking out his hand.

"Got my two favorite girls, now we're really ready to go," he says. He gestures with his fingers. A small impatient reminder. "You know the rules."

Of course you know what he's referring to. Always hold daddy's hand when you leave the bedroom. One of the rules he'd prattled off to you when he first brought you here.

You reach out and take his outstretched hand, earning a kiss to your head.

The way he'd been holding his arm caused the leather sleeve of his jacket to ride up a bit. Beneath the stiff fabric, you could see the fading scar you'd given him around the same time you'd been informed of the rules. Two crescent shaped marks in the pattern of your teeth.

You can barely stand to look at it now. All it does is bring back memories of when you still held hope for escape or rescue. Back then, you'd thought it'd only be a matter of days until Rick or Michonne burst into the small bedroom they were keeping you in.

The day you'd sunk your teeth into him, he'd just finished giving you one of his speeches about your new life at the Sanctuary. According to him, you'd be so much happier here. Sure you couldn't see your family, but now you had someone better than them. You had him. And he would spoil and take care of a pretty thing like you in the way you deserved. Show off to the rest of your old group how generous he could be.

He'd reached forward to pinch your cheek just like he'd done earlier today. You wanted to smack him away, but he had your hands bound. So you did the next thing you could think of and bit him. Hard.

His eyes burned with fury you hadn't seen since. You can still hear in your mind the way he yelled, shouting "Goddamn it" so loud that the walkers out at the fence probably heard.

After that was a bit hazy. He'd snatched that limb away from you before bringing it back and striking you hard across the cheek. You'd nearly fallen off the bed from the force.

"You little bitch, you try some shit like that again, and I'll knock your fucking jaw loose," he growled before yanking you up right and forcing you to look at him.

Involuntary tears leaked from your eyes as you glared up at his face. Blood oozed from the stinging wound you could feel inside your mouth.

That cut had healed by now though.

You squeeze his hand harder while walking down the hall out of his room. Even though it was the hand that struck you, it was the only thing you had to hold onto now. 

Your brain tries to compartmentalize him nowadays. There's Negan, and there's daddy. Negan is the one who gets mean. Negan is the one who yells. Negan is the one who killed your friends. Daddy is the one who cares for you. He keeps you safe and healthy. He'd never hurt you like that. You didn't think you'd survive with a shred of sanity without that distinction.

He feels your little grip and squeezes your hand in return. That's what daddy does.

You stay close to his side as he guides you on the walkway that looks down on the commotion of the main room. Even after what you guessed had been a couple months, if not more, you still didn't like this place. Everything was so transactional. No one cared about each other. It was all about what everyone had to offer. That was by design of course, but it didn't make you any less critical of it.

Your eyes scan the clusters of people below. Although you weren't allowed to socialize on your own, you were starting to get a grasp on the cliques here. Negan's closest advisors all seemed to amalgamate in one area, spare the guy with the burnt face. The table closest to the window was where most of the soldiers ate while the one by the door seated the workers.

You weren't completely sure what class you fit into here.

The most obvious guess would be the group you're about to encounter, Negan's wives. But there are stark differences between you and them that prevent you from feeling camaraderie.

The two of you approach the room where he keeps this group of women. He maintains a tight grip on your hand as you slip through the doors. The disparities between you and the others become obvious as soon as you're within a few feet of them.

All of these women get to dress in black. They stand tall in heels, have earrings dangling next to their faces, and for some, a red tint painting their lips. All of them get to openly glare at him. They don't have to hide their hatred behind a feigned smile or soft laugh.

You know it isn't right to be jealous of them. They're suffering too. This isn't a happy situation for them either. But god, you can't help it. Envy nearly sears a hole through your heart every time you come into this room. What you wouldn't give to be one of them. To be allowed to drink and talk with other people. To not be under the constant threat of punishment.

Despite all these thoughts swirling through your head, you manage to keep your mask on. A simple, thoughtless look on your features as you stand next to him like an oversized accessory.

He looks down at you before dropping your hand.

"Stay right here for me, sweet thing. Daddy's only gonna take a minute," he says.

He stalks off to the back corner of the room with a woman you'd come to learn is named Sherry. They speak in hushed tones, so you can't make out what they're saying. You figure it's about one of the girls sneaking around with some other guy. That's what it's usually about when he makes a stop here with you in tow. Even with their status elevated above yours, they don't get to escape the wrath of his possessiveness.

You stand there awkwardly, arms crossed over your midsection while your weight shifts between your feet. No one tries to talk to you. You can feel their eyes on your pastel form, but their gazes don't hold curiosity or interest. It's pity.

In the beginning, you thought they were looking at you with jealousy. After all, you got your own cell and then graduated to Negan's bedroom while they had to share amenities.

But they weren't naive like you had been. None of them wanted Negan's attention. They didn't want to be his pet or his dolly or whatever the fuck he would classify you as. They had each other, and they got to share the load between all of them.

You sigh quietly and look down at the sparkly trim of your white sneakers.

He finishes his conversation with Sherry and then migrates across the room towards a blonde, crying girl. They speak at the same volume as him and Sherry. It's not worth trying to eavesdrop on.

Instead, you patiently wait the couple minutes it takes for them to finish up and for him to return to you. When he walks back over, you can tell the discussion hadn't been a positive one. His shoulders seem weighed down by whatever information he'd gathered from them.

But the dark cloud above him fades away as his hand slips back into yours. He leads you out of the room just as you'd come in and continues walking with you.

You hesitate but decide to try. "Are you ok?" you ask softly.

His head turns slightly to cast you a look. For a moment, it seems the daddy act has fallen away. He looks at you like he would any other woman who asked him that. Cold. Analytical. But the persona makes its reappearance seconds later as he pulls on a smirk for you.

"Just fine, honey. You don't gotta worry about me," he answers.

You know you should just nod and shut up, but it drives you crazy being led around like a child expected to be seen and not heard. So you decide to try again.

"Did they do something bad?" you ask. You hate how weak your voice comes out. There's no spark to it, no bite or sharp edge. All of that, he'd extinguished in you.

He drops your hand and drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you to his side.

"What are you so curious for, huh? You know something about it?" he responds.

You shake your head. Your arm rises and wraps around his torso.

"No. I just don't like when you're upset," you say. You lean your head into his chest to really sell it.

"Oh-ho, look at you. Turning on the charm," he chuckles, "I am just fine, sugar. I swear it. Sometimes those girls give me trouble, but it's nothing I can't handle."

You decide to just take it and nod this time. 

He looks at you with satisfaction. "They can't all be like you, y'know? So well-behaved," he praises.

The compliment makes your blood curdle. You couldn't stand that he would act like obedience was your defining trait.

When you were with your group - your family more like -  you would never have been described as obedient. Whether at the prison or Alexandria, it felt like every other day you were sneaking off to try something. You were always quick to spring into action, never the type to let someone belittle you. Rick got on your ass about deviating from plans in spurs of emotion more than anyone else. Maybe that's how you wound up here.

You had tried to stop them from taking Daryl. On that dark night in the woods, surrounded by the ring of headlights, you had tried. You didn't rush at Negan like your friend. Not wanting someone else to get their head bashed in, you were more subtle than that. But you attempted to get in the way of the guys carting him off. That's what landed you here. Tucked under his arm, the very weapon that took away two people you love swinging a foot away from you.

But you swallow down all of this rage and nod again. You nuzzle into his chest, a way to conceal the tightening sensation in your throat and the sting of tears at your waterline.

This is the worst part about Negan, you decide. The way he makes you act like you want it.

From your first day here, he made sure to tell you over and over how he's staunchly against rape. He's not a monster. He's not that kind of guy. No, no. You are a prisoner, so yes, technically here against your will, but never in a million years would he violate you in that way.

And he'd stuck true to that. Whenever you screamed or cried or yelled "no" on a loop until he shook you around like a bobble head, he always backed off of his advances. He never copped a feel or slid a wandering hand in your panties while you slept, never held you down or physically forced himself on you.

Instead, he broke you down until saying yes seemed like the only sane option.

You didn't want his affection? That meant you must not want to talk to anyone at all. For days. You didn't want to sit in his lap? Maybe you'd prefer kneeling by his feet for a week, in private and around everyone else. You didn't want to sleep in his bed? Fine. You could sleep on the concrete floor without a pillow or blanket while the heat was out.

You reflect on all of this as the two of you trot through the boxy halls. He takes you around on all his errands for the day. You stop by the doctor's office, inventory, and Dwight's room. All over the place. You stay quiet the whole time. busying yourself with your thoughts as you stay attached to him.

Everyday the line between survival and free will becomes blurrier. You tell yourself that you have to be like this with him. You'll be worse off if you don't act the part of the sweet, adoring girl he wants. But then sometimes you wonder if you truly are becoming obedient. Like a wildcat tamed into a lazy house pet. You almost never resist his touch anymore. You even go to him for comfort sometimes.

The idea kills you, so you deem it best not to think about for now.

Rather, you focus on guessing what the rest of the day would hold. It's already the afternoon by now. The sun hangs low by the tree line, shimmering into the Sanctuary through the rectangular windows across the walls. He wouldn't have a meeting with the lieutenants today. Those were almost always around lunch time. You didn't think he'd spend it with one of his wives either. If that was the case, he usually gave you a heads up in the morning.

The most likely possibility you come up with is the dilemma from earlier. You had never been invited to see the culmination of those though. Normally, he kept you safe and sound in his room while he tended to matters like that, ready to provide him some stress relief when he finished.

But things can always change, and now it seems like that's the case.

He guides you back into the main room. A crowd has gathered down below. You can't see the center point of their conglomeration. All you can sense are the nerves vibrating between everyone.

Their feet shuffle around on the hard concrete flooring. They look between each other with anxious eyes. Hushed chatter clouds the area until you and Negan begin to descend the stairs. That's when they all go quiet. Mouths close and pupils snap to the position of their leader.

You look down to lessen the ache of humiliation that came with accompanying the center of attention. The few times you had scanned the crowd for others' reactions, seeing if you could find a sympathetic gaze or outraged expression, all you found was animosity. The male workers and soldiers leered at you. They smiled and smirked, visibly amused by your girly outfits and docile disposition. On the other side of the aisle, the women glared, taking in the details of your appearance with disgust, like somehow it was your fault you got toted around like this.

His voice booms out to his audience as he takes step after step towards them.

"You all know what we're here for today," he starts, "We got simple rules 'round here, but some people still seem to have trouble following 'em."

Your hand stays linked with his as the two of you reach the landing.

"Watch your step, babydoll," he murmurs to you before continuing his speech. Your cheeks burn with shame.

"It feels like I'm doing this every other month. It's getting ridiculous," he lectures, "I don't like having to be so harsh. Truly, I don't. But rules are rules, and I don't know how I can make myself any clearer. They are not optional."

He walks further into the room with you. Being level with everyone else, you can see more of what's happening. They're gathered around a furnace. Dwight stands near the opening to the flames, clearly preparing something. Another man sits a few feet away. Over in the corner, the woman from earlier is looking at him and crying.

Looks like your guess was correct.

"So we're gonna do this again. Hopefully it's the last time," he concludes.

The crowd parts as you and him head towards the center of the room. He leads you over to an empty spot near the wall. Dropping your hand, he cups your jaw and makes you look him in the eyes.

"Stay right here for me. Daddy'll be right back," he says.

You nod and then watch as he turns away, waltzing over to where Dwight stands.

While your eyes are up, they can't help but catch on somebody familiar standing at the front of the crowd.

Daryl.

Your heart stutters, and you can see on his face that his does too. He looks worn down. Eyes dimmed and face hollowed. His clothes, dirty and ill-fitting. You start to feel tears pricking at your waterline from the sight. You weren't the only one they'd broken down.

In him, you find the compassion you'd been searching for. The look that told you at least one person here didn't take enjoyment from your suffering. But it comes from someone who truly can't help you. Who's in a situation as bad as your own.

You sniffle and try to wipe away any beginning tears before Negan or someone who would tell him notices.

The loud creak of a metal door opening drags your attention to the furnace though. You watch as Dwight pulls out the item he'd been preparing. A burning, metal iron becomes the new focus of everyone in the room.

Upon seeing the small object, so many things connect in your head. You know what's going to happen. You realize why Dwight's face is scarred. You understand why that woman is crying. And you know no one is going to stop any of this now or in the future.

Your heart pounds harder, and your breaths become shaky. Tears blur your vision further. You dig your nails into your palm to try and ground yourself, but it doesn't help. The scene in front of you has whipped your mind into a frenzy. You haven't felt this bad since the early weeks of being in this place.

This stupid fucking place. You hate it. You hate how cruel it is here. How disconnected and lifeless everything feels. You hate him for being the only one allowed to really live. You hate everyone else here for letting him get this powerful.

It's a complete spiral whirlpooling in your mind, only made worse by the fact that you have to keep it contained. You try to tell yourself you just have to wait it out. This couldn't take more than five minutes and then you could go back to the bedroom. You'd be ok. You could take off this itchy dress and put your hair back to how you like it. You could kick off these shoes and hide yourself beneath the warm blankets. None of these people would be around, all you'd have is the quiet between those walls where daddy could make it all better.

As you're in the process of mentally talking yourself down, Negan takes hold of the iron. To free up his hands, he offers Lucille off to someone nearby. Your eyes follow his leather-clad limb to the neck of the bat and then up to its new handler. You see Simon.

You have to look down now. If you don't, everyone here will see the look of pure terror on your face. You close your eyes and rein in whimpers that threaten to spill from your lips. Everything feels fuzzy around you, intangible and like your hands would drift right through them. Your head heats up, the sensation making you dizzy. You try to steady yourself by leaning back against the wall, but the cool, flat surface does little to ease your nerves.

It does even less when you hear his voice closing in on you.

"Hey there, princess," he starts, voice laced with mockery, "You feeling alright?"

You're not looking at him, but the image of his stupid face projects with HD clarity in your mind. You swallow hard and nod.

Laughing lowly, he comes to stand beside you. "You sure about that? You're looking kind of lightheaded," he taunts.

"I'm fine," you choke out.

His hand darts up and grabs your jaw. He doesn't gently guide your eyes where he wants them to look. He yanks your face in his direction like an unruly child with a doll.

"I don't know about that. You're looking kind of rough," he says while glaring down at you with those ruthless eyes, "Maybe I should take you over to the doctor's. We both know Negan wants his favorite toy kept in good condition."

Your entire body vibrates with hatred for this creature. Every breath you take acts as an effort of restraint, a way to lull yourself into not ripping out what hair he has left.

You didn't just despise Simon because he's an asshole or because he was the person harassing your group leading up to that horrible night you were taken. Your aversion for him stems from experiences entirely your own.

A few days after the biting incident, you had tried getting physical with Negan one more time. You'd managed to worm one of your wrists out of your restraints, and instead of aiming for escape, you decided revenge held a higher priority. You waited for him to come check on you, keeping your arm tucked to your body as if it was still bound.

When he finally came in, you sat there and took the speech, took the condescension, and took the promises that you would conform. And then he leaned a bit closer. That's when you backhanded him as hard as he had you the few days prior.

After the hit landed, you lunged forward and tried to wrap the rope connected to you around his neck. You pulled as hard as you could, and for a moment, you thought you had won.

But wrangling you off was easier than you anticipated. They hadn't been allowing you much food or sleep, so the strike took most of your energy. It only took him a handful of seconds to snake his hand under the rope and then pry your arms away.

He stood up and slammed you into the wall with his hand around your throat. In that moment, he didn't look at you with the same fury he had before. This time around, frustration dominated his gaze.

"Was that fun for you?" he asked.

You didn't answer. Your chest puffed with exertion while your eyes stared daggers into him.

"What did I tell you last time? What did I fucking tell you?" he asked. Despite the look in his eye being less volatile, his tone of voice was dangerous as ever. "I told you I would knock that jaw of yours loose. That's what I said, and I meant it. I don't want you thinking I didn't. But I'm not gonna do that right now because I don't think it would work, and I'm not one to waste my own time."

Internally, pride swelled in your chest, thinking you had called his bluff. But then he kept speaking.

"I have a bad feeling that if I struck some sense into you that you'd just try to strike it into me right back, and I can't have that. That's just not gonna fly around here," he said, "So I'll tell you what: I have a better idea. You don't wanna play with daddy? Then you can spend a weekend with your Uncle Simon. See how much fun he can be."

Back then, you didn't know Simon as the right hand man. You didn't have his name and face connected yet. Now, you wished you could go back to that state of mind.

You were with him for three days while Negan did a tour of the outposts and subjugated communities. Only 72 hours. But an hour of him would have been enough to scare you for a lifetime.

When he first came into the room, you didn't get the feeling that him and Negan would handle you so differently. You could tell from the way he looked at you that, like his boss, he looked at you as something to toy with. A source of amusement. The difference, you soon found out, was how they played with their toys.

Unlike daddy, Simon didn't talk just to talk. He didn't warn you of future spankings or timeouts. He hit. And he kicked. And he shoved you down and tossed you around. He didn't offer the same condolences daddy did, there was no "this hurts me more than it hurts you." Nothing he did even bothered Simon. He watched you hurt, and he enjoyed it.

You didn't even get a reward once you'd settled down. Your attitude had disappeared almost instantly. Having the wind knocked out of you once was enough for you to become more amicable, but your change in demeanor didn't phase him. It wasn't his goal.

The only rules Negan left him with were the basic ones for the Sanctuary along with no killing you or causing permanent damage. But that didn't mean he couldn't threaten you with breaking them. He went on and on during the down periods where you cowered in the corner or huddled against the wall of your bedroom cell, telling you stories of how he went rogue before. Any horrible thing he could think of, he dangled in front of you as a potential fate.

When Negan finally came back, you eagerly awaited him. Despite your sleep deprived and bruised condition, your eyes stayed locked on the door like a puppy expecting their master. For the next week, you latched onto him. Didn't want to leave his side. He had made his point. You could hate him as much as you wanted but leave you alone with Simon for a little while, and you'd beg for him back.

That's how you feel right now, staring up into Simon's eyes while he holds your jaw. The pressure his fingers put on your cheeks serve as a reminder of the pain he can inflict while his other hand holding the bat twirls the weapon near your calf. As much as you had been internally preaching your hatred for everything to do with Negan minutes ago, all you want to do now is run into his arms.

You feel more tears wanting to slip down your cheeks, but you try your best to hold them in. The more you cry, the more I like it. That's what he'd told you more than once over those three days.

"Just leave me alone," you tell him. You try to sound as firm as possible, but even your own ears catch the way your voice quivers. "Negan wouldn't like you talking over him."

Your attempt at taking a stand falls flat. He doesn't back off any, rather, he leans in closer.

"Negan, huh? Are you even allowed to call him that?" he mocks and feigns a pout. 

"Just shut up!" you say. You mean it as a threat; though, it hits his ears like a plea. More hot panic rushes down your spine from the stress of having to remain quiet while also trying to be assertive.

His lips flatten into a line before he continues speaking. "Your head's getting too big for those shoulders, little girl. You better watch your attitude, or I might have to suggest you're due for some more correction," he mutters.

A loud scream rips the two of you from your conversation. He drops his hand from your face, and you both straighten up against the wall. Negan stands in the center of the room, pressing the blazing iron to the side of the man's face.

He wails until he passes out, and that's when his leader peels away the device of torture. Sticky skin goes with it before snapping back against his face like a rubber band. You grimace, your stomach twisting at the sight. You'd seen so much blood and guts over the years of living out on the road and fighting with other groups, but melted skin was a new one.

Negan turns to Dwight and gives him the iron back. You breathe an involuntary sigh of relief, subconsciously soothed by the thought of him returning to your side.

The reprieve ends suddenly though when a small, sharp pain slices along the meat of your calf. You whimper and lift your leg away on instinct. Looking for the source, you see the bat twirling from the motion of Simon's wrist. One of the barbs had caught your skin. Your eyes flit up to him.

"Watch out!" you say. The old you would have been seething. She would have pulled out her pocket knife and given him a little receipt for the cut. But now, you watch him with fearful eyes, trying to gauge whether or not you would get in trouble for calling him an asshole.

"Remember what I said," he tells you quietly as a trickle of red runs down to the lacy frills of your sock.

Before you can respond, a warm hand lands on the small of your back. Your head turns to find Negan smiling down at you.

"What's with the long face, sugar? Simon bothering you?" he asks, clearly not meaning it seriously even though to you it is exactly that.

You part your lips to answer, but Simon beats you to it.

"Bothering her? C'mon. I'm just checking up on her. She looked a little dizzy, so I offered to take her to the doctor's," he says, light as ever, "I'm just watching out for her, y'know? Sweet thing like her will get eaten alive here if she's not careful."

Negan raises his eyebrows, and for a second, you think he's about to take your side. But then he just chuckles and shakes his head. 

"She's doing just fine. That was her first time seeing one of those, so she's probably a little shaken up," he says, rubbing your arm.

"Hm... Sounds about right," Simon replies, "I know that's not how her little group did things."

"Yeah. So I'll get her back to the room. Think you can handle shit down here?" he says, gesturing around to the dispersing crowd.

"Always," Simon says with a mock salute. He then hands Lucille back.

Finally, you find some relief, some true sanctuary as Simon walks away. Your body physically relaxes. Negan feels it underneath his arm and spares you a glance as the two of you walk back up the stairs.

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

You want to just take the easy route and say no, to play along with this sadistic charade and not cause any trouble. But you can't get the single syllable out. It feels impossible to even shake your head. Even though Simon's gone, the weight of everything that happened still remains along with the stinging in your leg.

Your throat feels tight, and your eyes feel like they're two seconds from overflowing. The lights suddenly seem too bright, and everyone here is too loud. You can't show him that though. You don't want more correction. You don't want someone to like it when you cry. But you can't ignore him either. That would be the worst thing to do.

All you manage in response is a shaky shrug. You let out a broken sigh with it and lean into his chest. The tension in your shoulders returns as you fight to keep the tears from leaking out against the worn leather.

At first, he doesn't say anything, and the two of you keep walking. Your steps remain in time with his as you traverse the walkway and around the corner. Then the two of you come to a stop when you're out of sight. He turns you by your shoulders, holding you in front of him so that you can't shy away.

"I got one more thing to attend to out by the fence. Think you can handle that?" he asks.

Your heart pulses to an uneven rhythm, trying to decide what to do without devolving into pure panic. You bite your lip as you mull your options over. Say yes and go with him. Then inevitably fail to contain yourself and get in trouble. Or, say no now and risk punishment for being defiant. You're not sure which one will end up worse.

"Can... can we just go back to the room?" you ask. Your voice comes out weak as if every word siphons a drop of energy from you.

He eyes you with uncertainty of his own; though, there's no fear in his look. His gaze is careful, an attempt to decipher if this is some kind of deception. You'd been pretty well-behaved as of late, but one bad day could take even the most obedient pet to a rabid dog, jaws primed to gnash.

But you didn't really have a reason to lie. The bedroom with him would provide the least likely chance at escape, and in the condition you were in now, you didn't seem to be planning an attack.

Slowly, he nods. "Sure, honey. I'll have Arat handle the other shit," he tells you before leading you in the direction of his bedroom.

The words he mumbles through his radio sound distant to you. You watch your legs switch between one and the other as you walk. On your right, you see the small red splotch staining the pristine cloth of your sock.

Before you know it, he's pushing open the bedroom door and bringing you inside. It then closes behind you, creating a barrier between you and everything else out there. It gets a little easier to breathe.

He guides you the few steps over to the edge of the bed and sits down, pulling you onto his lap. You feel his eyes scanning over you in an attempt to figure out the problem without asking. His hand rubs up and down your back over the crinkly fabric of your dress. His other palm focuses on your legs, coasting over your knees and the area of your thighs the skirt doesn't cover.

The code is harder for him to crack than usual. Normally when you got upset, it resulted from something he said. And he knows that because, usually, that's his intention. It was always either that or you'd just generally be feeling down, missing your home. But that doesn't seem to be the case right now. You seem more antsy than your normal bouts of sadness. He doesn't think it was from watching the spectacle downstairs. He knows you hate the saviors indiscriminately. Watching some random guy's face melt off wouldn't have you this upset. Finally, he relents.

"What's wrong?" he asks. He actually makes an effort not to sound like he'll make fun of whatever your answer may be.

"I just don't feel good," you choke out and bite your lip.

He feels you shudder on his lap, and he knows it's not the full truth. Pulling you a little closer on his thighs, he continues to look down at you.

"C'mon, baby. Tell daddy what hurts," he coaxes.

Your face tenses, but you know he won't drop this. "Just... just... I don't know. A lotta stuff," you say. You couldn't decide on a lie to commit to.

He sighs and bounces his leg with you on it a few times. "Did someone say something to you? Was someone bothering you?" he asks as his scope of potential causes narrow.

You're in the middle of trying to think of a cover story when his hand glides down to remove your shoes. He knocks one off. Then the other. The foamy white sneakers clatter to the ground next to his foot.

He goes to bring his hand back up, dragging it over the fine threading of your socks, but his eyes catch on the bloody splotches near the edge. Grabbing your ankle, he tugs your limb upward. It puts you at an awkward angle and nearly knocks you from your perch on his thigh. He stares the small wound down, assessing every detail of the tiny scrape.

"How'd you get this?" he asks. He looks over to you.

In reality, it may have been the most standard question in the world. But it hits your ears like an accusation and brings a fresh wave of tears that you can't control. Your lip quivers as your lids blink a few droplets over your water line.

"Simon did it," you weep.

You're scared he won't believe you, but after a few seconds, he drops your foot and pulls you close. His arms wrap around you tight and keep you flush against his chest. The warmth of the embrace encompasses you. You let the dam burst and cry into him, pouring all your sadness out against his body.

His hand sweeps up and down your back in comforting strokes. "Shh, shh, shh, sweetheart. Daddy's got you," he murmurs.

You feel him shrug off his jacket and push it aside, leaving the plain material of his t-shirt to soak up your anguish. He keeps you as close as possible. One of his hands cradles the back of your head to ensure you don't pull away.

"Does Simon bother you a lot?" he asks.

You nod. "Whenever I'm not with you," you choke out.

He hums in acknowledgement. "I'll talk to him. He's not supposed to hurt you when you're being such a good girl for daddy."

"I was trying really hard," you sob, your voice cracking, "I've been trying to be good. But he just hates me anyway. He's so mean to me."

Your arms snake around him as tight as a pair of snakes aiming to kill. You cling to him with everything you have, as if he's your one true savior from this living hell and not the cause of it.

In your head, you feel like you're annoying him. He's probably waiting for you to calm down, so he can nip this blossom of resentment in the bud. Good girls don't have tantrums or meltdowns, right? And all he cares about is that you act the part of a good girl.

But you only think all of that because you can't see the smile on his face right now.

He's grinning more than any of the times he got you to say something humiliating or cooperate with a punishment. The look he displays now reaches a new level of smugness, higher than the night he killed two of your people and traumatized the rest of them. His satisfaction runs deeper this time because right now, you're truly broken.

This isn't something you agreed to because the other option was worse. It's not something he had to coach you into or manipulate a situation into becoming. You did this all on your own. You came to him. Sure, he had to coax it out of you a little bit, but once he got his foot in the door, you let him right in. You're clinging to him for comfort, looking to him for a solution. He couldn't be more pleased. This is exactly what he wanted - to break you down. Now he just had to reel you back in the slightest bit, get you in that perfect middle ground between too independent and non-functioning.

"You have been doing really good for me, y'know? I'm proud of you, baby," he tells you in the most earnest tone he can manage, "Don't worry about Simon for right now, ok? Daddy's gonna set him straight. He won't bother you again."

You nod, but the reassurance doesn't stop the flow of tears from your eyes. Your fingers stay clenched around the fabric of his shirt.

"No more tears, honey, c'mon," he coos. He pries your limbs from around him and boosts you to your feet, standing you between his thighs. "I'll take care of it just like I take care of you. Let's just worry about what my little baby needs to feel better right now."

You take a few seconds to think about it, but the answer comes with relative ease. The most agitating thing about this situation right now is wrapped all around you, scratching at your sides and digging in under your arms.

"Can you take my dress off?" you sniffle.

His eyes fall from your face over your body. "What? You don't like this pretty little number?" he teases.

For once, you don't feel like you're two seconds away from punishment. You feel like it's a joke, and you don't have to awkwardly straddle the line between playing along with the humor and submitting to the literal interpretation.

"It's ok... it's just kinda scratchy," you say and wipe away your tears with the back of your hand.

"Spin around for me then. We'll get it off you. Can't have it irritatin' that soft skin while you're tryin' to relax."

You take the few steps to turn around. His fingers grasp the zipper and undo the baby pink prison you'd been trapped in for the day. Feeling the chafing fabric pulled away from you lets you take a real breath for the first time in hours. Already a small bit of relief. It only compounds when the garment hits the floor and pools at your feet.

He tugs you back by the waist and lays you across the bed, body on full display for him. Right now, you don't mind his gaze tracking your curves. He leans over you, his hands coasting from the sides of your breasts down to your hips.

"You're prettier like this anyways, princess," he praises.

"Thank you, daddy." It spills out as naturally as water from a faucet.

He rewards you with his lips on your stomach instead of words. Kissing the smooth, warm skin, his lips travel from just above your navel to the divot between your breasts. Your nipples rise to attention automatically.

His hands slide up to cup your mounds of flesh. He fondles and gropes them as his lips migrate up the curves to the hardening little peaks. They don't latch on just yet. He teases them with kisses instead, letting the anticipation of blissful suction build.

You take your lip between your teeth as you watch him. Chills break out across the rest of your body. You know you should be fighting. You know you should kick and scream and cry. You should try to take advantage of his closeness and get towards your revenge. But in your hellish life, are you not allowed one moment of pleasure? You haven't let those plans of escape and vengeance go, but you want this right now. You want to feel good, and he gives you that. 

This isn't Negan. This is daddy. And you don't wanna hurt daddy.

His tongue peeks out from between his lips to trace wet circles around your nipple. The sensation draws a whine from you. Your body squirms beneath him with an eagerness to feel more.

"I think I know how to make you feel better. Take your mind off all that stuff from before," he whispers.

He takes one of your nipples between his lips, flicking the bud with the tip of his tongue and scraping his teeth against the sensitive area. You reward the choice with a mewl and squirm your legs. He chuckles and then switches to the other one.

"That feel good?" he asks.

You nod, your head tilting back and your eyes fluttering.

Grinning, he continues his work on your chest. You whine and squirm for him, giving him all the reactions he craves. Soon, his hand ghosts up your inner thigh. His fingertips drag over the flesh and land on your clothed center. Through the thin pink cloth, he rubs at your clit. That garners a breathy moan and a full body shudder.

"Goddamn, you are so cute," he chuckles, "Just a few little touches and you squirm around like a virgin for me."

Heat floods your cheeks, but you don't bother disputing the claim. It was the truth. You weren't sure what it was about him that got you so amped up and needy.

The pad of his middle finger swirls around the little nub in your panties. He can already feel the fabric getting sticky from the wetness between your thighs.

"Poor baby. You're so easy to play with," he says.

His mouth leaves your breasts now and begins to retrace its path down your stomach. It glides over your skin with open-mouthed kisses all the way down to the hem of your underwear. His fingers fall away from your center to your dismay.

Your disappointment is short lived though. You feel him position your thighs on his shoulders. When you look down, his eyes are staring right back up at you, gleaming like that of a panther ready to pounce.

"You want daddy's mouth on you? Will that help you feel better?" he rasps.

You nod quickly. "Please, daddy," you whimper.

"So polite. You didn't even need me to remind you of your manners," he smirks.

You don't even care about that remark. It washes right over you. All your mind is concerned with right now is getting more of his touch.

He brings his index finger back between your legs. He hooks it beneath the soaked seat of your panties, pulling it to the side and revealing your slick folds to him. The thumb on his opposite hand comes up to rub over the length of your slit up to your clit. Back and forth, nice and slow, just to tease you.

Your hips writhe the slightest bit, and he nips the skin of your inner thigh.

"Tsk. You know good girls are patient. They don't wriggle around. I've taught you better than that," he chides.

"Sorry," you say, backing down quickly.

"It's alright. I know you're having a rough day, so I'll let it slide this time," he says. He then leans in to lay some kisses on your clit.

Your eyes roll back and your toes curl. He never let things slide. This must have been a miracle. The same man who always toted that the rules weren't optional, letting you bypass one? Maybe you were his favorite. That's what you took it as anyways.

He makes out with your cunt like it's the prettiest thing he's ever seen. His lips engulf it, spreading his affection from your little bundle of nerves all the way down, nearly reaching your puckered entrance below. You whine and clutch at the bedsheets. You were still too scared to grab his hair. You weren't sure if he'd like it and groan or glare at you in a way that said you'd pay for it later.

It doesn't matter to you right now though. What you hold isn't important when you feel this good. It feels like a firework show is erupting in your belly, bright bursts of all different colors. Your heels dig into his back, subconsciously keeping him buried between your thighs.

He's tempted to tear your panties off and fling them aside. He would if not for the limited number in his possession. If this was normal life, he'd rip a pair to shreds on a weekly basis. These things were so cute when he put them on, but when he wanted at you, he despised them. If this was normal life, he'd just buy you new ones whenever a tattered one had to be tossed. But then again, if this was normal life, he wouldn't have you at all, so it isn't really worth thinking about.

Refocusing his mind on your pleasure, he dives further into your cunt. His nose bumps your clit as his tongue fucks into you. He pushes it in a few times before pulling back and just lapping at your pussy in broad strokes, getting every drop of you he can. Two of his fingers prod at your entrance before slipping in. They fuck deeper than his tongue, but don't stretch you out like his cock. A happy medium to walk the steps of preparation.

He maneuvers his digits with expert precision, scissoring and curling them at the perfect intervals. You can't help the way your hips buck in response. He doesn't get on you about it though. He just wraps your arms around his hips and holds you in place.

Your thighs squeeze around his head too. Luckily, that wasn't against the rules. He loved feeling the heat of your plush legs wrapped around his skull, keeping him close.

He pumps his fingers faster, curling them right against that spot that got you to squeal and cry out his name.

"Cum for me, babydoll. All over my face. I wanna feel it," he rasps.

It's a fortunate coincidence he gives you that command because you were about two swipes of his tongue away from doing it on your own. You melt against the bed, eyes fluttering and body jerking and quivering as rushes of pleasure sweep through you.

Your fingers grip the blankets so tight they threaten to tear into them, but then they loosen completely and go lax next to your hips. He licks your cunt through the entire thing, not letting you come down until the euphoria has thoroughly washed through you.

While you're lying there, dazed and blissed out, he untangles himself from your legs and stands at the edge of the bed. He wipes your nectar from his facial hair before pulling his shirt over his head and unzipping his pants.

"I think daddy deserves a little reward for making you feel so good, pretty girl. What do you say?" he asks.

Of course, you nod. There was no way you would reject him while still so close to the high of your last release. He grins at your hazy movement and shoves down his pants, jerking his cock a few times and crawling on the bed to hover over you.

"You're such a good girl for me. Better than I ever thought you'd be," he says while looking down at your face.

"Wanna be good for you, daddy," you say softly, blinking at him with your misty doe eyes.

His grin spreads even wider. In your sane mind, you probably would have thought it looked like some creature out of hell. But right now, the look just makes you giggle and squirm.

Down below, he lines up at your entrance. He slides his tip through your arousal a few times, getting it nice and wet before he sinks in. A smile of your own rises on your face, and he groans at the deep satisfaction of having your cunt embrace him so readily.

"Perfect little pussy, fuck," he grunts, "Think it's the best I've ever had."

You preen at that compliment. He balances his forearms on each side of your head as he begins to thrust. Your legs rise up and lazily wrap around his waist, which he loves. He can't get enough of the fact that you want him, that you're pushing him deeper and not letting him pull out too much.

His head falls beside yours, letting you hear every pant and grunt that falls from his lips. Your walls squeeze around him every so often. The noises make your tummy flutter for him. It drives you wild to know you brought him to such a state of lust.

"Christ, you're so fucking tight," he mumbles.

You giggle again and drape your arms around his shoulders. Your eyes flutter shut. You just get lost in the feeling of him inside you, his cock battering all your sweet spots just right. He leans in and kisses at your neck. His hips pump deeper, ramming his shaft further into the warm depth of you.

In this moment, everything feels so good and pure. You can't even imagine any of the pain he inflicted on you before. It all feels like a distant dream. Memories that belonged to someone else, not you. At this second, it feels as though this bliss will last forever. Just you and him tangled in the throes of passion without a concern for anything else happening beyond the privacy of his room.

When you open your eyes, they're a little watery from all the stimulation and how good it feels mixed with your saccharine thoughts. You arch off the bed a few inches, pushing your pert breasts against the warmth of his chest. He pushes you back down with ease, keeping you angled exactly where he wants you.

Pulling back a little to look at your face, he smiles when he sees the water gathering in your eyes.

"Oh, those are the tears I like to see," he croons.

You moan, a little shiver coursing through you. It only encourages him to pound his hips harder against you, in and out, in and out, until you're both approaching the edge.

"You gonna cum again for me, sweetheart? Show daddy how good he's making you feel?" he murmurs.

"Yeah, mhm, ah-" you whimper, "I wanna cum daddy, wanna cum for you."

"I know you do," he chuckles, "I can feel it."

Your cunt contracts and releases around him with increased frequency now. He knows you're moments away from reaching the peak. Swiveling his hips, he tries to strike that chord and bring you crashing down.

You whimper, the pitch getting higher as the glass gets closer to shattering. Finally, with one good jerk of his pelvis, you tense up and cry out. A couple tears trickle from your eyes. Your nails dig into his shoulder blades.

Your body trembles and rolls with the feeling. He fucks you through it, savoring every delicious squeeze of your cunt around him. A few breathless groans rumble out of him. He gets every last second in your hole he can before he has to pull out.

He snaps his hips back, replacing the tightness of your pussy with his hand. It's not the same, but it will do. He gives it a few quick strokes before he explodes and spills on your belly. You lift your head and watch as the ropes of hot, sticky cum land on your skin.

His hips jerk with each surge of release firing from him. When he finishes, his head hangs, and he takes a moment to catch his breath. He scoots off of you and cools down beside your body on the bed. It's quiet for a few moments; though, he's never one to be vulnerable, so he doesn't let the silence linger for too long.

"You feeling better?" he asks and rotates his head to look at you.

You nod, visibly more relaxed than before.

"Thank you, daddy," you say, sweet as can be, before leaning in and pecking his lips.

He stares at you for a few moments in fond satisfaction. Then he gets up, and pulls you to your feet with him.

"C'mon. Let's get you cleaned up," he says.

You follow obediently to the bathroom where he wipes you off with a damp rag and makes sure you're all set to get some rest after. Both of you make your way to the dresser next. He pulls another set of those panties out and slips you into them. They don't feel so horrible this time around, but in the back of your mind, you're sure that won't be the case tomorrow morning. A soft, thin shirt covers your upper body next. It's the same baby pink color as the dress, but you don't mind since it's much more comfortable.

On your own, you tuck yourself to his side for the short walk back to the bed. He climbs in first and then tugs you into your spot next to him.

"I want you to try and get some rest," he tells you, stroking down the side of your face, "When you wake up, I'll get you something to eat, but for now, I want you to take a nap, ok?"

You aren't particularly tired, but while living here, sleep has become your greatest method of escape. You never reject a chance at it. The only thing is, right now, you don't really want to escape. You don't feel a horrible gnawing sensation from being so close to him.

However, you agree anyways because daddy knows best for you, and you don't want to make him upset.

You lie your head on his chest and snuggle up to him. He holds you close, rewarding the compliance by rubbing your back.

"Sweet dreams, babydoll," he murmurs.

You shut your eyes, allowing your mind to recede into visions of the life and people you had before this. The life you still hoped one day you would get back, even as it became more and more like a fantasy rather than a realistic future.

[sillyblues]

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨’𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐱 𝐠𝐧!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

ੈ✩‧₊˚𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: miguel tells you how annoying you are

ੈ✩‧₊˚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: last and second part of annoying is here!! thank you so much for the huge support yall broke my app my notifications weren’t loading properly lmao THANK YOU! this was supposed to be just a short one but here we are with a part two and a bit bigger word count m’gonna need rest and need more time for the preggo fic

part 1

Wordlessly, you left the team. You returned to your own Earth and did your own thing again. There was a slight tinge of unfamiliarity, knowing that you might never work with other spider people, your friends, again, but you forced the feeling down.

Miguel’s outburst haunted you wherever you went. Even as you fought villains that disturbed the peacefulness of your home, even as you mingled with the other civilians and hung out with your friends, even as you laid down in the comfort of your bed, his words would constantly echo through your head, and they would threaten the fall of your tears every single time.

If Miguel thought you were annoying, what about your other friends? Do they think you were bothersome as well? Maybe, you bitterly thought as you brought your knees to your face. Maybe the civilians don’t like you as well. The thought of the people you treasure and care for so dearly, the people whom you devoted most of your life to save, the people whom you risk getting hurt every day for, hating you, left you breathless.

More tears fell, and you gasped. The ache in your heart was too much to bear and seemed to sting your entire being. You clutched your chest as you laid sideways on your bed, pillows and blanket long scattered on the floor. You tried to muffle your cries, but it was useless, as they still vibrated through the room of your apartment.

Oh, god. Please don’t hate me. Don’t hate me, please. Don’thatemepleasedon’thatemeplease—

“[Name]?” the familiar voice momentarily halted you in your weeping. You slowly rose a bit, supporting yourself on your arm and looked towards the source of it. Peter’s worried look greeted you as he crawled himself out of your window. 

“Oh, [Name].” you wavered at his heartbroken voice. He immediately rushed in to hug you. He sat on your bed beside you and embraced you. He rocked you back and forth, one hand on the back of your head that leaned into the crook of his neck, and one hand caressed your back.

“P-Peter, I ca– I can’t,” you hiccupped, and with shaking fingers, you gripped his suit tight. You felt your heart would burst with the way it was beating so fast and hard, ringing in your ears. “I can’t— I can’t breathe.”

“It’s okay, [Name]. I got you. I’m here, okay?” his voice was slightly muffled by the top of your head, but you could still hear him. “I want you to listen to me. Stay with me, yeah?”

You tried your best to respond, but it felt like your body wasn’t listening to you. He pulled back a little and held your face in his hands. You look at his eyes full of undisguised concern overflowing, and you desperately hope he doesn’t hate you too. You gathered what was left of your little strength and nodded weakly.

“Can you tell me three things around your room?” you try to look around as you cling to his arms. You looked away from his eyes and looked around you. Your old lampshade provided you with dim lighting in your dark, cold room. Your messy books were in disarray on the table. You saw a mirror. You saw yourself and how miserable you looked. Your face was wet with tears, and your eyes were red. You also saw how Peter looked at you with such solicitude, and you want to cry all over again.

“Um, lampshade.” You said and winced at the painful scratch in your throat and your hoarse voice. “Books. Mirror.”

“Good job. You did well. Can you move three body parts for me?” you unclasped your hands from his arms and tried to clench and unclench them. You wiggled your head out of his hold, embarrassment starting to creep onto you being seen so sticky and so wet and such a mess. It was fortunate that he understood and he chuckled. You were silent for a moment, and you didn't know what else to move so you settled on headbutting Peter.

“Ow! Of all things, really? Can't believe this is what I get,” he grumbled as he rubbed his forehead. You giggled at his exaggerated expression and unknowingly to you, your tears had stopped flowing, and only hiccups remained.

“Are you feeling better, [Name]? You can talk to me, my shoulder is vacant for you. Or do you want me to just stay quiet? Because yeah, I can do either. Just tell me what to do,” you chuckled even more at that. “I’ll even give you a pass for laughing at me.”

Seeing Peter comfort you like that, there was a sense of relief wash over you. It was obvious he was being genuine with you and if he wasn't, he most likely wouldn't even have the patience to sit with you and let you cry on him.

“It's nothing, um, it's just that,” you sighed as you weakly played with your fingers. The words are lodged in your throat, and you slowly breathe out. He looked at you with encouragement to take it slow, to breathe and you did. “I found out people at the headquarters think I talk too much and they didn’t really like me. Then I made Miguel mad, and I learned how I was annoying him. He probably hates me. And, uh, it got me thinking, what if you and Jess and Hobie think the same way? What if everyone thinks the same way?”

There was an urge to cry again, but it felt like you had cried it all out. There was none left for you to cry anymore.

“Wow, I knew Miguel was all bite and no bark, but I didn’t expect he’d bite that deep. What the hell is wrong with him?” the genuine disbelief made you sputter and chuckle. 

“First of all, whoever doesn’t like you is automatically wrong. I mean, who could not like you? You literally make everyone’s day. Jess loves gushing with you about her husband, and Hobie loves talking about how his punk stuff and fighting the literal government which I think it’s really pretty cool of him don’t tell him that he’s going to tell me I should do it as well and I just can’t,” he said. “And I love talking to you because you’re funny and so positive you just know how to make me cheer up. Besides, I’m talking too much now, aren’t I? Always have been. But did you think I was annoying?”

“No! I never once thought you were one.” You replied without a beat.

“Exactly. Us either. Look, [Name], everyone loves you. Trust me when I say that.” He said with confidence and finality that you had no choice but to believe him,

“But, Miguel..”

“He's stupid. I know. Don’t mind what he said because it’s all bullshit anyways.” He grins. “Lyla told me what happened. I’m not taking his side because what he said is just wrong and I get you, you know? Having to hear all of that hurts. But from the bottom of my heart, I think Miguel did not mean what he said. Like, all the pent-up stress got to his head and boom, it suddenly burst out. I’m not saying that it was a valid reason, no. I just wanted to let you know that he doesn’t truly think you’re annoying, you know?”

“Besides, from all the time I knew him, I had never seen him genuinely enjoy his time with someone nor mope so bad when you didn’t come to the headquarters anymore.” He said with a deadpan expression at the end.

“Pfft, really?”

“Yes, really.”

There was a pause, it wasn’t awkward but it made you appreciate him more for coming here for you. He smiled at you and you did too, leaning on his shoulder for support. He hugged you sideways, one arm rubbing the side of your arm and you closed your eyes.

“I missed you, [Name]. We all did.”

“...I missed you all too.”

.

.

.

The decision to come back to the headquarters was a bit hard but you took it slow with Peter’s support. He never rushed you nor forced you to come back which you really appreciated and when you did return, you were sure you didn’t regret it. Jess and Hobie immediately latched onto you, they hugged you tight and told you how much they missed you so bad. They asked you how had you been, if you were alright, if were you hurt, and all that. Seeing their sincere worry for you, you smiled hard enough to hurt your cheeks and slowly you were going back to the old, happy you.

What changed right now was that you avoided Miguel. When you first returned to the headquarters, Miguel was there a bit far away from you. You could feel his earnest gaze at you and you looked at him briefly. The bags underneath his eyes seemed to be bigger and you wonder if he had gotten a bit bigger too. A reminder of his words rang instantly through your head and you breathed deeply silently. You quickly looked away as soon as you laid your eyes on him and that remained true for a couple of weeks.

During the briefing of your missions, he would look at you expectantly as if you would stand beside him like you always did. But you usually stood nearby Hobie who was at the entrance of his office. Sometimes you stood beside Jess and Peter which was a bit near him but not quite so.

“You’re not gonna be near him?” Hobie once asked as he lay down on a flat surface. He nudged his head in Miguel’s direction who was looking at you a couple of times as he talked about the mission details. You smiled bitterly. 

“Aight, guess I got more time to catch up with you, huh?” the tip of his lips lifted up, “Wanna leg it and come join the protest in my home?”

“Oh no.” you silently snorted.

“What? It’s fun and we’re doing the right thing, you know.”

“Hobie, are you listening?” Miguel’s voice interrupted you both. You look away, not yet keen on looking at him.

“Yes, big boss. Ears open for you, don’t worry about me,” he stretched his arms before he folded them to lay his head on his clasped fingers. You wondered why he hadn’t called you when you weren’t really listening to him as well. Maybe he targeted Hobie on purpose to make you feel uncomfortable? You bit your lip. No, that can’t be. Peter said Miguel didn’t hate you and you trusted him so despite the voices haunting voices once more, you decided to believe in him.

Sometimes, you two would meet outside the building on his favourite Mexican stand outside the building. Maybe it was a habit formed over the time you knew him that you would buy him his empanadas. Now that you couldn’t bring yourself to talk to him just yet, you bought some for yourself. You could not deny that you missed buying his food, only to eat half of it yourself.

“Ah, it’s [Name]! How have you been? I haven’t seen you in so long!” Mrs. Flores exclaimed as soon as she saw your walking figure towards her. You two have gotten close a bit back then and has since then insisted you to call her ‘Abuela’. “Have you lost weight? You’ve gotten smaller since I last saw you!”

You didn’t think you did but before you could deny she was immediately cooking some empanadas, “Just wait, I’ll cook some for you, okay? No need to pay.”

“Abuela, thank you, but I can’t accept this without payment. Please, let me pay,” you opened your wallet and took some money but she wasn’t having it.

“No! I told you I don’t need any money! Do I look like I need some, huh? Don’t make me angry,” she threateningly pointed her clamps at you. You just sighed, knowing full well that her stubbornness was stronger than any villain you had fought. Suddenly, a figure crept behind you and you paid it no mind, figuring it was some other customer but the voice surprised you.

“Buenas tardes, Señora. Lo de siempre por favor.” You looked at Miguel in reflex. He wore a plain white shirt and trousers and oh, he was so close to you. His mouth opened as if he wanted to say something but hesitation dripped from him so you took the opportunity to look away and stepped to your side to create some distance between you.

“Oh, ¿es tú novio, [Name]? ¡Lo sabía! Why didn’t you say so? He’s been the one buying empanadas instead when you were gone.” You choked on your own saliva and embarrassment immediately crept up your cheeks. You coughed it out as she side-eyed you. Miguel was silent and you wonder if he wasn’t going to clear this misunderstanding up.

“You had a fight, didn’t you?”

“No, Abuela, he’s not my boyfriend—”

“He isn’t? ¡Qué hombre más estúpido! Are your eyes not properly working? What are you still waiting for?” she snorted at him. The bubbling noises from the oil fill the silence as you didn’t really know how to respond in this situation. 

“Well whatever, you will fix it, won’t you?” she glared at him. In that moment, you felt loved once more and you were starting to truly believe that those who said you were annoying were wrong. You bit your lip. You did not deny to yourself that you were expecting to hear his answer.

“I will.” He replied with such determination and resolution as he looked at you. Your heart throbbed, you saw how much he wanted to fix things right with you and you didn’t know how to feel. Glad? Happy? But you also felt upset at yourself because you almost wanted to smile just because of that and it felt like you were too easy in forgiving him even though he hurt you so much. You quickly dismissed the confusing feelings down and when Abuela gave you the empanadas, you hurriedly slipped some bills while you took the food and almost ran off.

But everything would have to come to an end, including this avoidance of yours of him. You sorted out your thoughts, and your feelings, each day as you avoided him like a plague after numerous encounters because you feared that if you saw him one more time, you would burst out and say things that you didn’t mean like he did. 

On the day that you decided to finally stop everything and just talk to him, you were beaten to it by Miguel. You were looking through the windows in the building and stared at the beautiful blue skies and the white clouds that decorated it. The flying cars and the mega train running vertically were like the birds and the beam of sunlight back in your home and you were reminded of the differences you and Miguel had. 

“[Name],” his voice was so soft, so unlike the tone he had the day he yelled at you. You admit you had gotten comfortable with the pain you felt since that day that you still wanted to evade his gazes and attempts to reach out to you. But the rational part of you, the one that grew from the pain, knew you had to meet his eyes this time. To let him reach you this time. And so you did. You looked at him, you looked at his eyes that were looking at you so desperately, so hesitatingly.

“Can we talk, please? Just the two of us,” he said but to you, it felt like he pleaded with the way his eyebrows furrowed and his jaw was clenched, awaiting your words that seemed like it would decide his fate.

“Okay,” you breathed out and he did too. The crease on his forehead slowly thinned out and his shoulders moved back. You knew that if someone different saw Miguel like this, they would think he was normal and that he wasn’t acting differently. But you knew better. Despite the tough shell he portrayed, there was a man vulnerable just like you. You just had a soft shell.

You two went to his office and the door closed behind you two. He asked Lyla to not let anyone enter for at least a while so nobody would disturb you both. She saw you and waved brightly at you. She then nodded and finally disappeared.

“Before you say anything, can you honestly answer this one question I have? Just one, please,” you asked him, nerves started to creep onto you and you wanted to look away so bad but you have to search for the truth in his eyes. You have to know his answer to your question.

“Sure, yes. I’ll be honest, I swear.” He promised you.

“Did you ever really think I was annoying? That all I do was nothing but cause trouble for you?”

“Never.” 

“Liar.” You were disappointed. You were not as stupid and oblivious as others thought of you. There was a part of yourself that knew that you were bothering them. That you were bothering him. But you couldn’t help it. You cared for him and if talking too much, if bothering him would make him distracted from the grief and the pain he had from Gabriella then you would gladly do it.

“No, I wasn’t lying, [Name]—” you looked away. He couldn’t even be honest with you. Were you that unworthy of honesty? That was all you had asked. You clenched your fist and let your nails dig into your palm. “Listen to me, please.”

You start to walk away.

“[Name], por favor,”

You were nearing the exit.

“I— fuck it, yes! I didn’t like you because you were so annoying. I hated you.” You immediately looked back at him. Disbelief was obvious in your face and tears fell from your eyes. You felt a sense of betrayal at this. If he hated me so much, then why did he let me so close to him? Were you just a show to him? Were you entertaining? He was approaching you and strength had left your legs from the shock at what he said but you remained still.

“I hated the way you talked so much I felt like I was losing a part of myself because I wanted to know more about you and listen to you talk. I hated the way you know so much about me. I felt like you could see through me and I was so scared that you would hate me if you knew what I truly am. I hated the way you cared for me like no other because I cared for you too and I was so terrified to lose you too. I hated the way you’re so reckless, you don’t care if you get hurt as long as it’s for others.” He stopped in front of you and tears were also coming out from his eyes. “I hated the way you captured my whole attention whenever you’re there by my side because I can’t look at anything else anymore. I can’t work properly anymore. I can’t think properly anymore and– and I, oh fuck.”

What?

“You’re so annoying because you distract me so much. I hated you because I fell for you and you’re all I could think about and I just don’t know anymore,” he shakily breathed out. His figure was so big but at this moment, you felt like he was so small. His tears ran continuously like a furious stream and you were sure yours were too.

“When you left, it didn’t feel right anymore. I missed you talking to me. I missed you eating my food. I missed you annoying me. I missed you so much it hurts.” His voice turned hoarse and you finally moved. You caressed your hand on his cheeks and he leaned his face against your touch. “Lo siento, [Name]. I really am. Es la verdad, por favor créeme. Por favor…”

“Are you stupid? Why didn’t you tell me?” you cried out as you wrapped your arms around his neck and hugged him tight. But you couldn’t really blame him. Because he was the same as you. Despite his flying cars and vertical running train and your birds and beam of sunlight, there was still the same blue sky and white clouds. Despite his tough shell and your soft one, you two were just as vulnerable as the other.

“I’m sorry, don’t hate me please…” he croaked out and gripped onto your suit tight. You leaned back a bit to hold his face in your palms. His face was wet, his hair was a mess, and he looked so haggard. You lean your forehead against his.

“I don’t, I promise. I could never hate you and I hate you for it as well,” you giggled amidst your tears. 

Really, he was such a stupid man and you were so annoying.

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[arkive78]

One Piece Fic Recs that occupy my mind nonstop

After really getting into One Piece this past spring, I've been reading as much as tumblr and AO3 have offered me in terms of One Piece content. It's been hard to keep track of everything that I have read, however, certain stories/headcanons/posts linger in my mind and I thought I'd share them with you!

Minors DNI with fics marked as NSFW and for anyone, be sure to read the content warnings the authors have mentioned!

Hope y'all enjoy!

Updated: October 1, 2024

Killer

Childhood Crush by @analogwriting

does involve violent themes, please be sure to read content warnings for each chapter

Will You Let Me? by @fanaticsnail

NSFW, Pollen AU

Dreaming of You by @fanaticsnail

this also includes Heat and Kid

NSFW

The Break (Kid x reader x Killer) by @standfucker

Gore, graphic description of injury/pain/first aid, hurt/comfort, confessions, highly oblivious reader

Rotation (Heat, Kid, Killer, Wire x reader) by @standfucker

explicit NSFW content

Loving you is easy by @sheerxfiction

NSFW

Three Times Killer Tried to Confess and The One Time That He Did by @nina-ya

SFW

Acid, Salt, Fat, and Heat (w/ Kid) by @fanaticsnail

NSFW

Ace

SFW:

A world we are both in by @my-love-is-sunlight

Kiss by @my-love-is-sunlight

Patching Up Ace's Wounds by @nina-ya SFW

there are more of this prompt with different characters btw!

Help by @sanjisprincesswifey

Blinders On by @froggiewrites

Taking the hit for him by @grandline-fics

NSFW:

Open Flame by @willowbelle

Ace + back dimples by @tetzoro

Fated Reunions by @tetzoro

Coward by @mimi-ya

Need by @maddddstuff

Ass or Tits? by @cloudzoro

Follow Through by @froggiewrites

My Pretty Little Thief by @turtletaubwrites

Zoro

SFW:

Bloom by @tetzoro

brazen by @mydearlybeloathed

"we should get married" by @grandlinedreams

wake him up! by @sleepymarimo

He Loves Me by @clare-875

Got me losin' my cool by @bitchimasnake-sss

Insomnia: owner's instruction by @revasserium

NSFW:

The Right Direction by @willowbelle

with hearts aligned by @eelnoise

2 years overdue by @heyitsdoe

pumpkin by @cloudzoro

beg for me by @angel1010xx

Waterflow by @otkuhotgirl

Law

SFW:

touch-starved Law by @maroronoa

the death of me by @weneeya

too sweet for me by @my-love-is-sunlight

there are no conditions by @cozage

Hidden symptoms by @escenariosinfumables

Unspoken affections by @avocadorablepirate

NSFW:

Tethered Together by @tetzoro

Luffy

A secret by @missmugiwara

18+, suggestive

SFW:

you can talk to me, but you already know by @mydearlybeloathed

clueless by @grandline-fics

Bachata by @fanaticsnail

Mihawk

Sapsorrow by @fanaticsnail

has both SFW and NSFW so make sure to read the chapter warnings!

Creative Cures by @discordantwritings

NSFW

Shanks

SFW:

Remember Me by @fanaticsnail

Dancando Lambada by @fanaticsnail

NSFW:

Always return to you by @discordantwritings

Sanji

NSFW:

Citrus by @otkuhotgirl

Multiple characters

Hey Doc by @fanaticsnail

some NSFW themes depending on the drabble

so very very funny

The Kissing Booth by @fanaticsnail

Paulie, Luffy, Hongo, Smoker, Aokiji, Heat, Crocodile, Sanji, Shachi, Law, and Zoro (right now)

my favorite ones are: Luffy, Smoker, Heat, Shachi !

Competency, Stupidity, Duality by @fanaticsnail

kid, zoro, and killer

SFW

Post Injury by @standfucker

law, shanks, rosinate, blackbeard, mihawk

gore content warnings

Gremlin Reader by @standfucker

Straw Hats, Whitebeard Pirates, Heart Pirates, and Kid Pirates

literally the funniest fucking thing I've ever read

they hurt you while controlled by a devil fruit by @grandline-fics

zoro, law, shanks

angst, descriptions of injury, and hurt/comfort

Beauty scars by @cozage

law, kidd

borderline NSFW

Truth or Dare by @cozage

Ace, Shanks, Luffy, and Law

SFW + NSFW, the NSFW section is clearly marked by the author

Oblivious flirting by @cozage

Law, Luffy, Ace

SFW

A Plushie Substitute by @cozage

Zoro, Luffy, Sanji, Ace, Law

SFW

Five things he says when he thinks you're asleep by @imasimpforshanks

Law, Ace, Shanks

SFW

the moment they knew you were the one by @imasimpforshanks

Luffy, Zoro, Ace, Sanji, Shanks, Law, Sabo

fluff

Falling in love with them by @imasimpforshanks

Ace, Law

SFW

OP to you being clueless to their flirting/feelings part 1 by @astelren

Ace, Luffy, Sabo, Zoro Sanji, Izou, Cavendish, Rayleigh, Law

fluff

there's a part 2!

Being scared to have sex with them by @strawhatsoraya

Zoro, Law, Kid, Ace

obviously NSFW

Calling them my love by @lehguru

Law, Sabo, Ace, Kid, Killer, Bartolomeo

SFW

Kid, Zoro, Law, & Sanji with a s/o afraid of having sex by @eustasskidagenda

NSFW

there are 2 other parts with different characters!

A celestial dragon wants their fem!s/o by @uramakimochi

Zoro, Sanji, Law

SFW

there's another part too!

Hand placement by @cloudzoro

Ace, Crocodile, Law, Mihawk, Nami, Reiju, Robin, Sanji, Tashigi, Zoro

NSFW

god the ones about the girls are SO GOOD

affectionate + strawhats by @lehguru

SFW

OP boys in a relationship by @moonydustx

SFW

growing old together by @usernameforaboredcat

Luffy, Sanji, Zoro, Ace, Sabo, Law, Kid

SFW

sobbed

one piece boys rescuing you by @badgerbl00d

law, zoro

sfw

heartstopper by @sleepymarimo

luffy, sanji, zoro, law

sfw

party games they'd play as an excuse to kiss you by @imasimpforshanks

luffy, zoro, nami, ace, law, shanks

sfw

Op characters reacting to you kissing them and running away by @princeoftheeternalbog

luffy, zoro, sanji, nami, robin, usopp, ace, marco, izou, sabo

slightly suggestive, mdni

Number Games by @turtletaubwrites

multi-chapter story with Cross Guild x reader

very NSFW, read the tags very carefully

Random Flirting Headcanons by @feral-artistry

Shanks, Buggy, Sanji, Ace, Law, Zoro

SFW

Here's part 2 with more characters

Jealousy fueled kiss w/ “Do you have any idea how much I want to kiss you right now?” by @grandline-fics

Ace, zoro, law, kid, lucci

sfw

Thinkin about: the monster, trio, ace ‘n law! Vs breeding kink! by @bitchimasnake-sss

luffy, zoro, sanji, ace, law

nsfw

Habits of touch by @clare-875

Zoro, sanji, luffy

sfw

Butterflies -- how they realize they have feelings for you (touch edition) with Luffy, Zoro, and Law by @radishaur

luffy, zoro, law

sfw

multiple versions! this one is just my favorite hehe

[lvrxly]

singledad!Ghost who lives next door with his little boy, he asks you to babysit constantly due to his job and constant busy schedule full of who knows what, he doesn't trust anyone else to know what his kid needs and likes since he grew up around you.

"Thanks again for this y/n, I should be back around 9pm, please try and get him to bed before then," Ghost says frantically as he passes his son over to you along with his diaper bag and favorite blanket.

He had a date scheduled tonight with a lady he met through his best friend, John MacTavish. You nod and wave Simon goodbye, shutting the door with a sigh as you put his son down and watch him run towards the corner you have filled with toys just for him. What the hell were you doing...

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

singledad!Ghost who has to let himself into your house at 10pm because you weren't answering the door. He got back later than expected but still, he expected you to be up. But he freezes at the door, the key still in the lock as he stares at your couch.

The door clicks open as Simon uses the key that was poorly hidden under your doormat. He's told you to change the location countless times but you don't listen, you never do. With a soft sigh he is about to speak but freezes as his eyes land on your couch.

There you laid on your back, an arm falling off the couch and a leg propped up on the back cushion, snoring lightly. That position couldn't have been that comfortable. But that's not what made him freeze. It was how his son was laying on your chest, fast asleep with his favorite blanket draped over his back. You looked as if his son was your own.

Simon has been so dumb..You had been treating his son as your own all this time, and he never saw it. He also never had seen how much he loved how you looked with his son in your arms...

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

singledad!Ghost who drops his son off with his parents for the weekend, coming over to your house with a single rose and a bottle of champagne. It's not a date, he states, more of a friends hanging out without the ruckus of a little boy running around.

"No really, you're such a big help, I honestly don't know what I'd do without you. And he loves you a lot." Simon is more soft spoken than usual as he sits at your kitchen counter, twirling the rose between his fingertips. You're frantically searching your cabinets for those champagne glasses you got all those years ago that you've never used. You swear you still had them.

"It's no biggy. He's a good kid, a joy to have around and probably one of my only friends!" You laugh, sighing after you cant find those dumbass champagne glasses and grabbing two mugs out of the cabinet instead. Not quite what you'd normally drink something like champagne out of, but it would have to work.

"So I'm not considered a friend?" Simon says with a hurt tone, taking the mug with a raised brow and a laugh. He then looks down at the mug to which it read "Male Tears" in black lettering on the front. His shoulders shake in silent laughter.

"Eh, I kinda like your son more than you, he's less broody," You tease, pouring the champagne into each of your mugs. Your mug saying "Reading is Sexy" with blue lettering. You would be lying if you said you didn't have some questionable mug choices.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

a/n: kinda wanna turn this into a fic...should I?

EDIT: FIC HAS BEEN POSTED <33