#he opens his mouth and the rest is history

[rynwritesreid]

Idea for fic: enemies to lovers Dom older Spencer and f reader with age gap can’t stand eachother at work and then away on a case they get paired up to be in a room and there’s one bed anyways reader goes and showers and comes out wearing nothing but her bra and panties since she left her tank top the bed and Spencer is shocked and teases her all night and thennnnn rest is history😏

A/N: has this been sat in my inbox for over 3 months? Yes. I hope this makes up for the wait, sorry it tool awhile :( but I did see it when it was first asked, but I’ve been dealing with a lot in the past few months, and I’ve been dealing with some writers block. But I hope you guys enjoy it :)

Summary: Basically what ANON asked for. Spencer and reader hate each other, but Emily has a plan that could resolve all the issues or make them worse.

Content: Fem!reader. Dom!Reid/Sub!reader. Use of Y/N. Spanking. Degradation kink. Praise Kink. Power imbalance kink (kind off). Use of sir, slut, good girl and sweetheart. PinV/creampie. No mentions of contraception. No mentions of aftercare.

Masterlist| requests are open| Navigation

You and Spencer hated each other. Maybe it’s because Spencer felt genuine competition from you, or maybe it was because you seemed to effortlessly outshine him in everything you did. And well you hated him, because every time Spencer walked into a room, he carried with him an air of superiority that grated against your nerves. You could see the jealousy in his eyes whenever someone praised your work or complimented your achievements.

Everyone had grown tired of the way you both acted around here. Emily would often call you both into her office to yell, “You are two of the best agents. Two brilliant minds. And yet no one can stand to be in the same room as you two.” 

You both sat in Emily's office, the tension thick between you. Spencer shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding eye contact with you as Emily’s words hung heavily in the air. You couldn't deny the truth in Emily's words - your rivalry with Spencer had reached a breaking point, affecting not only your own work but the entire team dynamic.

Emily heaved a sigh, running a hand through her hair before continuing, "This behaviour ends now. I'm not going to tolerate this any longer. I need you two to figure out a way to work together, or I will have no choice but to reassign one of you."

*

“Oh, my god. Reid, do you ever shut up?” you muttered under your breath, unable to hide your irritation at Spencer's endless rambling. 

Spencer shot you a glare, his frustration evident in the way his jaw tensed. "At least I have something worthwhile to say, unlike you," he retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. "Oh, please. Your so-called facts and statistics don't mean anything in the field. It's called real-life experience, something you clearly lack."

“Lacking real-life experience? Really?” Spencer paused, his voice fuelled with anger “I am older than you, and I have experienced things you wouldn’t even believe.”

Spencer's outburst surprised you, the raw emotion in his voice catching you off guard.

“Whatever you say, Dr Reid. From now on I’ll just worship the ground you walk on, shall I?” you retorted, trying to mask your unease with a casual tone. Inside, you felt a twinge of admiration for his ability to get under your skin so easily.

Emily glared at you both from across the room, she knew she had to put an end to this, but she wasn’t sure how she was going to do that.

Spencer's nostrils flared with indignation at your remark, his eyes flashing with a mixture of hurt and frustration. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could utter a word, Emily's stern voice cut through the tension like a knife.

"That's enough!" Emily's command was sharp, her gaze piercing. "I've had it with this childish bickering between you two. This behaviour is unprofessional and completely unacceptable."

You both fell silent under Emily's unwavering stare, guilt creeping into your conscience as her words echoed in the room. The weight of her disappointment hung heavy in the air, suffocating the animosity between you and Spencer.

"I don't care who started it or whose ego is hurt more," Emily continued, her tone firm. "What I care about is that you two find a way to work together effectively. The team's safety and success depend on it."

*

Emily was sick and tired of how the both of you acted, and she knew she needed to act fast. She didn’t want to lose either of you, but she also couldn’t let things carry on. So, she devised a plan, one that could go horribly wrong or one that could go perfectly. 

*

“Hey, everybody.” Emily’s voice echoed through the jet, “the hotel we are staying at doesn’t have enough rooms for us all to have our own.” She paused for a brief second, she didn’t want anyone to catch on to her, “so, Rossi and I will have our own room. Tara and JJ, you’ll share, Luke and Matt you’ll share and erm… Y/N and Reid you guys will also be sharing.”

You exchanged a wary glance with Spencer as Emily assigned you to share a room. “Emily, I’m sorry. But what is this? You expect me to share a room with Reid? Also assigning us rooms, what are we like thirteen or something?” you scoffed, the incredulity evident in your voice. Spencer's expression mirrored your own disbelief, his eyes widening in surprise at Emily's unexpected announcement.

Emily raised an eyebrow at your protest, her gaze unwavering. "Yes, I expect you two to share a room. It's high time you both learn to work together and put your differences aside. Consider this a team-building exercise," she stated firmly, leaving no room for argument.

You opened your mouth to protest further, but Emily's steely glare silenced any objections before they could form.

*

“Seriously, one bed. Is she serious. I hate her, just as much as I hate you.” you spat out, glaring at Spencer as you both entered the hotel room assigned to you. The tension between you was palpable, suffocating the space as you stood on opposite sides of the room. The silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the sound of Spencer's exasperated sigh.

"Believe me, the feeling is mutual," Spencer shot back, his tone laced with irritation as he surveyed the small room. The single queen-sized bed in the centre of the room seemed to mock your predicament, a constant reminder of the forced proximity between you.

“Because, unlike you, I’m nice. You can have the bed, as long as I can shower first.” You retorted, determined not to back down in this battle of wills. Spencer's jaw clenched at your words, a muscle ticking in his temple as he fought to keep his composure.

"Fine. Just make it quick," Spencer replied through gritted teeth, his pride wounded by the concession. 

Before you headed towards the shower, you started to unpack, you hated keeping everything in your bag when you were in the hotel room. Once, you had finished you grabbed your essentials and headed towards the bathroom without so much as muttering a word to Spencer.

Spencer watched as you disappeared into the bathroom, the click of the door echoing in the tense silence of the room. Alone now, he took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside him. The mere thought of sharing a room with you made his skin crawl, but he knew Emily's intentions were well-meaning, if not a little misguided.

The rush of the warm water against your skin did little to soothe the simmering frustration that lingered within you. As the steam filled the bathroom, you tried to shake off the tension that had built up between you and Spencer. But every time you closed your eyes, his infuriating presence seemed to seep through the cracks of your composure.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” As you looked at the pile of clothes you had in the bathroom, you realised you hadn’t brought in your PJs, and all you had was a pair of panties and a bra. You were too embarrassed to ask Spencer to bring you the rest of your clothes. 

You hesitated for a moment, weighing your options, but you weren’t going to be admitting defeat anytime soon, and maybe some part of you wanted to flaunt to Spencer something he could never have.

You dried yourself off and stepped out of the bathroom in just your underwear. Spencer’s eyes widened in disbelief as you emerged from the bathroom clad only in your underwear, the audacity of your actions catching him off guard. His cheeks flushed with a deep crimson hue, his gaze darting away as if to shield himself from the unexpected sight before him.

“Are you kidding me right now?” Spencer’s voice wavered slightly, a mix of shock and embarrassment colouring his tone. He struggled to maintain eye contact, opting instead to focus on a random spot on the wall.

You couldn’t help but smirk at his discomfort, a sense of satisfaction blooming within you at having turned the tables on Spencer for once. The power shift in the room was palpable, the tension crackling between you in a different way now.

“Just grabbing my clothes,” you stated nonchalantly, making no move to cover up as you retrieved your pyjamas. “Do you like what you see, Spencer?”

Spencer's cheeks burned hotter at your teasing words, his jaw clenching in a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. He struggled to find the right response, his mind racing to come up with a comeback that would regain the upper hand in this unexpected exchange.

"Very funny," Spencer finally managed to choke out, his tone strained as he averted his gaze, refusing to give you the satisfaction of seeing how flustered you had made him. 

“You know the way you’re acting right now, Y/N, isn’t of someone who hates me.” Spencer teased through gritted teeth, his attempt at levity falling flat in the charged atmosphere of the room. Your smirk faltered for a split second at his remark, a flicker of something unidentifiable crossing your features before you regained your composure, your mask slipping back into place.

"Let's get one thing straight, Spencer," you retorted, your tone firm as you met his gaze head-on. "Just because I'm not actively trying to strangle you right now doesn't mean I don't still think you're insufferable." The underlying tension between you simmered beneath the surface, waiting to reignite at the slightest provocation.

Spencer raised an eyebrow at your response, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips despite himself. “Or you’re not actively strangling me, because you’d rather I’d be doing that to you.” Spencer paused, the words hanging in the charged air between you. His attempt at humour fell flat, the gravity of the situation pulling at the corners of his smile.

“What? No. What?” It was your turn to be embarrassed now as your cheeks flushed a deep shade of red at Spencer's unexpected remark.

“Oh, so I’m right. You do like the idea of me choking you.” Spencer paused, his eyes widening in realization at the slip of his words. The room seemed to hold its breath, the tension between you both reaching a new peak as his inadvertent confession hung in the air, heavy and loaded with unspoken implications.

You swallowed hard, trying to mask the sudden rush of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. Spencer's gaze bore into yours, searching for a reaction, for any sign of the impact his words had made. And in that charged moment, something shifted between you, an invisible thread pulling you closer even as you both stood at opposite ends of the room.

“Spencer, I…” your voice wavered, uncertainty creeping into your tone as you struggled to find the right words to respond. The weight of his words hung heavy between you, begging for acknowledgement, for resolution. 

“It’s okay, you don’t need to say anything. Brats like you always act out when they are attracted to someone.” Spencer paused, his gaze softening as he took a step closer to you. The air between you crackled with a newfound vulnerability, baring emotions that had long been buried beneath layers of animosity and pride.

��Spencer, you have a very active imagination. I have, erm, I have never thought of you like that.” You stumbled over your words, the admission weighing heavily on your conscience. Spencer's expression softened at your response, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes as he processed your words.

“I do not believe that for one second, sweetheart.” Spencer 's voice was barely above a whisper, his words laced with a raw honesty that left no room for doubt. The tension in the room had shifted once again, morphing into a charged undercurrent that pulsed between you, drawing you closer in a dance as old as time.

In one swift motion, Spencer seemed to have place you on top of his lap, your ass up in the air, and the palm of his hand striking against your backside.

Your breath hitched at the unexpected contact, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as Spencer's touch sent a jolt of electricity through you. The sting of his hand against your skin reverberated through your body, igniting a primal fire that had long been smouldering beneath the surface. 

“Now, you’re going to be a good girl, and say thank you after every time I spank you.” Spencer paused, his voice low and commanding as he laid down the rules of their newfound dynamic. Your head spun with a mixture of confusion and a strange exhilaration at the turn of events, the rush of adrenaline heightening your senses.

“Yes, sir.” You replied, your voice barely above a whisper as you complied with Spencer's demand, the unfamiliar title sending a thrill down your spine. Each strike of his hand against your skin sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you, a heady mix of pain and desire intertwining in a dangerous dance.

“Are you sorry for been a brat? For constantly picking fights with me over nothing? For making Emily do this, just so I can use you like the slut you are.” Spencer paused; his voice laced with a deliberate edge as he pushed the boundaries of your newfound dynamic. Your breath caught in your throat at his words, a surge of conflicting emotions crashing over you. The raw honesty in Spencer's tone stripped away the layers of pretence between you, exposing the raw desire that simmered beneath the surface.

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of submission and defiance.

Spencer’s hand moved over your panties, so he could feel the ever-growing wet patch. “Do you like that? You like calling me sir, and me calling you a slut. You know for the type of brat you are out in the office or in the field, you break a lot easier than expected.”

Your breath caught in your throat as Spencer's words sent a surge of conflicting emotions coursing through you. The intensity of the moment hung heavy in the air, the boundaries between desire and shame blurring as his touch ignited a fire within you that burned hotter with each passing second.

“Yes, sir.” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath as you surrendered to the overwhelming tide of sensations that pulsed through your body. The weight of his hand against your skin, the pressure of his touch against your most intimate places, all served to push you to the brink of a precipice you had never dared to explore before.

“Good girl, now stand up and take off your bra and panties.” Spencer demanded, his voice firm and authoritative. You hesitated for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest as you grappled with the new dynamic unfolding between you. But you knew that you wanted this, needed this, and so you did as he commanded.

With trembling hands, you unclasped your bra and let it fall to the floor. Then, you stepped out of your panties, your legs feeling unsteady as you stood there before him, naked and exposed. The air between you was thick with desire, and you could feel Spencer's gaze raking over your body, devouring every inch of you.

"Now, bend over the table," he commanded, his voice rough with desire. You did as he said, your hands gripping the edge of the table as you lowered your body, presenting yourself to him. The cool surface of the table against your skin was a stark contrast to the heat that was building inside you. You could feel the moisture between your legs as it dripped down your thighs, a testament to the arousal that was consuming you.

Spencer stepped closer to you, his cock hard and pulsating with need. He ran his fingers through your hair, tangling them in the strands as he pulled your head back, his gaze never wavering from your exposed ass.

"You're such a naughty little slut, aren't you?" he growled, his lips brushing against your ear. "You know you want this, don't you? You've been craving my cock since the first day we met."

You could only nod in response, your body trembling with anticipation as his erection pressed against your wet sex.

"Good," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Because I've been waiting for this moment ever since I saw you, too."

With one swift movement, he positioned himself at your entrance and thrust inside you in one smooth motion. Your eyes widened at the sudden invasion, the pleasure and pain intermingling in a way that was unlike anything you had ever experienced before.

You gasped, arching your back as his cock filled you completely. Spencer's hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he began to move within you. His thrusts were rhythmic and powerful, filling you to the brim with each movement.

Your moans filled the room as Spencer's cock slid in and out of you, every thrust bringing you closer to the edge. Your body was on fire, every nerve ending tingling with pleasure as he fucked you hard and rough. Your mind was a blur of mixed emotions, guilt mingling with desire as you surrendered to the animalistic lust that was consuming you.

You could feel his hips slapping against your ass with each thrust, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the room. Your legs were trembling with each movement, your body submitting to his every command.

"You feel so good, baby," he groaned, his voice thick with desire. "So tight and wet. Just the way I always imagined you would be."

His words sent a rush of pleasure through you, making you clench around his cock. Spencer thrust deeper, his hips moving in a relentless rhythm that had you gasping for breath.

"Tell me you want me, baby," he growled, his voice harsh with need. "Tell me how much you love my cock inside you."

You couldn't form words, your mind lost in the haze of pleasure and desire. All you could do was cry out and arch your back, begging for more.

"Please, please, please," you moaned, your voice ragged with need. "More, oh please, more."

Spencer's smile was wicked, his eyes dark and full of lust. "Tell me you want me, baby," he demanded, holding your hips tight as he thrust into you.

"I want you, oh, I want you so fucking much!" you cried out, your body writhing beneath him. Your nails dug into the edge of the table, your legs trembling as you pushed back against him, taking him deeper inside you.

His thrusts became harder, faster, each one a razor's edge of pleasure and pain. You could feel his fingers digging into your hips, his breath hot against your skin as he possessed you completely.

"Tell me, slut," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "Tell me you're mine, and that you'll do anything I say."

You hesitated for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest as you grappled with the new dynamic unfolding between you. But you knew that you wanted this, needed this, and so you did as he commanded.

"I'm yours, sir," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath as you surrendered to the power, he held over you. "I'll do anything you say."

Spencer's eyes widened at your submission, a sense of triumph and desire flooding his entire being. He thrusted deeper into you, his cock aching to be buried inside you even further.

Your moans grew louder, your body shaking with every thrust as he took control of you. The power he wielded over you sent ripples of ecstasy through your entire being, your mind hazy with pleasure.

"That's it, baby, let me hear you," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "Tell me how much you love taking my cock, how much you love feeling me inside you."

You couldn't form words, your breaths coming out in short, sharp gasps. Your fingernails left marks on the edge of the table, your body writhing under his assault.

"Mmm, that's it, tell me baby," he urged, his hips moving in a relay and powerful stroke. "Tell me how much you love my cock inside you, how much you need it."

You could only whimper in response, your body trembling with each thrust. Your moans filled the room, and your entire body was on fire with pleasure and desire.

"Say it, baby," he demanded, his voice growing rough with need. "Say you love my cock inside you."

"I-I love your cock inside me," you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. "I need you, please don't stop."

Spencer's eyes darkened at your plea, his grip on your hips tightening as he thrust into you harder. Your moans filled the room, your body arching and begging for more. You could feel the tension building, the wave of pleasure and desire crashing over you.

"That's it, baby," he growled, his voice thick with lust. "Come for me, let go of all that pleasure and surrender to me completely."

Your body shuddered, your moans growing louder as the orgasm overwhelmed you. Your pussy clenched around his cock, the sensation sending shivers of pleasure through Spencer's entire being.

He continued to thrust, his cock sliding in and out of you in a relentless rhythm. Your moans grew louder, your body trembling with each movement. 

You could tell Spencer wasn’t far off from his own release, the muscles in his abdomen tightening with every thrust.

The feeling of him inside you was indescribable, the intensity of your orgasm mixing with the pleasure of him taking you so roughly. You could feel him hardening even more, his cock pulsating with need as he fucked you deeper and faster.

"I'm gonna cum, baby," he growled, his eyes locked on yours. "I'm going to fill you up with my cum."

Your mind was a blur of thoughts and emotions, pleasure, and lust mingling with the desire to please him. You wanted him to take you, to possess you completely.

"Yes, sir, fill me up," you whispered, your voice barely above a whisper. "I want to feel you cum inside me."

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[justagalwhowrites]

Gurll, lavender is my go-to reread everytime. Ig u are taking requests (😂🫶🏻), I would really like to see how Joel found out Doc was pregnant of Sylvie and those sweet pregnancy exchanges - like him being worried (‘cause in the original we skip the whole pregnancy). 😎

OMG Hi Bestie!!!

So you'll see some of this in Girl Dad, a canon one shot I did for Doc's birthday back in October. You see some of Doc panicking about Sylvie on her birthday because she's never made it further in a pregnancy and her birthday has just such an awful personal history for her and Joel loves her through it. We also see Joel being just a precious father to his newest baby girl.

BUT... here's some more of the pregnancy for you ❤️

Expecting

20 years after your first pregnancy, you find yourself expecting again. Things are a bit different this time. A Lavender Drabble.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader from Lavender

Warnings: Pregnancy. Smut adjacent. No use of y/n. 18+ only Minors DNI

Length: 2k

September 2, 2024

The first time you threw up, Joel was on patrol.

It's not like you'd gotten your period since the two of you had started trying but you didn't put much stock in that. You'd never been regular and you were nearing menopause now. Missing a period or two was hardly monumental.

But the nausea the morning you woke up alone was.

You rocketed to the bathroom, doubling over the toilet, everything left in you from the night before coming up.

"Shit," you whispered, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand as your stomach still churned.

You knew this feeling. It had been a long time but you knew it.

And you knew you should be happy about it. It wasn't like last time. You and Joel were together now. Not just together, you were married. Things were secure - as secure as they could be in the apocalypse, anyway - and you were trying for this.

But it was still the apocalypse.

It was no small part of you that thought this wasn't going to happen. That you were going to try and try and then menopause would kick in and you'd never have a child you made with Joel. You'd resigned yourself to that a long time ago, that you'd never be a mother to someone that grew inside of you, never raise someone that you'd brought into being through love. You had Ellie who was your child in every way that mattered and that was more than enough.

But you were pregnant. You were sure of it. And you should have been happy about that - thrilled, in fact. Part of you was. The rest of you was terrified.

What had you been thinking? Bringing a child into this destroyed world? Would Joel even still want this now that it was real and not some imagined, idealized thing on the distant horizon? How were you supposed to protect a baby from the horrors of this reality? Even here in Jackson there was fear and risk and you'd gone and done this on purpose.

You didn't tell anyone, though the nurses at the clinic could tell you were off all day. You assured them that you were fine while trying not to panic. What if Joel changed his mind? What if, when faced with the reality of it, he didn't want to bring a baby into this world?

You threw up again that afternoon, the sickening feeling hanging around after everything came back up and you tried not to cry.

Joel got home after Ellie was already in bed that night, his patrol keeping him out late. You were pacing the kitchen when you heard the front door open and close quietly, the squeak of the floorboards under his heavy boots.

"Baby?" He frowned poking his head into the kitchen. "What're you still doin' up, it's late..."

"I know," you smiled a little, looking him up and down and taking stock to make sure he was still in one piece. "I'm glad you're back."

He smiled back, coming all the way into the kitchen to take you in his arms and kiss you, gentle and deep.

"You and me both," he said. "Gettin' too old to be sleeping rough like that, feel like I did my time with that shit getting out here..."

You laughed a little and nuzzled into him, breathing in the sweaty, woodsy scent of him.

"What's wrong, baby," he whispered, his arms enveloping you totally, holding you against him. "Can tell you got somethin' on that big brain of yours."

You pulled back from him just enough to see his face, his arms still holding you loosely. His face was smeared with dirt, the grime of the trail and sweat on his skin and his eyes were soft and warm and like home.

"I'm pregnant," you said softly. Those eyes got wider. "I know we've been trying but... It's real now and..."

"You're pregnant?" He breathed, stepping back from you, his hands going to your shoulders. You nodded, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. "Oh Baby..."

He took your face in his hands and kissed you again, so hard you could taste the passion on his tongue.

"Really?" He asked, his eyes searching yours as he pulled back from you and taking your shoulders again. You just nodded again, your heart pounding. "Fuck, that's... that's amazing, we're gonna... Baby, you're pregnant!"

"Yeah," you laughed a little. "Yeah, I am... You're happy?"

"Happy?" He laughed back. "Baby, I'm... I'm so far beyond fuckin' happy that word don't even begin to cover it."

He got to his knees in front of you, his hands on your hips, sliding around to cradle the small of your back as he looked lovingly at your stomach.

"You're pregnant," he said, awed, almost to himself. He pressed a kiss to you, over your womb, before one of his hands came to hold you reverently there. "Our baby is in you, right now."

"Yeah," you smiled, voice wet. "Yeah, they are."

"That's amazing," he whispered before looking up at you. "You're amazing, you're the most amazing thing I've ever seen..."

You ran your fingers through his curls before cupping his cheek.

"Thank you," you said, your whole being feeling lighter now, knowing that he was really in this with you.

"For what?" He asked, getting to his feet and pulling you against him again. "You're the one doin' all the work."

You smiled a little.

"For wanting this with me," you said quietly. "I was afraid... I'm still afraid. But we can do this."

"We can do this," he echoed you, kissing your temple. "You, me, Ellie, this baby. We're a family. We can do this."

You put a palm over your womb again, cradling where the child you'd made with Joel was growing inside you.

He was right. You could do this.

But things were different after that.

Joel hovered. It reminded you a bit of when he first came to the QZ, back when he thought his fear was something he could push past if he just got close enough. You’d be working at the clinic, turn around to pick something up and then Joel would be there. You’d be relaxing on the couch and decide you needed a cup of water and, the second you started to move, he was up instead asking what you needed.

“I’m perfectly capable of getting my own drink, you know,” you said a two months after you’d told him you were pregnant and Joel had damn near held you down instead of letting you go to the kitchen. “Also capable of walking to the mess hall on my own, making my own lunches…”

“All the work you’re doin’ growing my baby, I should do something,” he replied, bringing you a glass of water. “Seems like this is the least of it.”

You might have believed him if it wasn’t for the other things, too.

You’d become insatiable during pregnancy, all but demanding sex at least once if not twice a day. You couldn’t get enough of Joel but he seemed to be able to get enough of you.

It was close to Christmas when you finally brought it up, Joel’s hands more gently roaming over your skin rather than with any desire or need.

“We don’t have to do this if you’re not interested, you know,” you said, hoping you didn’t sound too desperate.

Joel frowned, looking over your face for a moment.

“What?” He sounded completely puzzled. “Why would I not be interested?”

“I know I look different now,” you ran a hand over your growing bump and took a deep breath. “It’s OK if you’re not as attracted to me at the moment…”

“In what fuckin’ universe am I not attracted to you?” He asked, his eyebrows knitting together. “Baby, if I could spend the rest of my damn life inside you, I’d be a happy man.”

Your confusion must have shown because he brushed your hair back before adjusting your face to look at him.

“What’s goin’ on,” he asked gently. “Why are you saying this stuff.”

“You don’t touch me like you used to,” you said quietly, hoping you didn’t sound too wounded by it. “And it’s OK if you don’t want me like that right now, I don’t want you to do anything you don’t really want and…”

“Baby,” he cut you off. “I’m gonna stop you right there. I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted you more than I do right now. Not when I first met you and you were some hot young thing, not when you first got off the plane to come visit, not when I first saw you again in the QZ. Seeing you grow our baby is the most beautiful, most sexy thing in the damn world, don’t go thinking otherwise.”

“Oh,” you frowned. “Then… I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

“I just…” he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment before looking at you again, a pained look on his face. “I’m scared, baby. I’m scared in a way I ain’t been since we came to Jackson.”

“Joel,” you whispered, running your fingers through his hair. “We’re OK here, we’re safe here…”

“I know,” he said. “You’re safe from infected and you’re safe from raiders but… baby, what if you get hurt? You’re the doctor here, what if something happens to you or the baby? What if there isn’t someone who knows how to save you? What if I do somethin’ to you on accident, what if I’m too rough because I’m caught up in touching you the way I want? I can’t risk that, baby, I can’t.”

“Oh Joel,” you breathed, pressing yourself closer. “You’re not going to hurt us. I promise, you’ve never been too rough with me. If something doesn’t feel right I’ll tell you but it’s OK. We’re safe. You’re safe.” You guided his hand to your breast, his large palm curving around the soft flesh. “And I want you to touch me, really touch me. Please.”

He was cautious at first, hesitant. Now that you knew he was afraid, it was easier to see it on his face and feel it in his touch. But you guided him through it, holding his hand, reassuring him, until he was lost in you and things felt right for the first time in months.

You learned how to head things off after that. When he would appear in the clinic, you would give him a kiss and tell him how you were feeling. If the baby was moving, you’d guide his hand to your stomach to let him feel them alive inside you. When you needed something at home and could see that he was restless and distracted by worry, you’d ask him for help. You started meeting him at the gates after patrol so he could see you and touch you as soon as he was back, feeling how he relaxed when his hands were on you.

When you went into labor, though, you were worried. You knew he was afraid but then, so were you. You were afraid not just of what could happen, of how it would hurt under the best of circumstances, but of how to help Joel through it, too.

But he sensed what you were doing right away, so in tune with you now. He climbed into the bed behind you, pulling you back so your head was resting on his chest.

“Don’t you dare worry about me,” he said, kissing the crown of your head. “I’ve got you, baby. Got both of you.”

You smiled a little as the contraction eased and he held you a little tighter.

“I know you do,” you relaxed into the firm, strong body of your husband. “I know.”

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #kit answers #send asks #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x oc #lavender #lavenderversary

[stellar-constellations]

Star Patient: Chapter 5 (ONGOING SLOW BURN SERIES)

WARNING: This series will include; possible inaccurate medical procedures and medical setting, gore, toxic relationships that should NOT be replicated in real life, murder, yanderes, cursing, suicide mentions, implications of misandry (male misogyny), and possibly more.

Inaccurate canon-timeline (this is before Ashley and Andrew murdered their parents).

Reader has a small fear of adult men/rape and has a history of suicide attempts.

Incest is not Wincest.

Amnesiac! Obsessive! Patient! Andrew Graves x Yandere! Nurse! Reader:

Wordcount: 12,000+ words

Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, chapter 4, current chapter, chapter 6 (in the works)

        Andrew glided through the hospital corridors, taking the elevator to the pediatric branch. He really couldn’t care less about the kid, Hailey, but for some reason his favorite nurse just loved the little nuisance. 

        He felt a bit jealous. Does she like Hailey more than him? 

        Obviously, she does, considering how she had talked about the girl when they first met. He felt pretty annoyed. Did she spend more of her time and attention on the ill girl? Did she get to innocently hug her like that? If Andrew wasn’t so prideful, he’d definitely ask her for a hug.

        Hell, he was really fighting with himself to ask now. Just a small quick hug, nothing bad! He wondered if he could genuinely pull that off. He wondered how she must feel inside his arms. Would she rest her head against his chest, or would she rather prefer resting it on his shoulder? Is she one of those people who cling onto you like their life depends on it, or was she someone who preferred soft and polite hugs? Would she be a long and affectionate hugger, or simple and sweet? 

        He put that thought in the back of his mind for now, rolling down the hallways to Hailey’s room. He didn’t bother to open the door, much like he did with (Y/N)’s room earlier, as he strolled in without a care.

        Hailey laid in her bed, her eyes glued to some book (Y/N) got her, before she glanced at him. Her eyes raised, surprised to see the pale man again.

        “Andrew, was it?” she questioned, her voice sounding better from yesterday. “What are you doing here?”

        “(Y/N) told me to check on you.” He stated bluntly.

        “(Y/N)? Is she here?” Hailey questioned, a smile growing on her face. “I haven’t seen her tonight! I thought she was off work?”

        Andrew was about to open his mouth and say (Y/N) was, before remembering how the nurse didn’t want the girl to know about her condition. 

        “Uh, no…” he muttered, looking away. “She… wanted me to get into books to distract myself… so she told me to go to you for any books.” He lied.

        “So you do have an interest in books after all.” Hailey smiled. “You must have an interest in nurse (Y/N) too, huh?” Hailey smirked teasingly.

        “…What are you getting at?” Andrew questioned, resisting the urge to glare at the sick girl.

        How the hell did this kid know? Andrew questioned to him.

        “It’s very obvious.” She smiled. “See, if I had a past life, I’m sure I was like a cupid!”

        “Uh, yeah. Sure, kid.” He spoke, brushing off the comment as he decided not to entertain nor deny the idea.

        “I’m very serious.” Hailey re-enforced. “I can see it in your eyes! You’re invested in her!”

        Who is this brat… Andrew thought, annoyed but intrigued (much to his dismay).

        “You know, I’ve known her ever since she came here. I know her type of men.” Hailey lied, a mischievous smirk growing on her face.

        “…You do?” Andrew muttered, now he was unashamedly interested. 

        “I could tell you…” she hummed, trailing off. “Or not.”

        Andrew looked hesitant, before letting out a sigh. He rolled his chair up to her bedside, glancing down at her lap where her open book rested.

        The book she got from (Y/N)…

        God, everything just seems to trace back to that woman, huh? No matter what, everything he sees and hears all traces back to her, even outside of the hospital people are attracted to her (even if the reasons could be malicious). It’s almost pathetic how hooked he is on her, despite not even knowing her for a week. It’s almost scary how everyone seems to be attracted to the girl, she just had an aura that everyone was aware of and drawn to. 

        He could look at something stupid like his shoes and remember her footsteps as she walked with him to the surgery room. He could remember her hands on his face, chest, wrist, looking all around and checking his condition, his bandages, his vitals. He could look at his bedsheets and remember her hands tucking him in for bed… and imagine things he’d rather not envision for a woman he just met.

        Yeah, back in the hatch those thoughts go.

        “Could you just tell me?” he huffed, trying to sound as uninterested as possible despite asking for this, rather impatiently at that.

        “Well? Do you like her?” Hailey questioned.

        Andrew took the moment to think to himself. Yeah, she was a pretty nice nurse, and she knew her stuff despite specializing in pediatrics; though he shouldn’t be surprised, children are basically just the same anatomy as adults, just smaller in size.

        She had a nice voice, and she somehow balanced between playful and professional, perhaps that’s practiced for pediatrics to make kids feel comfortable yet still hold authority. 

        She had a cute smile, and her eyes were pretty to look into. He liked looking at her while she worked, sometimes she’d even bite her lip or stick her tongue out to remind herself to concentrate. She looked like an angel laying on that white hospital bed. Even in pain, she still looked pretty. 

        He wondered how she was outside of the hospital. She was a human too, how did she act with her friends, or her family? How did she act alone? Was she single? Did she have a boyfriend, or did she prefer girls? Would she take interest in him? Could she see him as a potential partner?

        Fuck. Yeah, he definitely liked her.

        “Just a little…” he muttered, feeling a little embarrassed.

        This feels weird (and degrading, in a sense) to be relying on a sick kid for love advice. 

        “So you admit it?” she smiled.

        “Are you gonna tell me or not?” Andrew growled.

        By now, Hailey was no longer fearful or anxious of Andrew. Andrew was just a lovesick puppy hopelessly enamored with her favorite nurse, in her eyes at least. She learned that expression from her books.

        “No.” Hailey smiled, picking up her book.

        “Why?” Andrew questioned, feeling a little betrayed that she made him admit his feelings only to not hold onto their deal.

        “Because I lied.” Hailey smiled. “I don’t know her type.”

        “Brat…” Andrew muttered under his breath, unashamed to be talking smack in front of a dying kid.

        He could’ve said worse, but it’s quite mean to talk ill to a sick child, especially in front of them. Besides, (Y/N) wouldn’t like it if she found out.

        “So, books?” Hailey hummed, getting back to her reading. “This book I’m reading right now is pretty good. I can read it to you.” She suggested.

        “No…” he grumbled, still a little upset that he was tricked. 

        He’ll let her lying slide. Kids will be kids, let them have their fun. 

        “How about I read it to you instead?” Andrew suggested.

        He didn’t want her reading to him; he was the adult, not her. Besides, her voice sounds hoarse and struggling, he’d rather him read it to her than have the kid push herself—not because he’s soft or anything, but because (Y/N) would be upset. 

        Hailey seemed to ponder the idea, before handing over the book to him. 

        “Just don’t crease the pages.” Hailey spoke.

        “Got it.” Andrew hummed, looking at the page she was originally reading.

        He started at the beginning of the page, reading a bit wonky at first, before he started to get into the narration. The words started to flow more smoothly, and he even took pauses for dramatic effect at the intense moments that felt like they needed a pause to sink in.

        One chapter became two, and two became four. He was pretty interested in the story, makes sense considering it was his (Y/N) who got the story, of course she’d have immaculate taste too. 

        He read until his throat went dry, the tip of his tongue aching from all the pronunciations. He looked up from the book to see Hailey asleep.

        Did she get bored? Andrew thought, a little offended that she fell asleep at the book (Y/N) gave her instead of giving it to him, especially when he was kind enough to read it to her. 

        Maybe she just liked his voice? It’s perfect for listening to. His voice wasn’t quiet, but it wasn’t loud either, like a polite demand for attention or to respect his authority. It was deep, but not too deep, with a slight rasp from smoking. He was good at projecting his voice so others could listen to him—well, everyone except Ashley, really. 

        Thinking of Ashley, where is she? She was sure acting weird today. Something about the demon’s vision she saw in her dream. She also described (Y/N)’s appearance despite not even knowing the nurse; he couldn’t recall any moment they had interacted.

        Andrew took a white bookmark that laid on her bedside table, placing it on the page he stopped reading on. He closed the book, placing it down on Hailey’s bedside. He wheeled out of the room, making his way back to the elevators.

        He entered the elevator, pressing the button for the emergency branch, waiting for the doors to re-open. The metal shutters opened and he rolled out, going back to (Y/N)’s room.

        He made it, opening the door and entering without bothering to knock. (Y/N) laid in the hospital bed, her eyes closed as she appeared to be sleeping.

        Damn… Andrew thought, disappointed. I was hoping to talk to her.

        He doesn’t know what he would’ve talked about, but he was hoping she’d start the conversation. He wanted to get closer to her, emotionally and physically. 

        Andrew debated what he should do, before finally giving in, rolling his wheelchair up to her side. He observed her sleeping face, blissfully unaware of his presence as she slept. Her hair was a little messy, perhaps from sleeping or from the attack earlier. Her skin was a bit paler than usual, perhaps from shock or blood loss. She had more prominent bags under her eyes than usual, resting heavily under her closed eyes.

        He wondered who attacked her, and why. Was it a crazy ex boyfriend? Some stalker? A jealous friend? Someone suffering under delusions? He wondered what happened.

        He had an idea, though he was scared to ponder on it.

        Instead of thinking about it, he distracted himself. He looked down at her bandaged arm, trailing his hands down to her wrists, and to her fingernails.

        Her nails were strangely clean. They were polished and trimmed, which makes sense considering nurses need to have good hygiene, especially so they don’t transfer bacteria or accidentally infect patients. They looked like they had been scrubbed squeaky clean recently, not even a trace of dirt under her nails. 

        Her hands looked small compared to his, clean and petite compared to his rough and damaged ones. 

        His hands had small burns from failing to light his cigarettes as a starter; her hands had small burns from ovens and hot cookware and hot glue guns, yet somehow her scars were far more attractive than his.

        His hands were dirty, stained with blood and sins; hers were clean, baptized in purity and commandant.

        He wondered how her hands would feel against his. They looked soft, would they feel soft? He wondered if she used lotion, what her favorite nail polish was, how long she liked her nails.

        Those thoughts led to other thoughts. What did she like wearing when she’s at home? What does she wear in public? What kind of music does she listened to? What kind of foods does she like?

        He decided it was best to stop those thoughts. He stared at her hands, juggling his thoughts in his head, before finally giving in. He reached out and held her hand with his larger one. 

        He held it gently, feeling the weight of it. His thumb rubbed the back of her hand soothingly, memorized at the difference. Her hand was slightly cold, possibly due to how cold the hospital’s AC is followed by blood loss, but it wasn’t uncomfortable to touch. 

        He looked at her face to see if she woken up or felt the touch. She didn’t.

        His fingers carefully interlocked with her, cautious to make sure she wouldn’t accidentally wake up. She remained neutral, not even a flutter of her eyelashes or any stirring. 

        She must be really tired… Andrew thought. 

        His admired their hands as they eloped together. He noticed discoloration on her hands, He shifted his body, laying his elbow down on the edge of the mattress and using his arm as a pillow. He admired her sleeping face, closing his eyes to relish the touch and intimacy of this moment. He doesn’t know how long it took for him to fall asleep, but it was relatively quick.          .         .        

        A few hours later, Andrew jolted awake first at the sound of the door opening, turning his head at the noise. (Y/N) groaned, opening her eyes and seeing Andrew by her side, holding her hand as a man stood in the doorway, one Andrew didn’t know. 

        Andrew squeezed (Y/N)’s hand softly, a silent greeting before glaring at the man, almost possessive of (Y/N)’s vulnerable state.

        “Hello, Doctor Ryan…” (Y/N) yawned, before directing her attention to Andrew. “And hello to you too, Andrew.” She hummed, smiling as she gently squeezed his hand back.

        She looked down at their hands, wondering when she and Andrew started holding hands, or even when he returned back. Her hands trailed down to her sleeves, more so lack of, as the hospital gown didn’t have any long-sleeves for her. She noticed her scars out in the open and ripped her hand away from Andrew’s, a sense of insecurity and embarrassment rapidly building in her as she hid her arms under her blanket.

        Andrew looked confused (even a little disheartened that she let go) as Doctor Ryan walked over to her. Doctor Ryan isn’t usually at the hospital on Saturday nights, but he could’ve decided to work overtime this week. It’s not unusual since he has a stay-at-home wife and three kids.

        “Hello! I heard what happened and I figured I’d wait to see you when you’re awake.” The doctor smiled brightly, walking over to her bedside and sitting next to Andrew. “And who is this?” he questioned, looking at Andrew, yet having a good idea of who it was as he sent a knowing smirk. 

        While Doctor Ryan had never met Andrew face-to-face, he had read his report when assigning (Y/N) to watch him his first night, along with hearing all the gossip from Penelope. 

        Andrew had a small reputation around the hospital since he’s one of the trouble patients, on suicide watch and needing special treatment for his wounds and wants. Andrew wouldn’t accept any care from any other nurse during the night shift, it was a fight for the day shift to care for him until (Y/N) told him to behave for day shift. His sister was also banned from the hospital due to proving a threat to Andrew’s recovery and health, though she won’t be a problem anymore. 

        Rumors spread pretty easily of Andrew’s fondness and almost admiration of the nurse he chose, (Y/N). Penelope has a big mouth without meaning to, having a bad habit of rambling and over sharing her and other people’s problems and secrets, so it spread pretty quick of the strange relationship the nurse and patient shared. Penelope’s ramblings of doubt as a nurse because Andrew wouldn’t accept her care had reached Doctor Ryan’s ears, being the catalyst of his teasing to his student, (Y/N). 

        “This is Andrew.” (Y/N) introduced when she realized Andrew wasn’t going to answer the doctor’s question, only give him a nasty glare.

        She cleared her throat, shoving her arms into her blanket so the pair of males didn’t see, and flashed a smile. “What’s your visit for? Don’t tell me you’re gonna make me work.” She chuckled lightly, trying to make a joke. 

        “I wouldn’t say 'work' exactly.” Doctor Ryan smiled, before it faltered, letting out a sigh. “You’re here today, so I figured it’d be a good time to tell you. I think it’s best if you see Hailey.” 

        “Hailey? Why? Did something bad happen to her?” (Y/N) questioned, doing her best to not sound alarmed or panicked.

        It’s never a good thing for a nurse to panic, it’d defeat a key factor of their job. Nurses are supposed to provide aid to their patients, whether it’s emotionally or physically, or even emotional in cases like Andrew’s. A nurse panicking would panic their patient since they’re going to look to the one with most experience. If a patient panics, they can worsen their condition or provide unnecessary stress that can affect their recovery or even create new problems. 

        And people think being a nurse is just all fluffing pillows and handing out medication. You have to be constantly in tune with the patients emotions, symptoms, and healing process; from what they're feeling to how much they're eating or using the bathroom. Always checking up on how they are and cater them to the best of your ability; serving them food (and sometimes helping feed them), changing their bedsheets, helping them to the bathroom, helping out with physical therapy, prepping them for procedures or appointments, and charting. The worse is charting. You have to document every single thing; from what they ate and what times, to who visited them today, to how what they said to be feeling and what they looked actually looked to be feeling like, to any improvement or decline or neutrality of their status, to their behavior, to what medicines they had, to their complaints or compliments they have about the hospital or their treatment, and so much more. 

        “She’s just not in the greatest condition at the moment. I think it’s best she sees you.” Doctor Ryan spoke.

        Before she could question it, Doctor Ryan grabbed something from his coat, placing it down on her bedside table. 

        “Here,” he spoke, patting what looked to be a Polaroid recorder down on her table, “I came to drop this off too. This was supposed to be a wholesome visit, until Hailey at least…” he spoke, allowing his smile to drop. “Check out the contents on the camera later. I have to get back to work. Get well soon!”

        “Thanks.” (Y/N) smiled, watching Doctor Ryan leave the room.

        “Who was that?” Andrew questioned, glancing over at her as he resisted the urge to grimace.

        “That’s Doctor Ryan, he’s my professor! He’s the one teaching me pediatrics since I’m an apprentice.” (Y/N) explained, slowly sitting up from the bed.

        Andrew watched her movements carefully, observing how she slowly took her time getting out of bed. She didn’t apply much pressure on her injured leg as her sock-clothed feet hit the ground (with clean hospital socks, none of her blood soaked up in it and used to plug in any stab wounds). The room looked like a carousel, spinning rapidly, and a headache followed with it, screaming loudly in her head. She let out a groan as Andrew quickly placed a hand on her waist.

        "Careful..." Andrew muttered, watching her intently as he kept his hand on her waist.

        "Thank you, but I'm fine." (Y/N) lied, placing her hand on his shoulder to use as leverage. 

        "Yeah, sure." He hummed sarcastically.

        (Y/N) resisted the urge to glare at him. While she wasn't on duty, she was still his nurse and she didn't feel like having any workplace drama. 

        "Do you want me to assist you there?" Andrew questioned, his thumb absentmindedly tracing small circles on her hip.

        "No, it's fine." She spoke, taking a few steps to the door and ignoring the stabbing sensation in her leg. 

        "Are you sure?" Andrew questioned, trying his best to not look too concerned for her. 

        "Yes, I'm sure." She huffed, trying not to be snippy. "It's for the best. I don't want Hailey to be nervous or worried, especially if there's something going on with her." 

        "Just be careful..." Andrew spoke, watching her limp away. "I'll be here waiting for you." 

        (Y/N) took the moment to look back at him, confused. Before she could question it, she stopped herself, deciding there was always later to talk about it. Right now Hailey needs her, Andrew can wait.  

        (Y/N) settled for a nod, rummaging in the hospital cabinets and grabbing a white blanket. She wrapped it around her body to hide her hospital gown; she wouldn’t want to worry Hailey. (Y/N) limped out of the room, going down the halls to the elevator. 

        She pressed the floor the pediatric branch was on, waiting rather impatiently for the doors to open again as she descended.

        Was Hailey okay? What did he mean by she’s not in the greatest condition? Has she gained more symptoms, or weakened?

        Hailey has acute lymphoblastic leukemia, also known as ALL. It’s a cancer inside the blood and bone marrow, where the infected white blood cells are rapidly multiplying, creating blocks in the blood and bones that could prevent other cells from getting through and working. The cancer comes with symptoms such as fever, frequent nose bleeds, weakness or fatigue, easy bruising, pain in the bones or stomach or groin, frequent infections, and swollen lymph nodes. 

        Hailey’s most prominent symptoms are her swollen lymph nodes, hence why her voice is low and raspy, along with her bone pains in her legs, which is why she’s bedridden. At least 90% of kids under 15 who have ALL survive, so long as they’re treated. Even thought Hailey has been in the hospital for three years, she’s made very little progress in recovering. 

        Despite there being no stages in ALL cancer, if (Y/N) had to guess, she’s assume Hailey would be in stage 3. Over the years of chemotherapy and medications, her infected white blood cells just seem to be multiplying more and more, hence why it’s called acute lymphoblastic leukemia, acute means rapid. 

        (Y/N)’s theory is that a doctor didn’t give a strong enough dosage to Hailey, therefore the cells grew a resistance to the medication, creating a superbug that could withstand the medicine entirely. 

        Even then, what matters is if Hailey is feeling alright. (Y/N) exited the elevator and limped down the hallways, making it to Hailey’s room and opening the door.

        “Oh. Hello, Ms. (L/N)!” Hailey greeted brightly, her voice still hoarse and raspy, but having life to it. “What are you doing here? You said it was your day off!”

        Hailey’s upper body shot up quickly as she sat up from bed, a smile on her face as she greeted (Y/N). Her eyes were bright and lively, even waving her arm at the nurse.

        Oh.

        “Sorry it’s so early!” (Y/N) smiled. “It’s at least 5 A.M. What are you doing up so early?” 

        “I couldn’t sleep, I just had such a sudden burst of energy!” Hailey spoke. “I think I’m getting better!”

        (Y/N) ignored that comment, sitting down on the guest chair in Hailey’s room. Her eyes trailed to the wheelchair that sat near her IV pole, a wheelchair that’s only used for Hailey to wheel herself to the bathroom now, but even then she needs help from the nurses. 

        “So? How’s that book you’re reading?” (Y/N) questioned.

        “I’m almost done with it. At least 30 pages away.” Hailey answered. “What are you doing here at the hospital? It’s your night off; unless you’re working overtime again?”

        “Yes! I’m working overtime again.” (Y/N) lied, smiling at the girl. 

        It’s best not to tell her anything, not in her condition.

        “Are you cold? Why are you wearing a blanket?” Hailey questioned.

        “Yes, I’m cold. I’m feeling a bit chilly at the moment. It’s verging to winter and the hospital still hasn’t adjusted the thermostat yet.” (Y/N) lied once more. “Hey, remember when I said I’ll take you to the garden the next time I see you? Would you like to go right now?”

        Hailey’s eyes brightened even more, her grin widening as she nodded. “Yes! I want to see the flowers!” 

        “Let’s get you in the wheelchair, yeah?” (Y/N) spoke, standing up from the chair and using the blanket to hide herself limping from Hailey’s sight.

        Hailey used her upper arms and was able to push herself to the edge of the bed on her own, even moving her knees a bit too! (Y/N) still carefully placed one of her arms under Hailey’s knees and the other on her back, picking up Hailey and placing her in the wheelchair. 

        (Y/N) decided against the wheelchair restraints, not wanting Hailey to feel trapped at the moment. (Y/N) grabbed the blanket off Hailey’s bed, but Hailey spoke up.

        “We can leave the blanket. I actually feel pretty warm at the moment.” Hailey spoke.

        The only warmth Hailey usually had was when she had a fire spreading in her legs, the bone pains acting up and causing many sleepless nights for her. It’s why Hailey is almost always awake when (Y/N) does her rounds around the hospital at night.

        “It’s cold outside. Let’s take the blanket just in case.” (Y/N) persisted, smiling as she covered Hailey’s shoulders and down with the thin white cloth. 

        Hailey decided not to argue against it and cooperated. (Y/N) wheeled Hailey out of the room, her pace a little slower than usually as she felt that stabbing sensation in her leg and stomach. It made her silently hitch her breath, her ears having a slight ring in them, yet she persisted. 

        “Gosh, I haven’t seen these halls in forever.” Hailey spoke, her eyes scanning every nook and cranny of the white hallways. “You know, I read that whenever you enter a unfamiliar area, the reason why you feel dizzy is because you have a sensory overload. Like, you’re saving mental images and color palettes and the layout of the area all in your head, that way you remember where you are the next time you go! Even though I’ve been here before, it feels like it’s my first time down these halls all over again.” 

        Yes, (Y/N) knows that. She was the one who gave Hailey the book she learned that from, but for Hailey’s sake (and to distract her mind from the pain), she decided to play dumb.

        “Wow, really?” (Y/N) hummed, smiling. “I never knew that. It makes sense now that you’ve explained it.”

        Hailey nodded, smiling. “Yeah! I remember having that dizziness when I was at my friend’s for a sleepover.” She spoke, before her smile dropped. “Though, it was before I had cancer, or at least when I wasn’t placed in the hospital… I sometimes miss having friends.”

        “Why, of course you have friends.” (Y/N) spoke. “You have me! And you have Doctor Ryan, and Penelope, and Ruby, and even Andrew too.” 

        “Yeah, but I mean friends my age.” Hailey spoke.

        Normally, that could be arranged in the hospital so long as the patients aren’t being exposed to a infectious disease or illness, especially in Hailey’s case since she’s more prone to getting infections; however, Hailey didn’t want to be friends with the other kids after her hair started falling out due to the chemotherapy. She was insecure of her appearance deteriorating, even if Penelope kept lying to her face and telling her she looked perfectly fine. Hailey preferred (Y/N) over Penelope for that reason. (Y/N) always told her the truth, or at least left it blank so there was no harsh comment. 

        If Penelope asked (Y/N) if she looked sickly today, (Y/N) would tell her that a bit of water and food would help bring back some color to her face. It was a good way to not only promote healthy behavior for Hailey, but also it helped build trust in (Y/N) to always telling her the truth about her health. If she asked Penelope, Penelope would’ve lied and said she looked as bright as the sun; which is kind, but she could tell Penelope was lying by how Penelope’s right eye would twitch and bite her bottom lip. 

        “I see… well, I’m sure we can arrange that soon, when you’re ready.” (Y/N) smiled, taking Hailey into the elevator.

        (Y/N) pressed the lobby floor as Hailey spoke up.

        “Are the flowers even in bloom? Since it’s verging to winter?” Hailey questioned.

        “A secret between me and you; the flowers are fake.” (Y/N) whispered, acting as if there was a camera watching her or something. We have scented pads hidden in the soil to make it smell like flowers, and we wet the soil regularly to keep that earthy smell lingering.” 

        “Really?” Hailey gasped.

        “That’s why they’re always in bloom. It’s depressing to have an empty garden, even something as small as colorful flowers give people hope.” (Y/N) explained. 

        While fake flowers aren’t present in most hospitals, this hospital was different. Even if they were always understaffed and overworked, they at least cared for their patients. Even if the staff excel at their work or not, at least they have work ethic. 

        The elevator doors opened as (Y/N) wheeled Hailey down the hallways. (Y/N) noticed the stares from guests and even some patients; whether it was because of Hailey’s bald head or (Y/N)’s limp. (Y/N) noticed Hailey’s gripping the blanket on her, seconds away from raising the blanket above her head to hide it. (Y/N) recognized Hailey’s insecurity and spoke up.

        “You know, I’m thinking of starting a garden. A real garden with real flowers indoors, that way patients with allergies or conditions can see the flowers too without going outside.” (Y/N) spoke, redirecting Hailey’s attention. “I was wondering what flowers you’d like for me to add. I’ll do a survey with the other patients too, have a nice diversity of flowers. What do you think?” 

        “I think… it’s a nice idea.” Hailey smiled, letting go of the blanket. “I think daisies. You should do daisies.” 

        “That’s a nice flower. I’ll see what I can do.” (Y/N) nodded, smiling as she pushed open the glass door, rolling Hailey to the garden. 

        (Y/N) guided Hailey to the wooden bench, picking up Hailey and placing her down on the seat so she wouldn’t be confided to the wheelchair. 

        Hailey rambled on and on about anything and everything. She talked so much that (Y/N) contemplated if she should go fetch water for Hailey’s throat given how raspy it was, but she decided against it as she noticed the signs.

        Hailey’s bright smile, the almost whimsical joy in her eyes; an expression that (Y/N) thought Hailey has lost over the years as she spent her birthdays in this hospital. 

        (Y/N) remembers bringing a cake for Hailey’s 7th birthday, the first they spent together. Even though Hailey admitted to not liking vanilla cake, she still ate it. It was the last birthday she’d spend with her parents before they threw themselves at work, leaving Hailey along in the hospital with other sick patients and the staff. 

        The second birthday they spent together, (Y/N) had to ditch the candles, concerned the smoke would affect Hailey’s lungs. At least the cake was homemade, even if the frosting looked a bit ugly. (Y/N) made sure it was chocolate this time, so Hailey could enjoy it. 

        And the third birthday they spent together, (Y/N) made an ice cream cake, chocolate of course. She figured the ice cream would soothe Hailey’s throat and Hailey could still enjoy the flavor. It took many tries, but she succeeded in making the perfect cake, gifting Hailey books for her to read too. 

        If (Y/N) had known it would be Hailey’s last birthday, she would’ve made sure to go all out. Buy balloons and party streamers, force her parents to come back and see her, cover her head to toe in presents. 

        Unfortunately, you can’t change time. 

        Hailey’s eyes shined as she spoke, talking about anything possible. She didn’t have many who would listen to her, her doctors and nurses were there for work, and (Y/N) couldn’t visit long since she had other patients to tend to. But now, (Y/N)’s off the clock. At the moment she’s not Hailey’s nurse, she’s Hailey’s friend.

        Eventually, Hailey’s voice faltered, before she let out a hum, satisfied as she rested her head on the bench. She took a deep breath, then sighed, smiling softly.

        “It really does smell like flowers. Those are some good quality scent pads.” Hailey spoke.

        Fake flowers last for years; patients do not.

        “Do you ever wonder what’s beyond us?” Hailey questioned after a long silence.

        “What do you mean?” (Y/N) questioned, turning her head to face the girl.

        “Death. Like, do you ever wonder what happens after?” Hailey added.

        (Y/N) hummed, thinking as she kept her blanket wrapped around her, hiding her hospital gown just as Hailey hid from the cold. 

        She wasn’t sure. Many religions had their own ideals of life and death, but she doubted Hailey wanted an answer based on religion. She wasn’t sure what was beyond. After trying to kill herself, everything in her life started losing value, a spiral of nothing and everything thrown at her all at once. 

        Even if she stopped hurting herself physically, she couldn’t stop mentally.

“I think it changes for everyone.” (Y/N) spoke. “Like, your own paradise. You could be surrounded by anyone you want, and anything you want.”

        “What would you want to be surrounded by?” Hailey questioned.

        She didn’t have to think much on that matter. There wasn’t much in her life she cared about anymore. She did nothing but work nowadays. She was an empty husk that worked itself to death to pass the time, awaiting Death by the door. 

        If she couldn’t open the door, she’ll make Death open it. 

        “Beds.” (Y/N) answered.

        “Really? That’s it?” Hailey questioned, surprised and perhaps kindly disappointed. “I was expecting something… more. Like, deep, or wise.” 

        “You can’t expect everything to make sense in life, you know.” (Y/N) chuckled. “Sometimes things just happen. I think that’s what’s so fun about life, it’s just a mystery to be solved at the end of the line through all that hard work; or, perhaps there’s no mystery. Maybe it just coexists just like we do.” 

        “How can your answer be so boring but your follow-up be so wise?” Hailey pouted, cause (Y/N) to chuckle.

        “Hey, I never said I’d give you any special answer.” (Y/N) pointed out.

        “But, really, why beds?” Hailey questioned.

        “I just like sleeping.” (Y/N) smiled, giving part of the truth.

        “I guess it’ll suffice.” Hailey sighed, disappointed.

        “And you? What would you like to be surrounded by?” (Y/N) questioned.

        “My parents.” Hailey spoke. “And my old friends. And tons of my hair, like as much hair as Rapunzel.” 

        “That sounds nice.” (Y/N) hummed. “Though, you’d have to brush your hair all the time. Maybe it’s not so good having hair, I can’t stand mine at times.” (Y/N) spoke, trying to gently reassure Hailey.

        “Well, maybe just normal hair then. What it used to look like before.” Hailey spoke. “You’d be there too. I wouldn’t only see you when you’re working. I’d see you outside of the hospital as my friend.” 

        “What’s it matter where or how you meet? As long as we’re still friends, I don’t see any issue.” (Y/N) smiled.

        Hailey smiled, nodding. “I like that.” 

        Eventually, Hailey went quiet, no longer having any words to speak. She sat on the bench, observing her surroundings in a youthful fashion. Her eyes sparkled with life, her pulse relaxing as she enjoyed the false nature around her.

        “Thank you for staying with me.” Hailey spoke up, her volume decreasing, the sound of her raspy voice cracking more. “I know it’s probably hard for you to see me like this.”

        “Anything for you, Hails.” (Y/N) smiled, wrapping her arm around Hailey’s shoulder and giving her a gentle side-hug.

        “Thank you for not leaving me alone. It means a lot to me…” Hailey muttered, taking a few deep breaths, before eventually subduing. 

        (Y/N) glanced at the IV pole, looking at the fluids that gently flowed in Hailey’s veins, before she turned her attention back to Hailey. 

        After a few minutes, there was no movement from Hailey. No breathing. No eye movement. No leg twitching. Just nothing.

        (Y/N) took a deep breath, smelling the fake flowers and wet soil, before letting out a sob she’s been holding. 

        Hailey had so much life, and yet she died so young. She was so lively in her final moments.

        All that matters now is she’s not going to be in anymore pain and that she wasn’t scared. (Y/N) thought.

        Even if kids under 15 have a 90% chance of surviving acute lymphoblastic leukemia, it doesn’t mean it’s guaranteed. Life and death is really never a guarantee though, so it’s good to enjoy it while it lasts.

        If only (Y/N) could follow her own advice.

        (Y/N) covered her face in her hands, crying now that Hailey was gone, so she wouldn’t see her tears. This hurt way worse than any stab she could endure. 

        (Y/N) almost contemplated covering Hailey’s face with the her blanket, but she decided against it. She didn’t want to be ashamed of Hailey or her presence, she didn’t want to forget Hailey or brush her aside.

        (Y/N) stood up, deciding not to waste much time, and picked Hailey up, putting her in the wheelchair. She had such lifeless and glazed eyes, her mouth was slightly open and her arms flayed motionless as (Y/N) moved. She doesn’t look like the suddenly bright and cheerful Hailey from just a few minutes ago.

        Terminal Lucidity. It’s an unknown phenomenon that can happen before death, giving you suddenly more strength, a clearer consciousness, and even regaining memory. It’s surprisingly common, at least 88% experiencing the symptoms before death. It can happen from minutes to hours to days before death, and it has a habit of giving false hope to the patients loved ones. While it’s quite common in dementia patients, it can also happen to those with neurological problems or in some special cases those with cancer.

        In the hospital, a terminal patient suddenly acting lively and alert is usually a bad thing because it means they’re near death. It’s not quite known why, but some speculate it could be the brain’s last fight, before eventually giving in. 

        (Y/N) wheeled Hailey’s dead body to the hospital’s mortuary. She checked the body in, guessing the nearest time of death since she didn’t have a watch on her, and the cause of death. She wrote down the parental numbers so they could be contacted, before lumping her way back to the elevator.

        The ride up was deathly silent, not that anyone was in the elevator to talk to her, but it was silent in her mind too. Usually she’d at least be thinking of things to do, but she had no thoughts in her mind.

        The elevator doors opened and (Y/N) walked out. She walked back to her own hospital room, exhausted and tired. Tears threatened to escape her eyes once more, the pain of losing Hailey and the pain of her wounds piling up on her. 

        She opened the door, surprised to see Andrew there, sleeping in his wheelchair with his arms crossed. (Y/N) wasn’t sure whether to feel annoyed or happy. Annoyed because she wanted to cry and sleep, but also happy because it meant she wasn’t alone with her thoughts and feelings. 

        The door opened, jolting Andrew awake. He was probably in a light sleep, whether because he was expecting (Y/N) or because the wheelchair is uncomfortable to sleep in. Whatever the reason was, he was awake.

        His eyes trailed to (Y/N), doing his best not to smile and brighten up at her presence (that would be so lame if he did that).

        “Hey.” Andrew spoke.

        “Hey.” (Y/N) parroted, throwing her blanket at Andrew for him to use instead as she got up in her hospital bed.

        There was no point in hiding her hospital gown now that Hailey was dead, so that blanket could now be used by Andrew while she got under her own hospital bedsheets. 

        “You can go to your room, you know. I’m fine on my own.” (Y/N) spoke.

        “So? You got stabbed.” Andrew gruffed, catching the blanket and placing it down on his lap.

        “And you have two broken legs, mister. You should still be recovering after surgery.” (Y/N) scolded lightly.

        Her response caused Andrew to chuckle. Even injured and off the clock, she still worried about others. Andrew wasn’t sure if it was because she was his nurse or if she was just trying to be a decent human, but he relished the attention anyways. 

        “Ah, c’mon. I feel fine.” He chuckled. 

        (Y/N) resisted the urge to kick his leg to prove him wrong, yet she decided not to be petty today. She hummed, lying down on her bed. 

        “Is there something you want from me? Why are you here?” (Y/N) questioned, looking at the clock.

        It was 6:30 A.M. She’ll be here in the hospital until 3 P.M. She wasn’t fond of that. She needed to bury Ashley’s body and deep clean her apartment. Even though the police hopefully had no trace it was her, and hopefully they didn’t invade in her apartment and swab the place (which, they better of not considering it’d be illegal without her permission or a warrant). 

        Not really. Andrew thought.

        He just came over as soon as he heard (Y/N) was put in the emergency unit thanks to Penelope’s big mouth. He doesn’t really know why he came here, maybe just out of curiosity to see how bad she was hurt. All humans are curious when something bad happens.

        Maybe he just wanted to spend more time with her, to be happy she was here with him. It’s not like she could fight much with him, she was tired and her eyes were red.

        Red eyes. Was she crying?

        “I just figured I see you, since you’re here. It gives me something to do other than being stuck in that hospital bed.” Andrew spoke.

        “And now you’re stuck in a hospital wheelchair.” (Y/N) chuckled.

        “Forget about me. Are you okay?” Andrew questioned.

        “Yeah. I told you. It doesn’t hurt much.” (Y/N) lied, ignoring the pulses inside her wounds.

        “I wasn’t talking about that. I mean, are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.” Andrew pointed out, leaning back in his chair as he looked at her.

        (Y/N) paused, thinking. Would it be against hospital protocol to say a patient’s status or info to someone if they’re dead? 

        Well, you only live once. And Andrew doesn’t look like a snitch. 

        “Hailey died.” (Y/N) spoke. “And, her parents weren’t there to say goodbye. Really, never visited her much either.” 

        “That sucks…” Andrew muttered.

        He’s not too sure if he could care or not. Yeah, it sucks a kid died, but why should he care about a kid he had no connection with? She died, might as well get over it.

        “It happens more than I like around here. They pass without their family around.” (Y/N) spoke. “But, I just can’t stand when the parents aren’t there for their kids. They die scared, that’s no way to die, for a kid or adult.” 

        (Y/N) spoke, looking out her window as the sun started rising. 

        She wondered where Andrew’s parents were. Why aren’t they here to visit him? Do they not know he’s here? Or perhaps they don’t want to visit their child who’s a murderer…

        “What shitty parents.” Andrew spoke with no filter.

        “Yeah,” (Y/N) chuckled, “that’s what I think too.” 

        To really care about someone you don’t have any blood-relation to, must be a special kind of bond; it’s one you can choose, not one you’re born with, unlike the one Andrew and Ashley shares.

        “So, where’s your parents?” Andrew questioned.

        “I’m an adult, I don’t need them checking up on me.” (Y/N) spoke.

        “Yeah, but, wouldn’t it be nice? A sense of security and all?” Andrew questioned.

        “Well, where’s your parents?” (Y/N) retorted, a bit annoyed.

        So what? It’s not like if she called them they’d come rushing to her. Her mother would care less seeing (Y/N) in a hospital again, and her father would probably go berserk and try to bring her back home where it was safe. 

        “Touché.” Andrew chuckled. “But I have my sister to visit me.” 

        (Y/N) mentally grimaced at that, doing her best to not make a face so Andrew wouldn’t question it. 

        Not anymore… she thought.

        Her hands suddenly felt dirty again. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she hid them in the hospital blanket. Once again, Andrew was intrigued with her hands after seeing her hide them. It’s like everything she hides them, he immediately gets curious and wants to see them. 

        He knows of the obvious self-harm scars now, he saw those when she was sleeping. And he saw the small scars and burns from everyday life, but why care so much about them? 

        Maybe it’s just something you have to go through in order to understand. You can’t understand everything on the first try, especially if you have no experience in it.

        Sure, he was admitted for jumping a rooftop, but that’s a bit different than self-harming. Jumping a rooftop is one clear goal; suicide. It has subcategories such as wanting to escape life, or having too many problems to run away from. 

        Self-harming, on the other hand, is more complex. The desire to harm yourself is there, but you don’t want to die immediately. It’s a slow steady process building up. You hurt yourself possibly because you feel ashamed, that you feel like you deserve to hurt because that’s all you’re worth. Or perhaps it’s to relieve stress or pain. There’s not always such a strong intent to die when you hurt yourself? sometimes pain is the only thing people know that they use to feel normal or detached. Perhaps they even get pressured into hurting themselves. Self-harming isn’t to die, it’s to make yourself suffer because you feel that that’s what you need. 

        The question is: what is her reasoning? 

        The question left him wondering, he was almost compelled to answer, but she didn’t look to be in a good mood, so he decided against it.

        (Y/N)’s eyes trailed to the digital recorder on her bedside. Doctor Ryan had left it on her bedside earlier, but he didn’t explain what was on it. She reached over and grabbed it, studying it.

        It was a shiny silver recorder, with a slot for polaroid photos to slip out of. (Y/N) turned on the camera, pressing a button to the camera roll. The camera roll opened, multiple short videos at least 10 or 20 seconds showing. 

        She clicked on one and turned it on, seeing a video of one of her patients. They had black hair and black eyes, sitting in their hospital bed with an IV needle in her arm and bandages around her head. She recently had surgery for a tumor in her brain, now resting in bed.

        “Hi, Ms. (L/N)! I heard you were doing unwell and I wanted to say please get better and visit me when you’re healthy!” the patient smiled.

        (Y/N) chuckled, a smile plastered on her face as she looked at the footage. Andrew wheeled his way over to her side, curious to what she was smiling at. He rested his arm on the bedside, leaning over and looking at the footage. 

        (Y/N) moved the camera in the center of them so they both could see. She clicked the next video, pressing play.

        A boy with brown hair looked at the camera, confused. “What do I say?”

        “Say get better.” Doctor Ryan whispered from behind the camera.

        “Get better.” The boy spoke.

        “Now add more to it, say nice things.” Doctor Ryan whispered, resisting the urge to chuckle. 

        “Nice things.” The kid spoke. 

        “No. What do you like about Nurse (L/N).” Doctor Ryan spoke, now using his normal volume instead of whispering.

        “I like that she’s nice.” The kid smiled.

        “Now say it to the camera.” Doctor Ryan pushed.

        “I like that you’re nice, camera.” The boy smiled, one of his front teeth were missing, only adding to the cuteness.

        “Ah, close enough.” Doctor Ryan chuckled, ending the video.

        (Y/N) giggled at the video while Andrew remained unfazed. She clicked the next video, pressing play. There was a girl inside Doctor Ryan’s office, there for an appointment. She was a frequent regular for common colds, so (Y/N) recognized her instantly. 

        “Hi, Ms. (L/N)! Please get better soon, Doctor Ryan’s handwriting is too messy! I like yours better!” she smiled.

        “Hey! It’s not messy, you just can’t read the prescriptions because it’s long words!” Doctor Ryan laughed.

        “Still bad.” The kid smiled. 

        “Oh whatever.” Doctor Ryan chuckled from behind the camera, ending the video.

        The kid was right, Doctor Ryan’s handwriting was bad. The kid would try to read the prescriptions on the paper but couldn’t read the big messy words, so (Y/N) would just simply write “cold medicine” so the girl could read it. 

        (Y/N) smiled, going through more and more videos as she chuckled and grinned at the kids, their thoughts and feelings, and seeing their current statuses. 

        She eventually got to the last video, the caption above saying it was recorded just eight hours ago, when (Y/N) was still sleeping in the hospital after surgery. 

        “Hi, Ms. (L/N)!” the patient with blonde hair smiled, revealing to be Hailey, lively and well.

        “I heard you’re unwell and I hope you get better really soon! I can’t wait to see you again and to read the books you lend me. Please get well soon, I miss you already!” Hailey smiled.

        “Wow, she looked to be getting better.” Andrew commented, pointing at the screen. “I wonder what happened…”

        Even though Hailey was lively and well, anybody with medical knowledge would know that she was doing bad.

        “Terminal lucidity.” (Y/N) answered. “Sometimes before you die, your brain acts out on a last defense. You gain more energy and strength; but it’s fruitless.” She explained.

        “Oh… that blows…” Andrew muttered.

        No wonder she seemed much more vocal and confident today than she did yesterday. He wondered if he died, would he act like that too before kicking the bucket? That must hurt for the loved ones who don’t understand. 

        “It does…” (Y/N) sighed, her mind going blank as she stared out in the distance.  

        When things become too much, it’s better not to think and just go on auto-pilot. It’s how (Y/N) went through her life when things became too much.

        It’s unhealthy, she knows that, but it helps her cope with reality. 

        She turned off the camera screen, burning a hole into her lap as she looked at the black screen. She spaced out, going motionless.

        Andrew noticed, unsure whether to speak up or not. She was obviously feeling distraught and he wasn’t sure if she should be wallowing in her feelings or not.

        Auto-pilot took over and decided it wanted her to cry. Tears started pouring down her face before she knew it, only causing Andrew to shift uncomfortably in his chair. He sighed, grabbing her hand and holding it. 

        “Hey… it’s okay.” Andrew spoke awkwardly. 

        “No, it’s not.” She spoke, her voice cracking. “All these kids, they shouldn’t have to go through this so young. They shouldn't be in pain or dying.” 

        It’s admirable, her care for others. It must take a good heart to do that, always worrying about others instead of herself. Andrew wondered if he was like that before all this happened. Was he a good person before he jumped and lost most of his memory? 

        No, probably not. This is reality, not a dream. He doubts that he was a good person, judging by the way he acted with Ashley the past three months he could remember. His parents ignored his calls, his girlfriend broke up with him on the phone, and he killed multiple people and even ate his neighbor!

        Yeah, definitely not a good person.

        “There, there…” Andrew muttered awkwardly, squeezing her hand hesitantly. “Sometimes things just happen?”

        “But they shouldn’t happen to kids. They’ve been brought in this world just to get taken out when life has barely even started for them. These poor kids.” She cried, squeezing Andrew’s hand tightly for comfort. “They shouldn’t be wanted to die so early on. They should be enjoying life, not wondering when it’ll end.” 

        Normally, she’d just hide her feelings or bottle it up until she got home, but she can’t even go home and cry because she has a body to bury and a apartment to clean. 

        Life just keeps piling up on her more and more. It feels like a never ending cycle of pain. The only time she even feels happy now in reality, without sleeping, is seeing kids happy and smiling. How can she be happy if they keep dying? How can she be happy if these kids keep getting their happiness robbed?

        Andrew contemplated what he should do. Should he let her vent? Should he try and comfort her more? Should he offer her to shut up and shove advice down her throat? 

        He decided it was probably best to just comfort her, he’d rather not see her cry. She can be emotional outside of his vision. As much as he likes this nurse, he hates sensitive people; maybe he just doesn’t like seeing someone he favors crying. 

        Andrew sighed, reaching over and placing both his hands on her face, wiping the tears off her cheeks with his thumbs. 

        “Hey, don’t cry.” He spoke. “It doesn’t look good on you, you know?”         

        (Y/N) sniffled as she tried to speak. The muscles in her throat felt restricting, preventing her from putting them to use, so she only just shook her head.

        “That video showed Hailey saying that she wanted you to get better, right?” Andrew pointed out, wiping the tears into her skin. 

        (Y/N) nodded, unsure of where he was trying to go with this.

        “So, she knew you weren’t feeling good, even when she wasn't doing good herself She cares about your health. Do you think crying would make her happy?” Andrew questioned. “I think it would just worry her about you. You wouldn’t want her to worry about you, would you?” 

        (Y/N) shook her head, her shoulders shaking from her sobs. 

        "You were there for her when no one else was? Isn't that all that matters in a kid's final moments?" Andrew questioned.

        Andrew's right, at least they didn't die alone. Dying alone must be one of the worst ways to die, alone to succumb to your own thoughts and regrets of what could've happen and what did. It must be worse slowly deteriorating over time, at least dying quick you wouldn't be alone with your thoughts, but dying alone just leaves your thoughts, which slowly fade over time the more and more you stop living and just start existing, before even you lose that too. 

        Yeah, being alone sucks, (Y/N) can vouch for that. Coming home to an empty house with nobody to greet you, eating meals alone, waking up alone and going to sleep alone, shopping alone. It's kind of like dying alone in one way. You're just waiting for that time to come when eventually you stop doing those other things, so you just go on autopilot and wait. Of course, she could easily change all that by dating someone or getting a pet for at home, but it's just so exhausting trying to find a good person to spend the rest of your life with. 

        There's a reason so many people are single in the dating pool. Besides, she doubts anyone would want to date her with her work schedule; she sleeps in the day and either works at night or stays up at night on her days off. Let's not forget how she's constantly tired and depressed, dating someone like her would be such a buzzkill, you'd have to be desperate; at least that's what her mother said to her last time they met up for dinner. 

        (Y/N)’s tears stopped, realizing Andrew was right. Hailey wouldn’t want her crying, and if (Y/N) died, she wouldn’t want to be sad either.

        (Y/N)’s sadness was soon replaced with embarrassment once she realized she was crying. Crying in front of a man and have the audacity to rely on him for her own emotions. It only makes it worse that he was her patient. This must be wrong in some way to be touching her patient like this, considering Andrew isn’t in any need of reassurance she should be providing as his nurse. 

        She pushed him away rather quickly, wiping her own tears out of her eyes instead of him doing it for her. Andrew looked confused, mentally wondering if he did something wrong. 

        Why the sudden change?

        (Y/N) adverted her eyes from his face, feeling childish and insecure for crying in front of someone. Even if he was pretty handsome to her, she’d rather not see the pity, or any other sort of expression on his face. 

        Andrew felt a bit annoyed at the sudden change. He was just holding her and comforting her. She was even leaning against him and crying into his chest! Why did she suddenly push him away? Why did she suddenly not want him anymore?

        His eye unconsciously twitched, showing his mild annoyance as a tinge of insecurity washed over him. Before he could question the sudden change of heart, the door opened, Penelope walking into the room.

        Penelope’s face brightened once she saw (Y/N), before it dropped noticing Andrew. Penelope suddenly became skittish, playing with her fingers as she avoided Andrew’s gaze (glare). 

        “Um… Mr. Graves, you’re not supposed to be here at night. It’s protocol for patients to be in their rooms in the night.” Penelope muttered, her green eyes staring down at the white tiles. “Should I escort you back to your room?”

        “No.” He spoke quickly, wanting nothing to do with Penelope.

        Andrew looked back at (Y/N), his gaze softening just a bit as he looked a bit concerned for her. He didn’t want to leave her. What if she needed help with something? What if she cried some more? What if she needed him?

        Andrew mentally groaned, conflicted with his emotions. He unlocked his wheelchair and wheeled to the door, Penelope stepping to the side so he could pass by her. 

        “You can come back during visiting hours.” Penelope added quietly, resulting in a harsh glare from Andrew.

        If only looks could kill.

        Penelope watched as Andrew left the room, before she closed the door behind her for privacy.

        “Gosh, he’s just so intimidating…” Penelope groaned, taking a seat in the room’s guest chair. 

        “He’s not so bad…” (Y/N) hummed, smiling.

        (Y/N)’s not too sure why Penelope’s afraid of Andrew. Sure, he’s a man, but he’s not really intimidating. Perhaps she’s grown desensitized to him and his menacing aura. 

        Or you know, perhaps she just likes red flags. A killer cannibal certainly is a red flag, but that’s just a theory.

        Besides, what’s he gonna do with two broken legs? Punch her? Penelope just has to climb up on the hospital bed or take the stairs. 

        Penelope took in (Y/N)’s appearance, a frown making way on her face.

        "Oh, you poor thing!" she spoke, the words sounding degrading enough, especially after (Y/N) was just crying a few minutes ago. "Who could do such a thing to you?"

        "Who knows..." (Y/N) muttered, ignoring the sudden shock of anger shooting through her.

        She looked at Andrew. Why did Penelope look at Andrew? Yeah, she was searching for him to bring him back to his room, but did she have to advert her eyes and mutter like a damn school girl? 

        The sudden jealousy pissed (Y/N) off, why was she acting like this? Why did she care? What does Penelope even want?

        "Did you need something?" (Y/N) questioned, not doing too well to hide her annoyance.

        Luckily, Penelope was a bit oblivious, yet still seemed a bit on edge.

        "Oh, sorry... Well, before I speak, how do you feel? Do you need anything? Food or water? Painkillers?" Penelope questioned.

        "I'm doing fine..." (Y/N) spoke, gritting her teeth as she smiled.

        "Good. Well, did you hear the news about that patient? Andrew Graves?" Penelope questioned.

        "What about him?" (Y/N) questioned, glancing at Penelope suspiciously as another volt of jealousy shot through her. 

        "Well, I did some digging online, and I found out he's wanted!" Penelope spoke, her voice a bit too loud for her liking.

        "So?" (Y/N) questioned, already knowing this information, before she quickly switched up her attitude, realizing that wasn't an appropriate social response. "Wait, what? Wanted? Like, by the police?" 

        "Yes!" Penelope nodded, leaning closer to (Y/N) in her chair as she spoke. "Wanted for murder! They said he killed four people at their old apartment. Him and his sister, Ashley. They even said one of the bodies had meat cut off it and it was cut up in pieces! They found DNA and blood in their kitchen, on the counter and pots and silverware!" 

        Well, the police only has to worry about one sibling now... (Y/N) thought to herself. 

        (Y/N) stayed silent, unsure of what a functioning human would respond to this. Honestly, she's grown quite comfortable with the fact Andrew is a killer and a cannibal. 

        "I mean, that's just... vile! And disgusting! How could someone do that?" Penelope questioned, her face turning as green as her eyes. 

        "Why did they do it?" (Y/N) questioned.

        "H-huh?" Penelope questioned, surprised. "What do you mean? They kill four people and ate one! They must be insane or something." 

        "Let's not jump to conclusions. We don't know why they did it." (Y/N) spoke. "Penelope, we should know better than anyone else that people act out for reasons. We're nurses, we deal with mental breakdowns and patients lashing out all the time, and we know they have motives behind it." 

        "Yeah, but that's a medical setting, when something's generally wrong with them! Andrew seems stable enough!" Penelope spoke. "He must've knew what he was doing!" 

        "Peer pressure?" (Y/N) suggested. "Perhaps his act is a facade? We don't know a person's thoughts or feelings. For all we knew, they could've been in a dire situation. I mean, who just randomly kills four people in one day and run? Something must've happened."

        Penelope looked frustrated, her bottom lip pouting as she clenched her fists. "And? So? Why should we care?! He killed four people, you know! We need to call the police!"

        "No! You can't!" (Y/N) quickly shot up from the bed, flinching as she felt a stabbing pain in her stomach where her wound was. 

        "What? Why not?" Penelope questioned, surprised at the sudden outburst as she leaned back in her chair. "Why are you defending him? We're nurses! We need to help protect people. He could hurt someone else here!" 

        "No! You can't take him!" (Y/N) shouted, throwing the bedsheets off her and rushing to Penelope, ignoring the pain shooting throughout her body as she placed both of her hands on the arm chairs, caging Penelope in. "You can't do that! I won't let you."

        "W-what? W-why are you acting like this?" Penelope squeaked, her hands pressing together as she curled herself up in a ball, sinking herself down in her chair as she stared up at (Y/N), frightened.

        (Y/N) paused, realizing the sudden position she put herself in. Damn it! Why did she just lash out like that? She's never like this! Why can't she just let Andrew go? She needed to think of something quick to diffuse this situation and convince Penelope not to report Andrew.

        "Don't you understand? The police are just going to keep him here until he heals up to where he can go to jail. If you report him now and he's aware of that, he might snap and actually hurt people." (Y/N) spoke, trying to come up with a false reason. "You'll just enrage him and give him a motive to hurt others. He hasn't injured anyone severely these past days, only a few books and hits thrown because he was afraid of us recognizing him and calling the police."

        Penelope looked uncertain, contemplating whether she should listen to the younger and injured nurse in front of her. 

        "B-but—" Penelope started, but was cut off by (Y/N).

        "Penelope, please. Don't be an idiot. Don't do something so unfathomably stupid!" (Y/N) pleaded.

        Just make the idea look stupid. Just act like Penelope's the one being insensible. 

        "He could really hurt someone if the police come and tell him he's arrested. They're just going to explain that he's under arrest, and will be escorted to prison once the doctors deem him healthy enough to go. He'll just be here, drugged up from his surgeries, and that could cause him to not think sensibly, it'll make him more of a hazard to others. We can't afford that, Penelope." (Y/N) explained. 

        Penelope adverted her eyes, (Y/N)'s words seeming to sink into her as she started to appear ashamed of what she was previously proposing.        

        "So... what now?" Penelope questioned. "He's not going to be able to stay here long anyways. We have no emergency contacts to contact for him. He has no records inside our hospital. He can't even fill out any of our forms or such because of his amnesia, either that or he's pretending to not to know the information." Penelope explained. "He doesn't have health insurance or can't remember it, and I doubt he can afford the hospital bills if he can't even remember anything! He probably doesn't even know his banking information if he has it!" 

        “If we tell him that, it’ll be bothersome…” (Y/N) explained. “I mean… he could get mad and hurt someone.”

        “Exactly!” Penelope exclaimed. “I-I don’t know what to do! Should we bring this up to HR or the head nurse?” 

        “No.” (Y/N) spoke quickly. “I-I mean, c’mon? It’s hard to trust these so-called professionals. The hospital is notorious for its accidents and fatalities. I mean, we're all working here because we were rejected by other hospitals because of our questionable backgrounds and court filings! For gods sake, there’s an advisement a town from here that has a doctor suggesting anesthesia for depression and it has our hospital name on it! We can't trust the board for anything!"

        “But… what can we do?” Penelope questioned, feeling hopeless.

        “We’re the smartest nurses in this whole shithole,” (Y/N) spoke.

        Maybe it was an exaggeration, but she needed Penelope to believe her, or at least stop her from reporting Andrew so that he could escape.

        Why does she care so much about a wrongdoer? He should be in prison, he should pay for what he’s done, but for some reason there’s a stabbing sensation in her chest at just the thought of not seeing him again. The feeling was almost as painful as the bleeding wound she currently had.

        She needed new bandages, she’s been putting too much stress her body. She would ask Penelope, but she’d rather not stick around with Penelope any longer. Sure, having Penelope around would make it so she’s less likely to snitch, but there’s also the possibility that she could potentially catch (Y/N)’s unnatural behavior and go back on her words. 

        "I-I just... what if we're making the wrong choice? I can't stand the thought that someone can get hurt." Penelope spoke.

        (Y/N) almost felt sorry for the young nurse. The nurse was only three years older than her, yet she seems utterly more helpless in life than (Y/N). Penelope has a bad luck streak with everything. She's terrible at math and doing her taxes. She's terrible at thinking for herself. She's grown up from foster home to foster home. Every relationship she's been in has been disastrous. 

        (Y/N) would care if Penelope didn’t have such an unhealthy obsession about finding love. The whole reason she became a nurse was to try and nurse someone to health so they’d love her; it’s almost sad, really.

        “I just can’t believe it…” Penelope groaned, burying her face into her hands. “Why are the cute guys always so unstable?”

        Nevermind. (Y/N) doesn’t feel sad for her at all. Absolutely no pity. Void of emotion. She was almost considering the idea of murdering Penelope. Seriously, you're caring about how cute a guy is despite him being a major threat to your life? Should you really be focusing on a cannibal's looks. 

        (Y/N) decided to bite her tongue. There was no reason to start a fight (that, and maybe she's just a bit guilty of this as well...) It still didn't stop the bubbling pot boiled inside her stomach and chest as she glared at Penelope though. 

        “Penelope, can you go find my nurse? I need a new change of bandages.” (Y/N) grumbled, desperate for Penelope to leave her as she sat back down on her bed, wincing as she overstrained herself once more.

        Maybe cornering and intimidating a person while injured isn’t the best course of action.

        “O-oh, right! Sure!” Penelope spoke, popping up from her makeshift ball as she stood up from her chair. “Whats your nurse’s name? I’ll go find them.” 

        “I don’t know their name. I didn’t met them, only my doctor.” (Y/N) explained.

        “Oh, okay then. Well, I’ll ask around and see if I can find them.” Penelope spoke, walking to the door. “Door open or closed?” 

        “Close it.” (Y/N) answered.

        Penelope nodding, closing the door and leaving (Y/N) to her own devices. (Y/N) let out a sigh of relief that Penelope was gone; however, there were other things to worry about.

        She needed to figure out a way to solve the Andrew situation. She could talk to Andrew herself and see if he has any insurance. She might be able to judge if he’s lying or not about knowing anything, if Andrew’s a good liar or not, that is. 

        She almost felt compelled to leave her room and go to Andrew’s. She could tell him what happens; no health insurance means paying the full entirety of the bills, which could be five digits to possibly even six after all his car, special requests/needs, surgeries, and days he’s spent admitted.

        It’s fine… she just needs to sleep. She can deal with it another day. If she sleeps now, time will pass quicker and she can get discharged. 

        She closed her eyes, seeing nothing but darkness as she used her drawback to escapism once more, distancing herself from reality as she did her best not to think about her patient.

And chapter 5 is done! I do apologize for it being so long, I wasn't planning on it being so long but I guess I did get a bit carried away... Chapter 6 will have quite a bit of drama and new characters being introduced! Now I just have to get chapter 6 done... which I'm unsure of when will be done, but it's in the works already! Thank you for your patience and for reading, and I'm excited for you all to see the development of (Y/N) and Andrew!

Want more Andrew Graves content? Check out the Andrew Graves masterlist!

Inbox is OPEN for questions about the story and new plotlines/ideas, not for request!

Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, chapter 4, current chapter, chapter 6 (in the works)

#stellar constellations #andrew graves x reader #andrew tcoaal #andrew graves #tcoaal #andy graves x reader #andy graves #andy and leyley #the coffin of andy and leyley #tcoaal andrew #female yandere #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere x yandere #yandere #yandere x willing reader #yandere girl #x female y/n #x fem!reader #fem reader #x yn #x female reader

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The Tomb of Light

Summary: In a country where magic has been outlawed, four strangers are sent on a quest to find the last source and destroy it—but something or someone has other plans for them.

Genre: NA Fantasy

WIP Intro

Chapter One: The Pledge

CW: Violent imagery, mentions of death

 WC: 3,507

The bell’s resounding chime summoned him to his retribution.

Adrin’s eyes slid over to the dust-covered window and his mouth pressed into a thin line. He dipped a finger into the jar of flaxseed oil his mother had boiled down for him the night before and brushed some into his hair with more urgency.  The reflective glass that hung on his bedroom wall hung slightly crooked, but instead of setting it straight he simply tilted his head to the right. For a guard in training, it would have been more convenient for him to keep a shorter hairstyle, but it would have been yet another thing that made him look like everyone else, and he was already a stranger to himself. If someone had told him long ago that he was to be sworn into the High Guard, he would have thrown his head back and laughed. His father had tried in vain to encourage even a flicker of enthusiasm for the job, but a guard was not who he was meant to be. It was who he needed to become.

With his blonde hair slicked back against his head, he secured a heavy white cape around his shoulders. The city’s crest, a large tree with bare branches, was embroidered on the back with black thread. The roots dangling beneath the tree were in the shape of lightning. Rothar was proud of their violent history, and he would be in defense of it for the rest of his life. He stared back at the downcast face in the foggy glass and bid farewell to the boy who once wished to escape it. The floorboards creaked beneath his weight as he slouched down the narrow hallway into the kitchen. He slipped through the front door just as his mother’s groggy voice called his name.

Once he was certain she hadn’t followed him outside, he paused at the end of the dirt path, turning to look at the massive oak tree that embraced his house in its shadow. A high-pitched ringing in his ears replaced the sound of the morning breeze. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. His sister’s smiling face appeared to him, but was quickly replaced by a look of sheer terror. Her pale skin turned sickly gray and her yellow hair dripped with blood.

He opened his eyes and found himself on his knees at the base of the tree and pressed his ear to the rough bark as if he could hear a heartbeat. His eyes drifted down to the long grass that dampened the knees of his trousers with the morning dew. It was almost impossible to tell someone had been buried there now. With a hand almost as white as the cape he wore, he plucked a meadow violet from the ground and tucked it safely into the cloth bag tied to his waist. He had doomed her the day he joined the High Guard, and in doing so had doomed himself. It seemed only fitting he carried a reminder of where his heart belonged–in the weeds, decaying alongside the only person who truly understood him. 

Rothar was struggling to wake, much like himself. Shuttered windows and quiet streets greeted him as he continued further into the city center. The baker, as always, was well into her workday, and as she waved to him from behind her long counter she created a snowstorm over her head. He brought a hand to his left temple and gave her a half-hearted salute. Freshly kneaded loaves rested beneath a damp cloth on the table beside her and he inhaled their comforting scent, letting memories of family dinners and his mother’s exemplary cooking skills quiet the anxious thoughts that plagued him. 

“Valic! Hey, Valic!” A gruff but friendly voice snapped him out of his melancholic reminiscence. 

He spotted the other novice guards lining up just ahead, identical crests emblazoned on the backs of their billowing capes. A short, sandy-haired man with a round belly waved at him. He bit the inside of his cheek and plastered a smile on his face.

“Alright, Milvar?” He quickened his pace to catch up to him. “I thought I was the early one.”

“No one else had to stop and grease their hair, pretty boy.” Milvar landed a solid punch on his arm and grinned at him with crooked teeth. “Maybe give the rest of us a fighting chance with the birds, yeah?”

Adrin gave him a half-smirk. “You strut around here in that uniform and tell anyone who will listen about your pink roses and I assure you, the ladies will find you–but in order to keep that uniform, you might want to actually make it to your pledge.” 

He ushered him through the iron gates that lead to the Veritas Compound, a small cluster of buildings that comprised the guard barracks, watchtower, council chambers and school. The barracks, a round tower of pale limestone, was closest to them. A large group had spread out in front, a  ring of iron torches placed into the ground around them to stave off the haze of dawn.

The High Guard consisted of nearly a hundred men and women, excluding the novices to be sworn in. They stood together in five neat rows, the highest ranked among them front and center. Each of them wore the same uniform of gray trousers, a long sleeved linen tunic and a black leather breastplate with matching bracers. The sea of white cloaks was bathed in a pale orange glow as the sun rose lazily in the sky. Adrin and his comrades formed their own line facing the others, and he held back a groan as he recognized another familiar face. 

If parents were allowed to pick and choose their children based on desirable traits, Lieutenant Rothe would be his father’s pride and joy. The young prodigy had enrolled in guard training at 19, two years before Adrin had finally caved. It had been a year since Adrin and Milvar’s first attempt to join the guard, and they had returned to a version of Rothe even more grating than the last.  

The lieutenant’s delicate facial features and dashing smile stole hearts, but his sharp intelligence and natural gift for swordsmanship had seemingly earned him the respect of everyone who knew him. Adrin saw what they ignored. The young lieutenant was gifted, sure, but he was also a vortex of apathy that left destruction in its wake. When he wasn’t barking orders or having his ego stroked by the captain, he lounged around his family’s sizable cabin spending his inheritance on all the spirits and opium he could find. The council turned a blind eye to their cherished guard as he led naive women into his home night after night. They ignored the scent of alcohol that always lingered on his breath and the dilated pupils that swallowed the icy blue irises everyone loved to admire. It was for these reasons, among others, that made it difficult for Adrin to embrace his new role. It sickened him to think of swearing loyalty to such hypocrites. The ceremony was just another sacrifice for the sake of his parent’s happiness and his penance. For Sophie. 

A dark-skinned woman wearing a black cape and a blank expression stood beside Rothe. Her impossibly shiny hair was secured in a long braid that wrapped around her head and was pinned in place, highlighting her prominent cheekbones. Her gaze was inscrutable as it swept over the rows and rows of guards, but her voice was welcoming when she spoke.

“Lieutenant Rothe will be swearing you in,” her sickly sweet voice rang out, and the hissing whispers of the eager recruits fell silent at once. 

The ebony-haired man straightened at the sound of his name and immediately, the novices stood at attention, hands clasped behind their backs. He sauntered forward, the golden sheath at his hip swaying with each motion. A short young woman with mousy brown hair and a timid demeanor hovered near his elbow, a small wooden chest tucked under her arm. Adrin stared at it with a sense of dread, tasting blood as he chewed the inside of his cheek for the second time that morning. 

“Thank you, Captain Hollowar.” Rothe turned to give her a polite nod before addressing them. “Today, you will dedicate yourselves to the protection of Rothar.”

Adrin was surprised that his voice did not waver, and instead echoed with righteous authority.

“You will dedicate yourselves to your fellow guardsmen and the Veritas Council, the guardians of Caledon.” The lieutenant looked out at the novices and a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. 

 He let his words linger for a moment, testing their patience further. At last, he nodded to the brown-haired guard. “The chest, please, Havoc.”

Her face flushed, perhaps at the notion that he had remembered her name. She unhooked the latch and opened the lid before holding it out to him. Inside appeared to be thin silver bands of  polished metal. The bands were left partially open with a half inch of space between each end. Rothe lifted one with a single finger and held it aloft, letting it catch the light of the rising sun.

“These bracelets will be permanently closed around your wrist after you have been sworn in. It will serve as a reminder to you all that you cannot simply turn your backs on responsibility. This is a role you will have for life.”

It took every ounce of self control that Adrin possessed for him to hold his tongue from unleashing a biting insult. For most of his childhood he had seen his father brandish his own bracelet with great pride, but for Adrin, it was a shackle.

“Guardsman Valic.” His name must have been funny, for Rothe had turned to address him with a sneer. “Is there a problem?” 

Adrin swallowed. “No problem, sir.” He straightened his shoulders and focused his eyes on a point somewhere to the left of Rothe’s amused face.

“Good. Let’s move on, then.” He snapped his fingers and Havoc placed a large book bound in black leather into his outstretched hand. “You can start us off. Repeat after me:

I pledge myself to the good of mankind and its quest for advancement.

I pledge myself to the Council and vow to uphold their ways.

I pledge myself to a world without magic and vow to protect the citizens of my city and my country from its corruption for all time.

I pledge myself to Caledon, from now until I die.”

Adrin received his bracelet from Havoc and shuffled resignedly to the blacksmith, who stood by a torch with a pair of tongs. The old man was silent as he snatched the bracelet and held it in the center of the flame. A small line began to form behind him as he watched the metal change from red to orange.

At last it emerged from the fire and the blacksmith snapped his fingers at him. Adrin held out his left wrist and sought out the shredded flesh of his cheek with his tongue as the heated metal came closer. His flesh sizzled and steamed as the iron slid into place. A gloved hand pinched the metal closed, ensuring it wouldn’t budge. He tried to ignore the smell of his own bubbling, burning skin and gave the blacksmith a courteous nod before stepping aside for the next novice. 

The sun shone brightly above them now as the newly minted guards flashed their matching bracelets at each other, not one of them seeming to take issue with the permanence of their duty, though there were more than a few stifled yells and carefully disguised tears. Adrin stood apart from the others and waited for Milvar as he examined the red skin and puffy welts on his wrist. He welcomed the pain. It kept him focused.

The novices were granted recreational time to run back home and share their excitement with their families before reporting for their first official day of duty. Adrin slumped back to his house with a gently weeping Milvar, who had invited himself along to partake in breakfast.

“Why didn’t they warn us?” He moaned with a pathetic pout on his bearded face. “Can you die from burns?”

He gave his friend a sympathetic smile. As the son of a cobbler and a teacher, his family lived in South Rothar with the other tradesmen, saving him from the high expectations of the north. Unfortunately, as someone who was also desperate to be one of them, he saw Adrin as the model for an ideal lifestyle. If Adrin had left Rothar years ago as he had planned to, Milvar would have been right there by his side. Instead, his sweet, simple friend went against his own nature and followed him into danger. It seemed that Adrin was destined to destroy lives, not save them. 

  “Have my mum look at it, you twit. She’ll have something for the pain.” He pushed Milvar to the other side of the path with a low chuckle. “Come on, now.”

The city center was more than awake now, with delectable aromas of smoked meats and warm bread assaulting their noses the moment they stepped through the compound gates. He had to drag Milvar away from the baker, who had moved on from bread to fruit tarts since Adrin had last seen her. Golden brown triangles filled with spiced pears, apples, vibrant cherries and plums had been lined up in eye-catching concentric circles on a large silver tray. The baker sprinkled a handful of sugar into a large mortar and pestle and set to work grinding it into a fine powder. Milvar leaned across the counter towards her.

“You make the whole world sweet, you beautiful lass. Never stop,” he murmured as Adrin grabbed his arm and tugged him away.

Indeed, as Adrin smacked his lips together he could taste the sugar and for a moment the throbbing pain in his wrist vanished–but only for a moment. He kept a firm grip on Milvar as they passed the other shops and released him only when they had turned down the northwest road. Sophie’s tree waved to them with wide hands covered in green leaves that were starting to show spots of yellow. Beneath its outstretched arm was his house, a modest but well-kept cottage of cobblestone with a bright red door and matching shutters. On either side of the dirt path were patches of purple clovers that sprouted through sparse green grass. Milvar picked up the pace, jogging towards the door with purpose.

Inside, his parents were waiting for them at their kitchen table, a faded and cracked squaretop surrounded by mismatched chairs. Plates of fat link sausages shining with grease, slices of malt loaf speckled with dried plums and a half dozen fried eggs covered the table. His stomach grumbled its approval, but his attempts to reach the food were foiled by his father’s large, broad-shouldered body rushing towards him.

 “Let me see that!” He grabbed at his left wrist, avoiding the seared skin but still sending a fresh wave of throbbing pain up his arm. “Now you’re just like your old man!” He slapped a thick hand across his back, his own bracelet still encircling his right wrist.

Adrin forced a painful smile on his face. “I would have preferred a necklace, I think.”

“Well I think you look very official.” His mother called over her shoulder as she stirred a large pot of porridge over the fire. She slid the spoon through the pot’s handle and wiped her hands on the patchwork apron tied around her waist. “Both of you. Let me take a look at those wrists, boys.” She swatted his father on the back and he made way for her.

Milvar stepped further into the cramped room and held out his right arm, his watery blue eyes refusing to look.

She clicked her tongue and held each of their hands up to her face. “Such a brutish ceremony. Sit,” she commanded them, then dashed to the shelves on the far wall. Glass jars containing flowers, herbs and salves stood in rows of six. She tied her silvery hair back with a scrap of fabric from within the pocket of her apron and examined the jars with interest before selecting one filled with what looked like wood shavings.

“Hush, woman,” his father chided, but his expression was soft. “I survived, didn’t I?”

“After days of ceaseless whining.” She retrieved the kettle from the fireplace and brought it to the table. “Adrin, join us please, and stop hovering like a stranger in your own home.” 

He pulled out the creaking wooden chair next to Milvar and seated himself in front of a large platter of sausages, lifting one to his mouth with a trembling hand. He tore off a large piece with his front teeth and swallowed it whole, wanting the meal to pass by as quickly as possible. His mother’s pale grey eyes studied him with interest as she sprinkled a few pieces of the shavings in two clay mugs. Steam from the boiling water flushed her cheeks, and she fanned herself with her free hand as she set one down in front of him and Milvar in turn. Milvar leaned forward and sniffed his with narrow eyes.

“Willow bark, for the pain,” she informed them. She claimed the last chair for herself–Sophie’s chair, with painted daisies and sunflowers along the back. 

As the men tucked in, she turned her attention to Adrin. He shoveled bite after bite into his mouth, pretending that it was hunger that caused him to ignore her. Heedless of Milvar’s sharp eyes, she tucked a loose strand of Adrin’s hair behind his ear and continued to watch him, only taking a few nibbles from her slice of bread every now and then.

“I’ll put some honey on that burn for you tonight after your shift,” she said, and pushed his tea towards him. “Make sure you stop by too, Milton.”

“Please eat something, Mum,” Adrin urged her, cutting off Milvar’s cry of outrage in response to being addressed by his first name. “There’s no need to worry, I promise.”

“I always worry,” she murmured into her lap.

 “Enough of the fussing, Laurel. This is a day to celebrate,” his father mumbled around a mouthful of sausage and egg. He swallowed before adding, “I’m proud of you.” There was another, longer pause. “I know Sophie would be too.”

The negativity that had been eating away at Adrin all morning suddenly burst out. His fork clattered against the table as it slipped from his fingers.

“You know that’s not true,” he hissed.

Milvar, sensing that the time for pleasantries was running short, began to eat at a much faster pace.

“Adrin–” His parents shared a look of concern.

“I apologize, but I’ve had about all that I can stomach.” He pushed away from the table and rose to his feet. “I will meet you at the barracks, Milvar.” He left his tea untouched, letting his anger and guilt drown out the burning bite of metal against skin. The front door closed with a loud bang, sending clouds of dust into the air. 

Adrin was surprised to find himself among the last to return to the barracks. He glanced behind him, wondering if Milvar would be willing to sacrifice his rank for another helping of sausages. He did his best to exchange pleasantries with the others while his head fought a futile battle against the dark thoughts raging within. He had never completely meshed with the other novices, or the guards for that matter. Everyone, save for Milvar, looked at him differently in the year since Sophie’s death.

No one had anticipated a death during what was meant to be an innocent night of camaraderie in the woods, and no one could have predicted that their most boisterous recruit would become so somber.  He was permitted time to grieve, of course, and Milvar the loyal had waited to pledge with him–but time would never make things right, make him right.  The loud clanging of the watchtower bell interrupted his mournful introspection and heads whipped around as if the source of the commotion was right in front of them.  

Captain Hollowar exited the barracks alongside the lieutenant. The two of them stalked across the plush green lawn with closed expressions. Their black and white capes whipped back and forth in the wind, and slowed to a flutter as they stopped in front of the group. Hollowar gave them a moment to fall in. 

“One of our gatekeepers received a warning today from a traveling merchant.” She brandished a crisp piece of beige parchment. “An old enemy of Rothar has been spotted making arrangements to enter the city.” She cleared her throat. “The woman has been identified as none other than Mara Wilkes.”

All eyes flashed to Lieutenant Rothe.

#wip: tomb of light #fantasy writing #full chapter #writers on tumblr #writeblr

[every-dayiwakeup]

They complete each other 🤭

#billy hargrove #steve harrington #harringrove #st text post #the way theyre looking at each other... i have thots #i just think theyre neat #i dont get why some people dont want steve to be fucked up in fics #bc lets be real he IS #he opens his mouth and the rest is history #and i love that about him #its his best quality #i like him messing up too #anyway

[orderforbrian]

and the winner for most fucking DECIMATING burn in the entire history of magnus pod goes to alice

[Start ID: Three panel comic from The Magnus Protocol. First panel is in full color, the rest in black and white. First panel: Alice sits with a hand on her chin, smirking and says "Whiny little toad". She is a half black woman with curly, dark orange hair down to her shoulders, brown eyes, freckles, and a gap tooth. She has red/purple eyeshadow and thick eyeliner on, as well as a gold nose ring. She wears a dark green collared shirt with stripes and golden star and moon designs on the collar and center of the shirt. Second panel: Martin looks up in absolute offended shock, his mouth hung open. He is a fat mixed Polish/Korean man with short hair, browline glasses and a beauty mark under his lip. He wears a simple sweater. Jon stands behind him with his arms crossed and does a terrible job to hide a snort of laughter. He is a thin Persian man with long curly hair pulled back into a half knot, a beard and mustache, and wears a simple cardigan with a turtleneck. Third panel: Martin shoots Jon an utterly fuming, rageful glare for laughing at the comment. Jon is turned away with one hand leaned up against an imaginary wall and the other on his hip, and starts whistling nonchalantly like he did no such thing. End ID.]

#i cant believe she did my boy dirty like that #YOU DONT EVEN KNOW WHAT HES BEEN THRU #but also yeah he was a whiny little toad before all that happened #the magnus protocol #tmagp #magnuspod #alice dyer #jmart #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #order up! art tag

[pucksandpower]

MILF

Toto Wolff x wife!Reader

Summary: Toto knows his wife is a MILF … but this doesn’t mean he is okay with his son’s friends calling you that

Warnings: teenage boys doing teenage boy things

Based on this request

“Pass the schnitzel, darling,” you say to your husband as the three of you sit down for dinner. Your teenage son has just gotten home from school, and you can’t wait to hear about his day.

Toto smiles at you as he passes the platter of breaded veal. “How was school?” He asks.

Lukas shrugs as he takes a bite. “It was okay,” he mumbles through a mouthful of food.

You give him a look. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, sweetie,” you gently chide. Even though he’s almost an adult now, you still see your little boy in him.

Lukas swallows and straightens up. “Sorry, Mum.”

“So tell us about your day,” you prompt. “Learn anything new and interesting?”

Your son fidgets in his seat. “Well … some of the guys were talking about you today.”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise. “Me? What about me?”

Lukas glances uncomfortably at his father. “Just … stuff they saw online. Paparazzi photos from when we were on the yacht last month.”

Toto sets his fork down, his expression darkening. He’s no stranger to being in the public eye, but he’s always been protective of you and Lukas. “What exactly were they saying?” He asks in a carefully neutral tone.

“They, uh …” Lukas rubs the back of his neck. “They called Mom a MILF.”

“A what?” Toto sputters, while you have to suppress a laugh. You’re familiar with the crude term, given your substantially younger age compared to your husband.

“It’s not funny!” Toto says indignantly. “I won’t have people objectifying my wife like that.”

You reach over and pat his arm. “It’s okay, dear. I’m not bothered by it.” You turn back to Lukas with an amused smile. “I’m flattered those boys think your old mom’s still got it.”

“You’re not old!” Lukas protests loyally. “It’s just, you know, you’re a lot younger than Vati, and you’re really pretty, so the guys notice.”

Toto scowls, but you grin and blow your son a kiss. “Thanks, sweetie.” Your playful reaction seems to visibly relax him.

“This is unacceptable,” Toto shakes his head. “I should call the school. Get those little punks suspended for sexual harassment.”

“Oh Toto, don’t be silly,” you wave dismissively. “They’re just teenage boys. I’m sure they didn’t mean any harm.”

“It doesn’t matter!” He insists. “Your dignity and privacy should be respected, not exploited. People think because we’re in the spotlight that they can say whatever vulgar nonsense they want.”

You reach over again and lace your fingers through his, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “I know it bothers you, darling. But I married you knowing full well how public our lives would be. A little crude gossip comes with the territory.”

Toto opens his mouth to retort, then pauses, some of the indignation leaving his eyes. “I just don’t want anyone disrespecting you,” he says finally.

You smile softly. Even after all these years of marriage, your heart still flutters at his protectiveness. “I know. It’s one of the many things I love about you.”

Lukas makes a face. “Ugh, gross. Can you guys not be all mushy right now?”

You laugh and blow him another kiss. “Sorry Lukas. I can’t help it — your father’s the love of my life.”

Toto smiles back at you, the anger fading from his face. “And you’re mine, schatzi.”

Your son pretends to gag. “Seriously, stop. I’m trying to eat here.”

You chuckle and spear another bite of schnitzel. “Alright, we’ll behave. Now, tell me more about the rest of your day ...”

The conversation moves on to lighter topics as you finish up dinner. You listen attentively while Lukas fills you in on the drama with his friend group and his struggles in history class.

After clearing the dishes, the three of you move to the living room. You curl up next to Toto on the couch while Lukas sprawls out on the carpet to play video games.

You close your eyes contentedly and rest your head on your husband’s shoulder. Despite the lifestyle that being married to Toto provides you with, this right here is your happy place — your little family, spending a quiet evening at home.

Toto wraps an arm around you and presses a soft kiss to your temple. “Have I told you lately how lucky I am?” He murmurs.

You smile up at him. “Even after all these years, you still give me butterflies.”

“Good,” he says firmly. “I’ll tell you every day if I have to, until you’re sick of hearing it.”

Lukas groans loudly from the floor. “Could you guys be any more embarrassing?”

You and Toto both laugh. “What? I can’t tell my beautiful wife how much I love her?” He calls out in protest.

“Not when I’m right here!” Lukas complains. “Get a room or something.”

You grin mischievously. “That’s not a bad idea ...” you say, running a hand up your husband’s chest.

Toto’s eyes darken. “Minx,” he murmurs.

Lukas scrambles to his feet. “Okay, I’m out of here.” He gives you both a look of exaggerated disgust as he heads upstairs.

You and Toto chuckle as you listen to his bedroom door slam shut.

“Now, where were we?” Toto says in a low voice, pulling you closer. You bite your lip coyly as he presses his mouth to yours. No matter how many years go by, the chemistry between you is still electric.

You shift against him eagerly as the kiss deepens. His hands slide down to grip your hips, and you make a soft noise of pleasure. After nearly two decades of marriage, he knows exactly how to touch you.

“Tell me again,” you whisper when you finally break apart, slightly breathless.

Toto gazes into your eyes. “I love you,” he says sincerely. “I will always love you. Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

You kiss him again, tenderly this time. “I love you too, Toto. Forever.”

No matter what people say or how famous you become, your relationship has always been grounded in this — the unwavering love between you. The rest of the world falls away when you’re together.

You rest your head contentedly on his shoulder again, his arms wrapped around you. This right here, next to the man who still looks at you like you hung the moon, is home.

***

The next day after school, Lukas comes home with a few of his friends in tow. You’re just finishing up putting away the groceries when you hear the chatter of teenage voices approaching.

“Hey Mum, we’re gonna hang out downstairs,” Lukas calls out as the group of boys raids the kitchen fridge for snacks.

You smile and give them a little wave. “Hi boys. There’s more drinks in the pantry if you need it.”

The teenagers rumble acknowledgements through mouthfuls of food before thundering downstairs to your home theater room. You chuckle and shake your head. Teenage appetites are truly a phenomenon.

You’re straightening up the living room when you hear the front door open again, signaling Toto’s return from work.

“Hello, liebling,” he greets you warmly, sweeping you into an embrace.

You kiss him in welcome. “How was work today?”

“The usual madness,” he sighs. “But coming home to you makes it all worthwhile.”

You smile up at him adoringly. Even after all these years, your heart still flutters at his smooth compliments.

“Oh, Lukas has some friends over,” you mention. “They’re downstairs watching movies or playing video games.”

Toto frowns a little. “Those wouldn’t happen to be the same friends who were objectifying you?”

You pat his chest placatingly. “Now dear, we talked about this. Don’t make a fuss.”

“Hmph.” He still looks slightly disgruntled. “Well, I should at least go down and say hello.”

You follow him downstairs, where the group of teenage boys are sprawled out on the sofas engrossed in some action movie. Explosions boom from the surround sound system as CGI buildings crumble onscreen.

They look up when you and Toto enter. “Oh hey Mr. Wolff,” one of them says.

“Vati, you remember my friends right?” Lukas introduces. “Jason, Andrew, Ryan, and David.”

“Ah yes, nice to see you boys again,” Toto says smoothly.

Too smoothly.

You can sense the storm brewing beneath his polite façade.

Sure enough, as the teens’ attention returns to the movie, Toto clears his throat. “So I heard you boys were discussing my wife the other day.”

The room goes silent, save for the cinematic explosions still blaring through the speakers. The boys glance around uneasily.

“Um, we didn’t mean anything bad by it,” David finally offers timidly.

Toto raises an eyebrow. “Oh? So objectifying and sexualizing a married woman is not meant to be disrespectful?”

The teens squirm under his icy stare. You put a warning hand on your husband’s arm, but he continues.

“Let me tell you something about my wife,” he says, an edge creeping into his tone. “She is an elegant, successful, and highly intelligent woman. Not some piece of meat for you ogling schoolboys to drool over.”

The chastised boys all mumble apologies and stare fixedly at the floor.

Toto points a stern finger at them. “I trust there will be no further vulgar comments, or you won’t be welcome in this house again.”

“Yes sir,” they mutter. Lukas looks like he wants the leather couch to swallow him whole. You have to stifle a smile at your husband’s overprotective papa bear routine.

“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.” Toto straightens his suit jacket. “Now you boys enjoy your … movie.”

He turns and heads back upstairs, with you following after an apologetic smile to the shell-shocked teens.

Once you’re out of earshot, you swat his shoulder reproachfully. “Toto! Did you really need to traumatize the poor kids?”

“I didn’t traumatize them,” he huffs. “I just … explained a few things.” At your skeptical look, he amends “ … Firmly.”

You shake your head in exasperation. “You’re impossible. I thought I asked you not to make a fuss.”

He takes your hands earnestly. “I’m sorry, schatzi. I just can’t stand anyone disrespecting you. You deserve to be treated like a queen.”

You soften at the sincerity in his eyes. “Oh Toto. You’re too good to me.” You wrap your arms around him in a conciliatory hug.

He holds you close. “Nonsense. I’ll spend every day proving you’re the most important thing in the world to me.”

You snuggle against his chest, reminded yet again how lucky you are. Even when he overreacts, you know it comes from a place of devotion.

“Just promise me you’ll go easy on the boys,” you say wryly as you pull back. “I think you scared them straight for life.”

Toto smiles ruefully. “I suppose I did get a bit … intense. But the message won’t do any harm.”

You laugh and kiss his cheek. “My noble protector.”

He grins. “Proudly.”

Later, as the boys are getting ready to leave, Toto stops them at the front door.

“Before you go, I have one more thing to say,” he announces. The teens glance at each other nervously.

Toto looks each of them in the eye. “If I ever hear of you disrespecting my wife again, I won’t be so kind. You see, she’s actually a MIDF … Mother I Do Fuck.” He enunciates the words pointedly.

The teens’ eyes widen in horror, and Lukas turns bright red. “Vati!” He hisses in embarrassment.

Toto ignores him. “So I would appreciate it if you kept your crude comments to yourselves next time.” He gives them a tight smile. “Are we clear?”

The boys nod rapidly. “Yes sir. Crystal clear, Mr. Wolff,” one mumbles.

“Good.” Toto claps his hands together. “Then get home safely.”

After the front door shuts behind the fleeing teens, Lukas rounds on his father. “Oh my god, Vati! Why would you say that?”

He shrugs unapologetically. “I wanted to make sure they got the message loud and clear this time.”

Lukas just shakes his head in mortification before stomping upstairs.

You slide your arms around your unrepentant husband. “You just couldn’t resist, could you?”

“They left with a healthy dose of fear and respect,” Toto says smugly. “I think my work here is done.”

#f1 imagine #f1 #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 x reader #f1 x you #toto wolff #toto wolff imagine #toto wolff x reader #toto wolff x you #toto wolff fic #toto wolff fluff #toto wolff fanfic #toto wolff blurb #f1 fluff #f1 blurb #f1 one shot #f1 x y/n #f1 drabble #f1 fandom #f1blr #f1 x female reader #toto wolff x y/n #mercedes amg f1 #formula 1 #formula one #f1 imagines #f1 fics

[shadow4-1]

I'm just imagining helping Gaz upgrade the firewalls on the personal tech of the 141, and accidentally catching glimpses of their search history.

Like, it's not like you're actively trying to look. But the program you're updating has to check all of the websites/servers the 141 has been perusing. If anything is compromised you need to know, Laswell needs to be informed, etc.

Despite his name, Soap's history is bar far the dirtiest and most extensive. His searches consist of pretty much everything that a normal weirdo guy would look up. You're able to ignore most of it but you notice he'd cleared part of his browser data at some point and well...you couldn't help yourself. You check and immediately regret it.

public airsoft fuck

gun tongue fucking

military boot cock stepping

You can't bear to see any more so you delete the rest of his search data for him and move on.

Gaz's search history is surprisingly very normal. You almost snort at how much of a difference it is compared to Soap's. You also come to the realization that he probably already cleared and deleted his history. Then you also realize he probably knows you're looking at everyone's history and probably chose to leave these behind. You feel your face grow hot as you glance down the very short list.

best friends bestfriend blowjob

next door neighbor anal

massage porn

You huff and keep going, next is Price. You breathe a sigh of relief, he only has a couple searches and none of them have demeaning expletives in them. You spare them a passing glance.

Paddling adult film

Thigh high models

You raise a brow. Thigh high models, you could understand, but "paddling"? Like...spanking? With a paddle? You swallow thickly and shake your head. The shibari makes you wince too. Figuring out your Captain was into rope bondage and spanking was too much knowledge for one person.

Shibari classes near me

And, just like you'd expected, Ghost had no search history. You breathe a sigh of relief and do a sweep of the rest of his phone. Nothing. No recently viewed caches, cookies, pictures, or anything. The phone was so well taken care of it might as well have been brand new. You went back to the main browsing page, but before you could close out the app, you notice the page has a bookmark. You open up the bookmark tab and low and behold, there's two links. They look shady but you check them out anyway.

The first one is a cam site. The host of the channel is offline, but judging by their many saved livestreams, they're very active. You decide to turn back, but a very specific thumbnail catches your eye. It's the cammer, but with their mouth stuffed full of a random man's cock. It wouldn't have stopped you in your tracks if a) the man's leg tattoo didn't look so familiar and b) if the cammer didn't look suspiciously like you.

You immediately clear all of the data on the phone, essentially factory resetting it. When Gaz comes back into the tech closet you shove at his chest. He just chuckles and shrugs.

You're never doing this again.

#cod imagines #mw2 #call of duty #mw2 headcanons #simon ghost riley #cod mwii #john soap mactavish #captain price #simon riley x reader #kyle gaz garrick

[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 «[email protected]» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «[email protected]» 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 «[email protected]» To: Park Jinyoung «[email protected]» 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 «[email protected]» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «[email protected]» 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. 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 truly fucking does.

I’m gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I would’ve committed first degree murder if I had to do this all over 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.

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe・@seungminsapuppy・@vivisoni・@moon0fthenight・@sweetpickledjins・@svintsandghosts・@nhyunn ・@ur-boyfiend・@liknws・@hotgorloikawa・@randomwimp・@automaticpersonabatpaper・@aceofvernons・@linos-kitten・@newhope8・@weedforthoughtz・@hyunverse

© 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 ♡

#hyunjin x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids imagines #hyunjin imagines #skz x reader #stray kids scenarios #k-labels #skz imagines #stray kids fluff #skz fluff #hyunjin fluff #skz scenarios #hyunjin scenarios #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin #hyunjin x you #hwang hyunjin x reader #stray kids x you #*writing #*oneshot

[writingouthere]

friendswithbenefits!Sukuna x reader

You go on a date with Yuuji's colleague from work and he's nice but you can't stop thinking of Sukuna, your 'friend' with benefits who has made it clear to you that the two of you are not in a relationship.

cw: possessive behavior, smut

"So then the kid and his friends tried to say that there must just be a fire somewhere."

You snort. "And what the fire just happened to smell like weed?"

You both laugh and you take another sip of your drink. It's a little milder than you usually like, but it's growing on you, kind of like your date.

His name is Yuuta and he's a teacher at the same school as Yuuji. He's cute, not much older than you and he's been polite to every member of staff you've encountered at this restaurant tonight. He teaches history to some of the older grades and it's clear he's passionate about what he does. He's spent the past half hour telling you funny stories about the kids he teaches and stories about his co-workers that have you almost choking on your drink. You've heard about a lot of the same staff members from Yuuji so they feel familiar, like you know them, even the ones you haven't actually met yet.

"Sorry, I think I've been going on for a while. I tend to ramble when I get nervous." He scratches the back of his head, the gesture self deprecating, but so charming, and you hate the guilt you feel at being charmed by it.

"I like your rambling, it's cute," you tell him and you find yourself fond of the way he blushes in response.

It's been a long time since you went on on a real date and you've missed the ritual of it. The typical questions and nerves are as banal as ever, but there were the good parts too.

The excitement of getting to know a new person, the way that over the course of the night you imagine how your life may fit with theirs. Which friends could you see them getting along with? Did he keep his apartment clean? How would he kiss you at the end of the night.

A look at his mouth had you thinking he had to be a great kisser.

"What about you? Any crazy co-workers?"

The rest of the night goes smoothly. The food is good, the drinks were lovely, he cuts himself off after his second.

Responsible. Kind. Funny.

He was everything you were looking for and yet.

And yet.

Sometimes when he laughs, you think about another man's laugh. One that's less kind, louder, and so expressive it takes over his whole face when he lets it out.

When Yuuta helps you with your coat, you can't help but imagine his face twisting up in derision at the sight.

What? Forget how to use your arms, princess?

Yuuta and you are talking about a movie you'd both seen recently and liked, and he's so perfect. But he's not yours.

"I had a great time, tonight." You both are taking the same subway home, but your stop comes up first. Your train car is empty and when Yuuta leans in to kiss you, you let him.

It's chaste, sweet and not what you're looking for tonight. The knowing smile he wears when he pulls away tells you he knows it too.

"I had a great time too, text me when you get home?" Your rejection, even an unsaid one, does nothing to change his temper towards you. It's almost a shame, you'd kind of like to see what he could be like with a little more of a spark to him.

"I will!"

You wave and step off the platform and walk home to your apartment. He'd sent you a text checking in earlier but you hadn't answered yet He hadn't sent a follow up, probably distracted. He'd gone out with Megumi and some guys from gym he trained at. He was probably well on his way to being throroughly trashed.

You turn your key in the lock and open the door to your apartment. It's dark and cold. You don't really want to spend the rest of your night alone with your thoughts. You shut the door, lock it and take out your phone. You think about sending a text to Yuuji to see where he is but then change your mind. You don't necessarily feel like sitting a sports bar on a Friday night listening to a bunch of gymbros talk about macros or their upper body circuit.

You could try texting one of your girlfriends, but then you'd have to actually have a meaningful conversation and your brain was one sharp tug away from unraveling.

You bite your lip. There was someone you'd like to see.

"This is a bad idea." You look down at your shoes. "Such a bad idea."

You find yourself outside of bad idea's apartment and your hand is knocking before you can second guess yourself.

The door swings open with your fist still poised to knock again.

"So the date didn't go too well then?"

You bring your arm down, fist still clenched. You had to at least give it to Sukuna, he was fucking consistent. He leaned against the doorway, looking comfortable with how the position allowed him to leer over you and with his choice of casual attire.

He was wearing an old tank top and sweats that looked like they were one wash away from just disintegrating. They did nothing to hide anything and you hated how you couldn't stop your gaze from going down.

"It was a nice date, actually." He hummed and looked over his nails, as if checking his cuticles.

"There's that word again." Sukuna still wasn't looking at you but his smugness filled the air like a pipe had burst that housed particularly toxic fumes. "If he was so nice," the sound came out like a hiss, "then why are you here?"

You didn't answer and when it was clear you weren't going to, Sukuna finally looked up at you.

"I'll tell you why you're here, you know, if you're curious." He stood up to his full height and grabbed your arm, pulling you close to him. When you were right next to each other, he grabbed your chin, pulling you up as he bent down so you were face to face.

His breath smelled like the ginger tea he always had before bed. It was spicy, familiar, it made your hands clench with the urge to hold him.

"You're here because that nice boy wasn't going to fuck you right and that's what you want isn't it," his hand cupped your face, his breath warm on your cheek as he cursed in your ear, "to get fucked?"

You couldn't help yourself from shivering and you nodded as he began to press kisses down your neck. Pulling down the neckline of your dress, probably stretching it, ruining it, and you don't even care, you just want his hands on you.

"Use your words, baby. Tell me is that why you came here? You needed to get fucked right and you knew that I was the only one who could do that for you, isn't that right?" He ends his words with a bite to your collarbone that stops your legs from working right.

You wrap your arms around his neck, your hands going into his soft hair that you know he uses conditioner on and you hate how just the smell of him sends a pulse to your core. That the familiarness of him is just as sexy as his words.

Something about the feel of him in your hands, his words in your ears, his teeth against your neck, it's the same dance you two have done dozens of times and it just keeps getting better. How are you supposed to be satisfied with someone else and when no one else has ever touched you like this, like they know every place that makes you weak, like they were put on this earth just to unmake you?

"Tell me," his words are more urgent now but he doesn't wait for you to answer, pulling you into his apartment and pushing you up against the door after he slams it so hard you're worried the hinges may have snapped. "Tell me, tell me princess. Tell me I'm the only one who can get you like this, the only one who can see you like this."

It's too possessive, too overwhelming. If your mind was still in working order, you may point out these are claims too heavy for a casual hookup. That he was not your boyfriend, or your husband, or anything to you and yet you found yourself nodding anyway.

"Just you, just you Sukuna." For a second he almost seems to freeze and you worry that you said something wrong despite him starting this. That worry is ripped from you when he smashes his mouth to yours, the force of it almost painful. It's an abrupt departure from the other kiss you'd gotten tonight and you wonder if the taste of another man on you fuels him as he starts to pull at your clothes.

You're both barely undressed, only removing what needs to be removed to get him inside you, when he presses his cock against your cunt. It's so hot and you'll never get over how good he fills you, how right it feels when he's inside you and Sukuna finally lets go of your mouth when you let out a moan you're sure they can hear in the hallway. You can feel his grin against your throat and you don't even mind as he settles in you, making you almost uncomfortably full.

"S-Sukuna!"

"Yeah, does that feel good? Like how my cock feels in you?" You don't answer him, not really capable of speech. He hums and pulls out of you just enough for you to feel it when he thrusts back in. You've fucked countless times, it's not even your first time fucking against the front door, which should embarrass you a little more, but something feels different.

Something feels different as Sukuna proceeds to fuck you hard, but somehow gentle, the beat between each thrust calculated for you to get overwhelmed by the feel of him to the point of it being too much just for him to pull away from you, but never fully leave you.

The kisses you exchange are sloppy, more a pressing of mouths together than real kissing and yet it's perfect and he's perfect and you could have tried this with the nice young man you'd gone on a date with tonight, who you're currently forgetting the name of, but what was the point? How could you try and find anyone to take Sukuna's place when he had carved it out himself inside you.

After you've both cum and you feel too tired to even attempt to collect your clothing or your dignity so you can leave, Sukuna lifts you up and carries you to his bedroom. The routine the two of you had previously established was off and you weren't sure what to do about it. You tried not to think about it as he carried you to the bathroom and cleaned you off or as he pulled an old t-shirt over your head. You tried not to think about it even more when he tucked you into bed.

He slid into the bed behind you and pulled you into his arms and you weren't sure how much more you could take before you could ignore it anymore.

He pressed his lips against the back of your neck, his arms tight around you. "Don't do that again."

"Dm mat?" Your words are muddled by sleepiness and the comforter that smells like him that you've pressed to your face.

"Don't go on dates with other guys."

It's not fair, he couldn't ask that of you and you shouldn't let him.

You grab his hands in yours and thread your fingers through them.

"In the morning."

You'll talk about this in the morning, about how you need boundaries and space and maybe this arrangement needs to end. Sukuna hums and presses closer to you, you can feel his lips in your hair.

The both of you can get on the same page in the morning.

Just a little something. Maybe this is a series now? Does the tense change partway through, yes. Does it change in fact multiple times, yes. Idk.

#jjk sukuna #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna ryomen #sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you #jujutsu kaisen #friendswithbenefits!Sukuna x reader

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Dating Miguel O’Hara Would Include…

Warnings: Implied Smut, Domestic Miguel !!!, Possessive Miguel, Protective Miguel, Dominant Miguel, Slight Yandere Miguel (if you squint), Fluff, Mild Angst, Hurt/Comfort, No Pronouns used for Reader Except You’.

Miguel being stoic and militant around his associates, but melting into a massive softie when he gets to see you.

His eyes literally light up when he hears you coming. He has to resist the urge to scoop you up into his arms and cuddle you silly whenever he hears you call his name, your tones music to his ears, his heart thrumming – harpstrings.

Golden retriever boyfriend to the MAX.

He brings you breakfast in bed whenever he’s awake before you – which is often considering his vampiric nature. And he looks so proud of himself when he cooks a good meal, too. Literally just a beaming, teeth-filled, closed-eye smile when you tell him he’s “Done such a good job, Babe !”

Any kind of praise sends him absolutely wild, so use it sparingly. It can either get you out of or into a world of trouble; especially if you're trying to get Miguel hot under the collar.

Miguel’s love language is, simply put, everything.

The adoration that swells in his chest whenever he thinks of you manifests as him throwing himself into your service.

He does anything and everything you ask of him, no matter how extravagant or nominal the request is. And everything you don’t.

He isn’t stingy with his words, either; he tells you how much he loves you whenever you’re alone, often coming up behind you and sliding his arms around your front, resting his head on your shoulder and breathing deeply.

He presses soft, careful kisses into the crook of your neck, making sure to keep his fangs from pinching you, inhaling your warmth, your scent.

“I love you.” His heart drums into your back. His lips capture your skin again. “I love you,” And again. “I live for you.” And again.

He’s lived with a lifetime of regret for not being able to protect those he held dear; he won’t allow you to go without knowing the extent of his adoration for you. Not when he feels he never truly got to show his family – his ghosts – how much he loved them.

On a lighter note, Miguel LOVES having his hair played with; just card your fingers through his locks and he’s as good as incapacitated.

After a rough day, he crawls into bed and lays his head in your lap or on your chest, his body winding down in your soft embrace.

He lowkey moans when you catch his sensitive spot, his brows knotting together, his voice coming out as a rasped whisper.

He knows when you’re purposely trying to get him worked up, though. And he doesn’t stand for it.

“Careful Darling,” he glowers, the phantom sensation of you tugging his hair a half-weight on his senses. He cracks an eye open, his wine irises peaking out beneath heavy lids.

“Or I won’t be so gentle when it’s my turn to take care of you.”

Miguel prefers private displays of affection over public displays of affection; he doesn’t want his subordinates knowing he’s gone soft.

But, there are exceptions to this principle.

Like if Miguel’s feeling particularly hot and desperate, by which point he whisks you away to the bathroom and the two of you aren’t seen for a good hour or so. Usually longer.

The other exception is if he’s feeling jealous or possessive, by which point his sensibilities have vacated his mind and he’s right behind you, his hands on your waist, your shoulders – anywhere he can hold you. Or, he’s filling your mouth with his tongue and your ear with his words if the other party present doesn’t get the hint that you’re taken.

“You’re mine,” he rasps, his breath hot, prickling your skin, the tips of his fang drawing goosebumps. Miguel’s eyes shine an ocean red, dark and unknown. He has you caged, arms encompassing you entirely.

“And I’ll never let anyone take you from me.”

Speaking of; Miguel is incredibly possessive.

Years of rumination and a history of scattered failures make for a very territorial man. And it shows.

He keeps his hands on you whenever you’re together or in the presence of someone he thinks can steal you from him; someone better than him.

He stares down at them until they fumble or leave; whichever prevails first. After which point, when you’re alone, he turns you round to look at him and just stares at you like 🥺.

The epitome of ‘Babe you pushed my leg off you while you were asleep; do you still love me ???’

You have to reassure him when things like this occur. Take him by the face and hold him gently in your hands; press a soft kiss to his lips and call him your “One and only,”

Doing so is a one-way ticket to a very long night.

Possessive, heartfelt, grasping, gasping love-making.

Miguel can’t stop until your bottom half is numb and the only thing you’re capable of thinking and saying is his name.

Of course, he rewards you for your endurance after the fact.

Aftercare king right here <333

Treats you like you’re glass; he runs you a bath, brings you your favourite drink and changes the bedsheets.

And, when you’re fast asleep and curled up into his chest, his heart flutters, and, for the first time in his life, he feels that he has stability. Pure, unconditional, everlasting love.

And he’ll sooner dismantle the multiverse himself than let anyone or anything take that from him.

Masterlist Masterpost

Yandere Masterlist Juicy Original Content <3

#across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x you #miguel ohara x y/n #spiderman astv #spiderman #spiderman 2099 #spider verse #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman 2099 x you #spiderman x reader #miguel o hara x reader #atsv #miguel x reader

[mimixmunson]

Boyfriend!Eddie finds your porn history. Eddie Munson x female reader. Smut. Blurb🍆

Word count- 1.2k

🍆 “Hey baby.. umm I don’t wanna embarrass you..”Eddie was sprawled across the couch, his limbs representing an octopus whilst his curls fell down the arm of the couch. You had let him borrow your laptop, Dustin had split soda over Eddie’s during their latest dnd campaign. He smiles as he notices your wall-paper is a picture of the pair of you, that trip to the forest was one of your favourites.

“Huh?” You spoke, confusion filling the air. You were easily embarrassed so just the thought of being embarrassed made your face flush. “It’s just, I lost my page I was working on so- so I went on the history page to find it again. But I didn’t just find my campaign document, I saw your umm history. Baby I, I don’t want you to be embarrassed I mean we all do it right?” Your face burns under his words, you know exactly what he’s stumbled across.

“Seriously doll, your choices here.. My innocent little girl, isn’t so innocent huh?”He smirks, eyes gazing over your flushed face. You feel stuck to the floor, like any moment now the ground is going to open up and swallow you whole. “Eddie-“ You finally manage to muster up the courage to speak, your words causing your stomach to churn in shyness. “It’s okay. It’s all okay princess. I’m impressed, I mean let’s see here. ‘Blonde babe worships her step-father’s sweaty balls’ Well that’s filthy isn’t it? ‘Anal training’ Oh? You want me to take that other little hole for a test drive? ‘Double penetration mmf threesome.’ Sweet girl I had no idea you could be so kinky! Look at this here. ‘Submissive girl has play time with Daddy.’ Is that me? I’m your daddy?” He teases, his smirk practically audible in his voice as he teases. Your embarrassed self can’t handle much more. He was never meant to see this, these searches they were just late night curiosity. Late night self pleasure when Eddie couldn’t be there with you.

You nod, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. Your hands need to be doing something as the anxiety reaches your throat. You swallow it down and gulp in nervousness as Eddie walks towards you. He takes his hand and caresses your face softly. His touch both exhilarating and comforting under the current circumstances. “You weren’t meant to see that.” You swallow the saliva collected in your mouth. “It’s just… porn. For when you’re not here and I- well you know the rest.” You speak so quietly that you could hear a pin drop in the room, the atmosphere was tense but he couldn’t seem more relaxed. Eddie’s smile beams, under the knowledge they were really your searches and you didn’t try and lie your way out of it.

“And are those the sorts of desires my princess has been having on those oh-so-lonely nights where she’s banished to stay in her castle?” He speaks in his dungeon master voice, running his index finger down your throat, smirking as he watches your throat gulp and the goosebumps appearing down your neck and arms. Your feet feel superglued to the floor, stuck in confrontation you can do nothing but stare at the carpet, looking your boyfriend in the eye seems alien in this moment.

“Yes. But don’t think you have to indulge me! If you’re not comfortable we never have to do any of that. I’ll never force you Eds.” You babble, worrying about every word in your speech sounding patronising or rude. You look up to him, doe-eyed with a hint of regret. He smiles, holding the back of your head softly. Cupping your chin with his finger he raises your head to meet him at eye level.

“Oh darling girl. How naive. I would move the heavens and earth for you. You’re asking me to fill both of your holes, let you call me daddy and worship my balls while they’re sweaty? It’s filthy. It’s a little taboo. Perverse maybe. Letting my girl worship me and being able to spoil both of her holes with pleasure? It’s a mere inconvenience, I mean you’re really gonna have to pay me back for this sweetheart you know.” Eddie jokes, speaking in his dungeon master voice again. Knowing that voice always flusters you, as if you needed to be any more flustered.

Staring at the floor, “So you’re okay with it?” You ask earnestly. “More than okay. In fact, come to think of it.. I haven’t showered yet today. Definitely haven’t shaved my balls in ummmm ever? How about you take that pretty face of yours down there and make your daddy feel good?” You needed no further encouragement, you’d already been hiding your arousal from the embarrassment of being found out about your kinks, humiliation being another one.

You unbuckled and shimmied off Eddie’s jeans, palming him through his boxers as he grunts your name and several curse words. He was hard as a rock already, and a small wet patch over his boxers where he’d begun to leak a bead of pre-cum. Instincts took after and you licked up the wet stripe of his underwear, vaguely tasting his salty fluid. With your face so close to his underwear clad genitals, you couldn’t help but breathe in his scent. The odour of sweat and pre-cum mixed together was your perfect aphrodisiac. Nestling your face into his hard on, you inhale all you can of him. Eddie slides off his boxers and takes his cock into his hand, jerking it slowly whilst looking down at you. You look up with ‘fuck me’ eyes and a cheeky smile, removing his hand from his length.

You lean upwards, placing your nose under his cock. His pubes tickle your nose as you lick circles over his fuzzy balls, swallowing the loose hairs that collect on your tongue. “Dirty fucking girl aren’t you? So gross.” Eddie mutters through his teeth biting down on his bottom lip. You smirk, all innocence leaving your body. You steady your hand on the tip of his cock as it begins to leak again, taking one of his balls into your mouth and suckling as if it was a pacifier. You speak as best as you can whilst sucking onto him. The noises you make aren’t translate-able, they’re more-so moans and groans. “Don’t speak with your mouthful angel.” Eddie coos, taking your hair into a ponytail and holding it behind your head. He forces his ball out of your mouth and guides your mouth onto his cock. “M’so close.” He grunts as he fucks your mouth, pulling you backwards and forwards onto his dick so far down your throat that you’re gagging. You slurp up the salvia that begins to dangle from his length. He comes undone in your mouth, emptying the fuzzing balls that were once in your mouth and you taste the liquid that you’ve had a hunger for. A rope of cum hangs from your lip and he wipes it up with his finger, before helping you swallow the last drop from sucking it up off of his finger.

“Thank you daddy.” You look up at Eddie with a shit-eating grin like butter wouldn’t melt. “My good little girl.” He responds, you mentally thank yourself for never clearing your search history. 🍆

#mine #stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson au #eddie x reader #eddie stranger things #eddie smut #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson x female reader smut #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x reader #eddie the freak munson #eddie the banished #eddie x fem reader #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x you #smut #smut one shot #gross!eddie #gross!eddie Munson #icky!eddie munson #gross!reader #kinky!eddie Munson #stranger things au

[janitorhutcherson]

finnick odair x bunny!reader (fluff)

just some silly fluff hcs. finally feeding u guys finnick content too. not literal bunny, btw. pet name bunny!! :p plz enjoy!!! it’s short oopsies.

—————————

finnick odair and bunny!reader are the absolute best pair. finnick isn’t typically a gentle person. he is elegant, handsome, masculine, but he’s cocky and quick witted, something that can come off as arrogant rather than charming. with you, however, he can’t help but melt into a pile of mush.

finnick had started calling you bunny one day by a fluke. you two had been calling each other assortments of strange pet names, such as ‘bear’ or turtle’. that was, until, finnick froze, his expression softening as the corners of his lips turned up. “bunny,” was all he said, quietly, his voice laced with honey and love. you cocked your head to the side, eyebrows furrowed. “bunny, it’s perfect for you,” he chuckled, leaning forward and rubbing his nose against yours.

after that, the rest was history. finnick didn’t use baby or honey or love much, but instead, he always used bunny. you never even heard your real name from his lips unless it was serious. he’d thought it was so perfect for you. your eyes were soft and round, like a bunny’s. your skin was soft, smooth, and you loved to be caressed and pet. your nose would twitch and you’d loved nothing more than to be cuddled, kissed, but only on your own time. you were moody much like one too, your mood swings similar to the way a bunny may stomp if they’ve not gotten their way.

you adopted the role pretty easily, leaning into him every time he’d say the word. “bunny,” he’d say so quietly, his eyes inviting you to come lay beside him on the bed, and you’d do just that. it was like a command almost, something that fell from his lips in order to remind you that you were his in a way so unique that no one else would get it. you were his bunny. he’d get you bunny ears, shirts with bunnies on them, little shorts that had lace on the hems and bunnies on the thighs or hoodies with bunny ear hoods. he loved to see you in them. he felt it was so fitting.

at night he couldn’t help but to admire you while you slept in his arms, his eyes tracing your body, your mouth slightly open as soft little snores slipped out of your mouth. you were perfect, his bunny, his angel that fit right into the crook of his arm like a puzzle piece. he’d curled up in front of you now, his arms wrapping around you as he pulled you into his chest. he pulled the blankets up to your shoulders, pressing a kiss to your cheek before nuzzling his chin onto the top of your head. “goodnight, sleep tight, my lil bunny…” was the last thing he whispered before his own eyes fluttered closed, his arms warm and his heart fuzzier with love than the coat of a rabbit.

#finnick odair x reader #finnick x you #finnick x reader #finnick odair smut #finnick odair imagine #thg finnick #finnick odair #finnick odair fluff #finnick #sam claflin x reader #sam claflin imagine #sam claflin #sam claflin fluff #sam claflin smut

[slytherinslut0]

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Twenty Eight--Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

Tags: 18+, SMUT, Rough Sex, Slapping (for sexual titillation), Dirty Talk, Multiple Orgasm, Overstimulation, GUNPLAY, Outdoor Sex, Gagging, Choking, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, ANGST ANGST ANGSTTTTTTT!!!!! GET THE TISSUES OUT!

FIND THE REST OF THE CHAPTERS HERE.

In the aftermath of your heartfelt confession, the ambiance shifted beneath the curtain of rain. Mattheo's initial warmth, which had enveloped the moment, began to withdraw, slowly being replaced by his usual guarded demeanor.

Tension, thick and tangible, emanated from him, as if he yearned to retract, to voice a refusal. The gaze that had once been soft, akin to melted chocolate, now bore a stark reluctance. It was as though the vulnerability you had glimpsed moments earlier had transformed into a protective shield, guarding him against the intensity of the unexpected revelation.

Undeterred, you pressed forward, defying the cooling atmosphere with a resolute step. Your hands, a gentle insistence against the encroaching frost, found their place on his face. Amidst the rhythmic percussion of springtime raindrops, your eyes held an unbroken contact, mirroring the pounding cadence of your heart. A silent gaze held him in place, allowing the weight of your words to permeate the space before you spoke again.

"Don't say anything," you whispered, the words borne on the breath of the rain-soaked air, a plea to let the unspoken emotions settle in the delicate stillness between you two. "You've said so much, Mattheo...you've shared so much with me...I don't need you to say another word...just...just listen,"

Mattheo blinked, the subtle motion accompanied by the quiet working of his throat as he swallowed. His hands, hanging at his sides, remained still as yours maintained their firm grasp on his face. An almost imperceptible nod from him prompted you to inhale sharply, capturing the breath in your lungs.

"Perhaps I lied to you..." you began, your voice soft, tender. "Perhaps I wasn't being truthful when I said I never believed in destiny...because in a way, I do...but I also believe that we are only destined to do the things we'd choose to do anyway..."

A pause ensued as you studied his countenance, your gaze tracing the scars on his skin and taking note of his perfect imperfections that shaped the essence of who he is.

"And I'd choose you, Mattheo...in a hundred fucking lifetimes, in a hundred different realities, I would choose you...every fucking time..." you declared, your grip on him intensifying. Your hands trembled, mirroring the tremor in your voice. "I don't care about your history, I don't care about any of the bad things you've done...everything you've been through has made you who you are...and I am fucking in love with who you are...every single part of you...your smart mouth, your cheeky smirk, every line and every scar..."

Drawing him nearer, you gently guided him until his forehead found solace against yours. His hands discovered the curve of your waist, pulling you into an embrace that emanated urgency, a profound need to absorb every syllable you uttered, each word a testament to the depth of emotions shared between you.

"Your skin, absent of its scars, would be like a sky without stars," you murmured, your shared breaths blending in the intimate proximity. "I didn't fall in love with you; I fucking walked into love with you--with my eyes wide open, deliberately choosing every step along the way. Everything you've revealed changes nothing, Matty...I love you, utterly and unequivocally."

A profound silence enveloped the space, and time seemed to elongate into a suspended realm, each passing moment an eternity. His eyes, a tumultuous storm of unexpressed feelings, gently fluttered closed, his lips parting as his breaths, once steady, now took on a rhythm almost akin to panting--a visceral manifestation of the emotions swirling within.

His hands, deliberate in their motion, traversed the landscape of your back, ascending with a sense of purpose. As they reached your head, his fingers, fueled by a desperate urgency, found purchase, gripping your face with a fervor that spoke volumes. In this charged atmosphere, his eyes, concealed behind closed lids, hinted at the vulnerability beneath the stoic exterior. The suspended moment begged for release, aching for the words that lingered on the precipice.

"Say it again..." his murmured request, laden with longing, reverberated through the charged air. "I just-"

"I love you," you said, the words firmer this time, your hands threading behind his head, fingers entwining in his soaked hair. "I love you..."

His jaw tensed, and he released a shaky breath--his eyelids fluttering, the grip on your skull tightening. "Again."

"I love you," you repeated, your voice gaining strength, fingers digging into his scalp as though you could force the words through. "I fucking love you, Mattheo Riddle."

Breaths intermingled, and your grips on each other surpassed the hold of any chains or restraints. In the pulsating intensity, your minds spun with a whirlwind of thoughts. Was there a sweeter arrangement than this? He gets to ask you, over and over to repeat it--while you get to tell him, over and over, that you mean it.

Your nails dug into his scalp, foreheads pressing together with an almost painful force. "I thought it would be impossible to ever find someone...to ever be with someone, when beneath my surface of composure, I'm scattered in a million different pieces--like a puzzle with missing parts..." you paused, lips softly grazing his. "But then you showed me that every piece doesn't have to be in place to create something beautiful...something real...that love can exist in the most imperfect, lost, broken people."

A guttural noise escaped him, resonating low in his throat as his fingers dug into your skin, cradling your head.

You inhaled a shallow breath before you continued, "and I promise you, my love will be just as strong, just as beautiful, whether you, too, are in a thousand pieces, or just one.”

Mattheo, completely struck silent, locked eyes with your parted lips. In perfect synchrony, your gaze met his, and in that silent exchange, there was a mere gasp of air before his mouth was on yours. The passion between your bodies ignited into an unbridled inferno, refusing any attempt at restraint. His kiss was a slippery bruise, melding madness at your skin, tongue driving into you while he inhaled through his nose. You met him, movement for movement, groaning against him, fingers folding further into his hair, thumbs tracing the tops of his ears, and he groaned against your lips before capturing them again,

The kiss was unlike any before--a fervent blaze spiraling out of control, unwilling to be subdued for even a moment longer. His lips met yours with an intensity that felt almost primal; a hungry, desperate fusion of raw emotion and longing. His hands cradled your head with a force that hinted at an uncontainable desire, making you wonder if he sought to meld your very essence. The cool droplets of rain cascaded around you, soaking your skin to the bone, but you couldn't find it in you to care.

"I need you, princess..." he whispered, parting from the kiss, his hands gliding down your back as his lips found the curve of your neck. "But you already knew that, didn't you? Pretty girl..."

Your eyelids fluttered in response, fingers tightly grasping his hair, a desperate grip that mirrored the intensity of his kisses trailing down your neck. Your lip found refuge between your teeth as his mouth explored the path of rain cascading along your skin.

"My tainted little angel," he murmured, his words a provocative caress against your ear. "Crushingly beautiful...tender like a bruise..."

His hands, firm and insistent, sought the curves of your hips, fingers grasping at the wet fabric of your dress, tugging it upwards along your thighs. "You were the first sin actually worth hurting for...had me wrapped around your little finger before you even fucking touched me..."

You throbbed, a full-body pulse, humming into him with a shudder, Mattheo's lips moved back to yours, nipping at your lower lip before sliding to your chin, following the streams on your skin as he pressed clumsy, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, falling to suck and nibble at your heartbeat. Whimpering, you nuzzled your head into his, and he responded with a sharp bite to your neck, barely-restrained, earning a squeal from your throat.

"I told myself I was fine...that I was better off alone...never needed anyone, never wanted anyone...but then you came around, and after all this fucking time, after everything I put you through...it's still you, it's you who fucking believes in me..." he murmured against your skin. “You mean so fucking much to me…and when I finally admitted to that myself, when I finally let myself feel…you made me better, and I don't mean from being my tutor...you just made me want to be better...fuck, Raven...I wanted you to look at me the way you looked at the stars...I wanted to get better grades for you…I quit drinking and drugs because I wanted to be a better man for you..."

As he lifted your dress beyond your hips, your hands eagerly joined the movement, gathering the fabric's hem and peeling it over your head. His eyes traversed over every inch of newly exposed flesh, absorbing the sight with an intensity that spoke volumes. You observed as he swiftly shed his suit jacket, stripping the soaked fabric from his frame and laying it on the ground. His hands deftly moved to undo his belt, discarding his gun in the process. Returning a firm grip on your hips, he crashed his mouth back to yours, a relentless hunger igniting the kiss.

Moaning, you writhed into his chest, and he gripped your face, nails scraping your scalp while he pulled you closer, groaning into you, leaning--you followed him, chasing his kiss until you were both on the ground; him on his back, your legs straddling him, palms planted on his chest.

"I’ve had some, then most of you...all, and then none of you..." a soft, anxious breath escaped his throat, and he swirled his tongue over yours before biting your lip and pushing you up, hands settling on your thighs, rocking you back and forth over his thick erection, covered only by the thin fabric of his boxers. "I-I can't lose you again...it's you...it's fucking always been you..."

"Oh, Gods..." your voice cracked, emotion bubbling in your chest, threatening to spill out as you rolled your hips against him. He watched you, panting in rhythm with you, and you admired him--how fucking beautiful he was--his eyes stark with need, his mouth parted in open anticipation, his muscles tensing as he gripped and squeezed you, jerking his hips into your heat. "You won't...you fucking can't..."

Rain bathed you both, rivers roaming over your curves, white cloth of your bra a dewy illusion over your breasts. His thumbs skimmed your nipples with prickles of pleasure, and you moaned, head falling back on your shoulders. As if the sound awakened something inside him, he gripped your hips, flipping the two of you around until you were on your back beneath him, lips instantly moving to your neck, sucking at your throat.

You slid your hands under his shirt, savoring the firm contours of his body. He tensed, a low groan escaping into the intimate space between you, while his hips pressed against you with a force that seemed intent on melding you with the forest floor. Your fingertips traced the hard muscles, memorizing the damp, heated feel of his skin. In his voracious pursuit, he exhibited no restraint, extracting painful hickeys from the pulse at your neck.

The heat of desire surged between your thighs, and he moved lower, marking you with unrestrained passion. Tissue yielded to the pressure of his teeth, welts blooming under the fervent touch of his lips. Anxiety flickered through your mind as visible evidence of his ardor emerged, but the soft groan escaping his chest erased any concerns. Your back arched, willingly offering more of your untamed flesh to his insistent exploration. Grateful, he bit at the swell of your tits, crimson crescents blooming, and his hands moved to your underwear as he laved at your nipple through your bra, scraping it with his teeth through the fabric.

Mattheo fumbled at your folds, two thick fingers peeling you open, assessing your slickness, teasing your entrance. "Still so fucking wet for me..." he murmured, clucking his tongue. "And in the middle of the fucking forest...you'd take my cock anywhere I wanted, hm?"

You bit your lip, trying to grind against his hand. "What can I say...watching you use that gun did something to me..."

"Naughty, naughty girl..." he leaned to your ear, thumb skating your clit--you gasped. "Weren't you ever told to stay away from the asshole, weapon wielding bad boys?"

"Perhaps," you hissed through a moan as Mattheo pushed two fingers inside you--your walls tightening around him, hips twitching, head lolling against his soaked jacket. "Though I've never been good at following orders."

Mattheo huffed. "I'd say."

His mouth consumed you with a fervor, tracing a path of rich violet marks from your chin down to your clavicle, his spit mingling with the rain. Scissoring you open, he rolled your stiff clit, rocking his wrist, curling and working your walls, his other hand palming at his erection in an attempt to pacify himself. You bucked your hips, a shivering moan escaping, and he cursed, slamming in to the knuckle.

"If I fuck you now," he muttered at your jawline, "you'll have to take all of me. Everything I give you." He bit your neck, hard, forcing a cry from your lips. "I won't be able to control myself."

Heat scorched you, and you pulsed around him in anticipation, his fingers crooking in your wet core. Thunder grumbled in the distance. "Thought I'd long proved my capability."

Mattheo purred, and bit you again, pain shooting through you. "Earlier doesn't count, we were rushing...I need to wreck this tight little cunt...I'll fuck you harder and deeper than any of those assholes could ever fucking dream of..."

You shuddered, meeting his eyes. "Do your worst."

Snarling, he leaned back onto his knees, tore his fingers from your core and stuffed them in your mouth; you whinged in surprise, working to suckle them clean. Mattheo's free hand unleashed his dick, twitching eagerly despite its thick, heavy length. He jammed his hand to the back of your throat, and you gagged before he depressed your tongue, prying open your jaw.

"You know how this works." His gaze locked onto you, and the sky seemed to ignite with lightning around him. "Beg for it."

When he released you, you gasped into the rain. "Please, fuck me."

In the blink of an eye, his hand struck you, unleashing a spray of saliva from your parted lips. "That was pathetic," he snickered. "I fucking said beg."

Your face burned--humiliation, shock, and most importantly: desire. If this is what he meant, you wanted more. "Why don't you fucking make me?"

"There's that dirty mouth..." Mattheo smirked, shifting as he reached for his gun, gripping it with his free hand while the other stroked his cock. Before you could process it, he brought the barrel toward your temple, pressing the cold, wet metal against your skull. "Last fucking chance, princess...if you don't beg for my cock I'll fuck you so hard you'll be begging for mercy instead."

A whirlwind of shame and yearning left your head spinning, the likely instigators of your brief lapse into temporary insanity. "I'm not scared of you, Riddle..."

“Oh, princess.” His smirk grew. "You should be."

Adjusting the gun, he compelled the barrel past your lips, the icy metal coating your tongue. His other hand delved into your hair, gripping your soaked strands tightly as he forcefully drove the gun deeper into your throat. Then, without warning, he broke you open, splitting your core with a deep, harsh thrust, head slamming your cervix. You cried out against the weapon, body recoiling in pain, hands moving to his hips, and he shook you in reprimand.

"Oh, no--don't fucking bother." He drove his palm into your head, his nails scratching your scalp. "No running. Take it."

Mattheo pulled out fully before ramming back into you, spearing you with his cock, your body quaking with the force of each of his violent thrusts. His breath was already ragged, furious groans pushed from his chest as he fucked deep into you. Your lungs were empty, failing to find oxygen in his onslaught, your walls squeezing his length in delight, drool spilling down your chin and mingling with the flow of rain.

"Fuck--such an insatiable little cunt..." he growled, his eyes drilling into yours, taunting you through his gaze. "It missed this cock already, didn't it?"

Another deep thrust, meeting your cervix, and you winced, groaning against the gun as you tried to nod.

"That's right...shit..." he pulled the gun from your mouth, strings of drool hanging like garland from the barrel, quickly being washed away with the rain. "My girl...my fucking beautiful, filthy girl..."

He tossed it onto the ground next to your head, drawing his hand down toward your belly, slick fingers rubbing merciless circles on the bundle of nerves in rhythm with his pistoning hips--you wailed, drooling with pleasure, assaulted with a sudden, immediate need to orgasm.

"Fucking hell, you're so tight when you're about to cum..." he groaned, punishing your pussy with hard, rapid thrusts. "Prove you can take it. Cum on this cock."

Between the attention on your clit and the size of his dick, you snapped, convulsing and trembling while your blood flooded with flames, blazing heat through your thighs and to your toes. Above you, Mattheo hissed, fucking you through it, valiantly holding off his own orgasm as yours fizzed at your flesh. When your core's pulsing slowed, he shifted, propping your calves up his shoulders before he leaned forward and clamped his palm down on your neck.

"Don't squirm, baby..." his low voice commanded, and as you whimpered, squirming beneath him, his grin deepened. His eyes, now wild and intoxicated with desire, held a promise. "I gave you fair warning."

His free hand pinched your cheeks, slowly sliding out before slamming back in and pounding your cunt, growling breath leaking from his lungs, his hold on your throat tightening. The pressure in your head only doubled the frenzy of being fucked--you wheezed, your pulse thumping in your temples, and this spurred him on, drilling you with a depraved stare as he plowed into your tight pussy again and again and again.

The rain was steam on your skin, thunder a distant noise behind the sound of slapping skin and your strangled, whimpering moans. Your walls clenched and fluttered around his throbbing dick, sore clit twitching once more with a growing demand to be sated--Mattheo grunted, tugging you closer, eyes drilling into yours.

"Open that filthy mouth."

Wincing, you complied, parting your lips as he commanded. Without hesitation, he leaned down and spat into it.

"Now swallow it. Show me."

With determination etched on your face, you managed to comply against the pressure of his massive hand. Popping your jaw apart with a grimace, you showcased your resilience, earning a smirk from him. In response, he rewarded you with a series of both painful and blissful strokes of his hips, pushing your body to its absolute limit. Your breath had vanished ages ago, your heart now a wild entity, coursing through your veins.

"Poor baby," he sneered, feign sincerity in his tone. "I think you need to cum again."

He snaked his free hand between your legs, rolling your aching clit, and you groaned--or tried to, anyway--the speed of your pulse resonating through the grip on your neck. He felt it, too, head bowing in pleasured shock as you thrummed around him, your oncoming climax massaging his thick cock with every new thrust.

"Fuck." Resolute, he rubbed you faster, watching you--in his gaze, you saw nothing but an endless, dark void of lust. "Who do you fucking belong to?"

The words barely made it out. "Y-you, Mattheo..."

His choke tightened, and your vision blurred. "Who owns this tight little pussy?"

"You--you do, Mattheo..." you gasped.

"That's right," he sneered, and swirled your nub so quickly you squealed. "Cum for me, princess..."

The force of your orgasm surged through you, blurring your vision, and you screamed, choked by his hand as every muscle below your waist convulsed in a rapturous ecstasy. Your pussy milked and squeezed his cock, but he resisted his own climax once more, sinking into you until you descended. He drank in the sight of you--eyes rolled, raindrops scattered like diamonds on your skin, your throat and chest smothered with the evidence of his possession.

"Good fucking girl...take me...take all of me," he muttered, voice low and deep in the night air. "Every single fucking inch."

Mattheo shifted again, one arm coiling under you to fist your hair, the other cranking your leg back until your knee hit your chest. Groaning with pleasure, he hammered into you, stretching you wide, filling you to the base. Soaked strands of his hair slid into his eyes, and he tossed them back, wetting his lips and fucking you deep, trapping you in his feral gaze.

"You love me." He tilted your head back with a deliberate motion. "You fucking love me."

You nodded, not a shred of hesitation. "Yes-fuck! I do!"

He swallowed, inching closer, his forehead tenderly meeting yours. "After all of it," he whispered, the words almost lost in the shared breath, "after everything..."

Your chin quivered, and the revelation about his parents cut into your heart, a painful echo of his turbulent past. It hurt, yes, but it also felt like the a groundbreaking revelation, the ending to the story which finally explained why he was the way he was. There was an undeniable understanding that surged between your hearts, a silent recognition that both of you needed love in ways only the other could provide.

Despite the turmoil, you couldn't blame him for something so deeply rooted. The man craved love as desperately as you did, neither of you ever willing to admit it. In the synergy of your souls, there existed an undeniable connection, a perfect harmony that transcended spoken words. Even in the hushed language of silence, your hearts resonated, acknowledging that there would never be two souls more perfectly suited for each other than yours.

"After everything." You wrapped your arms around him, safe when lightning crashed, rocking your hips in his pace. "No matter what."

"Fuck." He wound your hair in his fist, and wrenched your head back, tearing at your throat with his teeth, harsh thrusts pulverizing your cunt. "...I'm--fuck--I'm going to make you break again." His hand left your leg, long fingers back to stroking your tender clit. "And then I'm going to fill you up with my cum."

Senses barraged, you shrieked, overwhelmed and oversensitive. He wasn't fucking joking. You wanted mercy. "Fuck! Mattheo! Please-please-"

"No. Take it," he snarled into your ear. "Take it."

He assailed your nub, and you quailed, curling around him like a snake, shaking from the overwhelming intensity of his power, lids shut while he nipped your neck, demolished your pussy, panted hard into your ear.

"You're mine." He growled, his voice shredded raw with lust. "Mine."

"I'm yours!" You shrieked, nails digging crescents into his back. "Yours."

"Fuck-" he hissed, slamming harder, deeper. "Mine! All fucking mine..."

"Yours! Fuck!" It was all too much, too great, brain crashing into a wanton mess. "All fucking yours!"

Your body convulsed, teeth sinking into your lip, propelled through a realm of heightened sensitivity into an ecstasy that seared your skin. Gasps and incoherent pleas spilled from your lips, a desperate supplication for release, for him to unleash the crescendo that would send you soaring and screaming and cumming.

"That's it," Mattheo growled, pumping into you, folding you into his frame. "You're taking me so fucking well baby, just one more...cum for me, angel."

Your senses fractured, caught between euphoria and disbelief, and your body spasmed, climax radiating through your every fiber, a luminous burst that shattered any remnants of sanity, setting Mattheo ablaze in its wake. He groaned, grunted, burying himself to the hilt, warm cock pulsing as he poured hot cum deep into your cunt. For a moment, he didn't move, silently working to catch his breath before he pulled back, shifting onto his knees.

You fixated on him, your head weighed down, struggling to fathom the endearment he had bestowed upon you--silently endeavouring to etch every detail of this encounter into the recesses of your memory. A contented sigh escaped you, accompanied by a smile that radiated the joy swelling within your chest.

However, as you gazed at him, basking in the warmth of affection twinkling in his eyes, you noticed a flicker of something else--an abrupt shift. His thumb grazed your chin absentmindedly before he moved, working to tuck himself away. You mirrored his actions, attempting to salvage what was left of your clothing, now thoroughly drenched by the relentless rain.

Walking through the forest on your way back to the castle, the shadows of the trees played in the puddle-soaked ground, creating a surreal dance around you. Mattheo extended his hand, a silent invitation you willingly accepted. The brief connection sent a comforting warmth through you, grounding you amidst the uncertainty.

As you navigated the path, thoughts swirled like the mist around you. The night's events echoed in your mind, and a cloud of questions veiled the clarity you sought. Contemplating a potential job at the castle, you wondered about its impact on your newfound bond with Mattheo. Did you still harbour the same enthusiasm for the job amid these compelling complexities? The walk became a journey through both the tangible forest and the intricate maze of your thoughts, navigating the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

Approaching the castle, the distant melody of music embraced the night air, whispering promises of celebration within. Capturing the tune, Mattheo halted abruptly, pivoting to face you as the two of you lingered just outside the castle walls, hidden by the shadows of the night.

Your brows furrowed inquisitively as you locked eyes with him, seeking to understand the meaning behind this sudden pause. "What are you-"

"Shh." He cooed, eyes darting around.

After a brief survey of the surroundings, he fixed his eyes back on you with a newfound emotion swirling within them. Without another word, Mattheo enveloped you in a tender embrace, guiding your arms to rest on his neck as his firm hands settled on your hips. Bathed in the gentle glow of castle lights, he initiated a graceful sway to the rhythm of a slow, melodic tune that harmonized seamlessly with the rain-soaked ambiance.

In the suspended moment, your gaze locked with his, the world around you blurred as the rain continued its gentle descent, creating an intimate cocoon amidst the springtime storm. It felt perfect, a clandestine world of your own, away from the prying eyes of others.

"All those people think love's for show..." Mattheo blinked, drawing his face closer. "But I'd fucking die for you in secret."

Your breath hitched, water welling in your eyes. You quickly blinked it away, searching his face, mapping it, along with everything else from this night into memory.

"How'd I get so lucky..." you tightened your hold on him, the raindrops adding a gentle percussion to the soundtrack of the moment. "A sky full of stars, and yet you're staring at me..."

"There's no need," he murmured, directing your head to lay against his chest. "Avere lei è come avere le stelle."

Your heart leapt. "How did you-"

"Notts been teaching me," he said, and you could practically hear the smirk on his lips, the pride in his tone. "You know what I said, don't you?"

You blushed, unable to stifle your grin. "I do."

He hummed. "Tell me."

"No," you whispered, fingers digging into his neck as you shifted your head to look up at him. "I'd like to hear you say it."

His smirk grew, and he peered down at you. "To have her, is to have the stars."

“Mm,” you glimpsed his mouth, brushing your lips against his as you murmured, "E averlo, è come avere la luna." (And to have him, is to have the moon.)

His smirk blossomed into a radiant smile as he gripped your face, drawing you into a profound, messy, deep kiss. Every fiber of your being quivered under the intense surge of emotions you felt for this man--love enveloping you entirely, and whether or not he uttered the words, you could sense it--right now, ten minutes ago, and every moment in between.

All you wanted, more than anything, was that he’d hold you tight, and whisper that you’d find a way to be together. But then, his hands fell from your face, wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you back into him. With his lips pressed to your forehead, he whispered,

“I’ve never loved anything, Raven…anyone…I didn’t even know I had a heart until you made it beat.” He murmured, tightening his grip. “Now this heart belongs to you. And I’ll fucking kill every last person that tries to keep you from me…”

You shuddered, breathing him in. “We’ll make it work. We’ll figure it out.”

He hummed, nodding softly, the two of you swaying to the gentle melody, ignoring the cold rain pouring down against your bodies. You weren’t sure how long you’d stood there, minutes, maybe even hours--but as the song came to an end, switching to another, more upbeat one, you smiled, meeting his dark, gleaming eyes.

“I love you, Mattheo.”

He pressed his lips to yours. “I love you, Raven.”

#mattheoriddle #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle #mattheosmut #mattheo x you #mattheo smut #riddlesmut #riddle smut #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle smut #tomriddle smut #tomriddlesmut #theodorenottsmut #theodore smut #theoriddlesmut #theodore nott smut #theodore nott x reader #theodorenott #theodore nott #theo nott smut #severus snape #draco malfoy smut #draco smut #draco malfoy #enzo berkshire #tom riddle #harry potter #severus smut #mattheo #mattheoxreader

[mockerycrow]

Lately I've been dying with stress induced migraines and was wondering if I could request the 141 or any character of your choosing to take care of the reader suffering from them??

MIGRAINES (Ghost x GN!Reader)

ghost masterlist

[WARNINGS; medicine/drugs, inaccuracy of medicine stuff, inaccuracy of military, fluff, physical hurt/comfort, mention of overdosing, it’s implied you do not have regular sleeping problems.]

You know a migraine is about to come on when you’re looking down at the paper in front of you—something about a past mission—and you can’t see the lower right corner of the paper. You blink harshly and rub your eyes, the blotch not leaving which leads you to believe it’s a migraine aura. A heavy feeling forms in the bottom of your stomach, a weird sensation blooming in the nape of your neck. You put the paper down for a moment and rub your eyes—it’s only Tuesday and this will be your second migraine. 

You feel frustration ebb at your nerves as tears threaten to spill, causing you to let out a shuddery breath. You stand up from the office chair you’re sitting in, near your desk in your barracks. You decided that you should warn the Captain about your aura and that you would need some rest for the incoming day and maybe even tomorrow.

You can already feel the light sensitivity setting in. It doesn’t hurt just yet as you open your door and you’re forced to be under fluorescent lights, but you can tell your tolerance is lower than usual. You offer quiet greetings to those who you pass in the hall, making your way across base to the offices. You squint a bit more, the muscles surrounding your eyes tensing. You can’t help but wonder why they use such shitty lighting in an office space.

You stop in front of a door with a name plate labeled “CPT. JOHN PRICE”, and you knock on the door a couple of times. You hear his gruff voice, saying something along the lines of come in. You open the door and close it behind yourself, looking at Price who is looking up from his paperwork; probably surrounding the last mission like yours is, too. “I feel another migraine coming on, Captain. I came to ask for the day off.” 

Price’s eyes narrow for just a moment in concern. He knows your history with migraines, and how they’re usually induced by stress. “Alright, but you make sure to go see medical if it persists, yeah?” Price says with a lifting tone, but it’s not a question, it’s an order. You go to open your mouth, but Price beats you to it. “I know they can’t do much for you, but those painkiller cocktails are very much worth it.”

You close your eyes as a wave of nausea passes over you, causing you to freeze for a moment. The man in front of you utters your name which prompts your eyes to open back up. His eyes are scanning your face. eyebrows lifting ever so slightly to prompt an answer. You press your lips together and give him a nod; those cocktails are lifesavers, but they don’t last as long as you need them to. You’re thankful for his suggestion anyway. Price gives you a firm nod. “Hope to see you tomorrow feeling better, sergeant.”

“Thank you, Captain.” You reply before leaving his office, pinching the bridge of your nose, trying to stave off that beginning twinge of pain beginning in the base of your skull.

Something was off—Ghost could feel it in his bones. When you don’t show up for morning PT, he knows something is off, especially when for the second time in a few days, Price hands him a signed off medical emergency paper from you. It contained no details, nothing other than “1 day medical absence” signed by Price himself. It left Ghost feeling uneasy; you are not the type to do this type of thing, even when you had the seasonal flu, it was like the entire 141 had to lecture you to slow down, or maybe even rest a bit.

Ghost half expects you to show up anyway, but just like a few days ago, you are nowhere to be found. Ghost finds some free time a bit after 1500, so he makes his way towards medical. Perhaps you were physically injured? He steps into the infirmary and is met with a few pairs of eyes, a couple of them shocked to see him. “Lieutenant! How can we help you?” A medic at a cart parked against the wall asks, quickly packing up something he was doing. Ghost utters your name, glancing around. “Are they here?” He grunts.

“No, sir,” The medic replies. “They did stop by for some treatment, though.” Ghost’s eyebrows furrow for a moment; treatment? Treatment for what? Ghost doesn’t bother to ask, knowing the medics wouldn’t likely tell him anyway, so he murmurs a shirt thank you before leaving the infirmary. He racked his brain—what possibly could keep you out of commission willingly when not even a GSW would? Ghost then decides right then that he will head for your barracks.

He makes his way across base, going from the infirmary unit all the way across to the on-base barracks. Gears are turning in his head as he tries to not jump to conclusions—is there a physical injury he’s not being told about?—and Ghost is failing. You’re one of the couple of folks who don’t have a roommate, so he knocks with a purpose as there isn’t anyone else to worry about bothering. He waits for a few moments and is greeted with silence, so he knocks again with a loud and deep, “Sergeant?”

Ghost is met with silence again, which doesn’t soothe his nerves. He tries the doorknob and to his surprise—and concern—it works. Ghost slowly opens the door to find your room in complete darkness, the only light being the one from the hall which is illuminating your bed. He sees you hunched over in your bed, wrapped in your blankets with your face half buried into your pillow. Near your bed is a TV tray stand with two plastic bowls with separate washcloths hanging off of the side of the bowls. There’s an orange medicine bottle and a small white medicine bottle next to a half empty water bottle and another full unopened bottle.

Ghost closes the door behind himself as he walks over to you, narrowly avoiding the TV tray stand. He peels back the velcro of one of his gloves before removing it, pressing the back of his hand to the part of your forehead that is exposed. Your temperature feels fine at first so he turns his hand over and presses his wrist to the small part of your forehead and he receives the same result. Ghost blinks for a moment, noting that you have no fever. Immense relief floods over him; he’s not exactly sure why.

He calls your name and puts a hand on your arm, shaking you ever so slightly. You don’t move a muscle, but you’re breathing just fine. Ghost looks over at the bottles of medicine and leans over, grabbing both of them. He reads “Zaleplon” and “Rizatriptan”. With a quick google search on his phone, he finds out they are both prescribed medications, which makes his eyebrows furrow in confusion. You have prescribed medications? For sleeping and migraines? You’ve never mentioned this before.

Ghost puts them back down on the TV tray stand and he shakes your shoulder a bit more forcefully as it seems you’re really asleep. He feels bad, knowing he should just let you rest, but he doesn’t know if you’ve eaten. He has no idea if you have only drunk that one bottle of water all day, if you have left to go to the bathroom—nothing. He calls your name louder which still does not harbor a response from you, making his gut tighten once again.

He knows it’s the anxiety talking, that you would be careful with medicine, careful enough to not take too much—but he can’t help but still worry. Ghost doesn’t know that maybe you forgot you took a sleeping pill before popping another, putting you in a deeper sleep. Your breathing seems fine, so you’re definitely not struggling in that department. Maybe you’re just sleeping heavier than usual?

But what if you did take more than needed? What if this is you in the middle of an overdose? You are indeed turned over, your face halfway smushed into the pillow. That’s enough to strike anxiety into Ghost’s soul so he grabs your shoulder and forcefully rolls you onto your back, a heavy relieved sigh leaving him when he doesn’t see any vomit or excess saliva on your pillow or hoodie. Your skin is its usual color, as well as your lips. Ghost’s fingers grab your wrist to feel your pulse, counting the beats. Your heart rate is fine.

So why are you not waking up? And why is he so anxious about it?

Ghost calls your name even louder and his shoulders relax when he hears a quiet groan leave your lips. Your closed eyelids squeeze together for a moment before an expression of pain floods your face, causing Ghost to press his lips together underneath his balaclava. “There ya are,” Ghost murmurs, putting a hand on your shoulder. Your eyes flutter open and they land on Ghost after a moment. “Ghost,” You breathe out, pain lacing your tone.

The room is dark so you’re both struggling to see each other, but Ghost doesn’t mind. If it helps your head, he will gladly squint. “Have ya eaten?” He grunts out, his voice rumbling and low in his chest. You let out a tired breath and rub your eyes, taking a moment to answer. “What time is it?” You croak, your hands moving from your eyes to your temples. Ghost pulls out his phone, it being too dark to look at his watch. “1321.” He replies, making you inhale sharply and let out a groan. “Shit, didn’t mean to sleep that long.” You slur ever so slightly.

“Did’ja miss a dose?” Ghost questions, and you let out a quiet “mhm”. You hear Ghost reach over to the TV tray stand, but you can’t tell what he’s doing. You hear one of the medicine bottles pop open. His hand finds yours and gives you a pill, and then you hear the water bottle crinkle. “Up.” He orders, and you comply, sitting up just enough to take the medicine. You wince at the change in angle so easily irritates your pounding skull, but you appreciate the soothing water running down your throat. Ghost caps the water bottle and puts it back. You hear water sloshing around and one of the washcloths being wrung out, and you flinch ever so slightly when you feel a cold washcloth being tucked underneath your head and against the nape of your neck.

“When did you start ‘aving migraines?” Ghost asks. His tone isn’t accusatory, but it’s clear he’s confused on why he was never let known. He’s also your superior next to Price, looked over the necessary files. You let your eyes shut, focusing on the cold feeling seeping underneath your skin. You appreciate the man keeping his voice down. “Always had ‘em, but they’re stress induced. They aren't constant.” You reply, your voice also remaining low, barely disturbing the silence of your room. “Had one a day or two ago, guess that shit never left.” You joke, earning a huff from Ghost. “Y’didn’t answer my question. When’s the last time you have eaten?” Ghost inquires, making you let out a sigh. “Mm, maybe 4 or 5 hours ago,” You hum. “I should go grab something soon, helps the medicine kick in faster.”

Ghost shakes his head even though you can barely tell. “No need, I’ll grab it. Are you experiencing nausea?” Ghost stands up from the bed, the mattress leveling out. “A bit, yeah. Could you grab something light on the stomach?” You request, your fingers grabbing your blanket as a warm fuzzy feeling in your gut begins to distract you from the pounding in your temples. “‘Course.” And with that, Ghost leaves you with your thoughts for the time being. You don’t understand why he’s being so nice and generous—it’s not like Ghost is not nice, but he’s usually more teasing and serious about getting shit done. 

To be fair, the last time you got injured, he also took care of you. You had earned a nasty brush with death after being too close to a large explosion. You had been thrown back into a wall, crashing through the other side, earning you a broken shoulder and a piece of wood through the major artery in your thigh—as well as the classic severe concussion, of course. This happened about a year ago and when your shoulder aches, Ghost somehow knows and offers to rub cream into it. It’s similar to Soap’s knee pain, so he knows what to do. Countless nights over a year of rubbing cream into the part of your shoulder that you can’t reach, the words left unspoken between you two? 

Ghost returns with a light meal for you as well as a cup of ice water, knowing it’ll help you more than your room temperature water bottles. Something about Ghost being so domestic over this past year up to now, taking care of you and bringing you food, rubbing cream into your shoulder when needed, when he took you to those temporary physical therapy appointments for your shoulder? Something snapped inside of you and you could never look at him in the same friendly way and by the way he looks and speaks to you, it seems to be the same for him.

#ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x gn!reader #simon ghost riley x gn!reader #simon riley x gn!reader #call of duty #call of duty mwii #cod mw2 #cod #mw2022 #modern warfare ii #mw2 2022 #cod ghost #ghost call of duty #simon ghost riley #ghost #modern warfare fanfiction #modern warfare 2 x reader #cod modern warfare

[cherienymphe]

Basic Training XVI (Peter Parker x Reader)

Warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, mentions of MURDER, violence, kidnapping, captivity, public sex, degradation, forced pregnancy, forced marriage, stockholm syndrome, ptsd, housewife kink, cop!Peter

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies​ | divider by @whimsicalrogers

➥ series masterlist

summary: A pit stop during a road trip ends tragically when a small town cop sets his sights on you. You’re the newest addition in a long standing fucked up family tradition.

~

You knelt beside Peter with your hands in your lap, staring down at them as the conversation flowed around you. While you’d never had much to contribute to the conversation before, you still felt awful about being purposely excluded. Even more so because your humiliation was on full display for the whole house to see.

“It’s disappointing to see another empty chair at the table.”

Steve’s voice wasn’t very loud amongst the other low conversations, but it carried, nonetheless. You didn’t need to look up to know that his gaze was on you. You could feel it. It was then that you felt a gentle touch on the top of your head, fingers trailing down to rest just under your chin.

“Yeah,” you heard Peter sigh. “…but she knows what she’s being punished for.”

You did.

The night you told Peter that Nat had mentioned a pregnancy scare, he hadn’t said much to you for the rest of the evening. You could count the number of times Peter had been really mad with you, and his visible anger hadn’t done much for your sleep. You hadn’t been able to deny the pang in your chest when he laid down for bed without sparing you a glance.

You had almost wished you could take it back.

…but if it would prevent Nat from being on the end of whatever punishment Bucky saw fit for her, then you would accept however Peter retaliated. You weren’t being tied to some tree nor walking around with some collar on your neck, but it was no less embarrassing to sit at Peter’s feet on your knees while the rest of the household ate dinner.

Occasionally, Peter’s hand would come down to give you something to eat, and with starving as the only other option, you had no choice but to open your mouth and accept.

“I’m very disappointed in you,” he’d said just hours earlier, gazing at you with a small shake of his head. “…and to think this is something you knew before she even left. What if she was pregnant and has lost the baby? Do you have any idea what that will do to Bucky?”

You hadn’t had the heart nor courage to tell Peter that you didn’t care about Bucky. You didn’t care about him, at all. Your priority had been Nat and keeping quiet on something she herself hadn’t even known what to do with. That was then though, and while your first priority was still Nat, now you only wanted her out of harm’s way in whatever way you could achieve that. Even if it meant disappointing Peter and making Bucky aware of her possible delicate condition.

You knew that with Steve over his shoulder, Bucky was liable to do unspeakable harm to Nat. It didn’t matter that he’d grown up with her and therefore shared a deeper history than any other couple in the house. In fact, you’d wager that those circumstances only made him angrier, made him feel more betrayed. You didn’t count on Bucky being fair, on the punishment fitting the crime. The dark-haired man was angry and hurt—something you’d never understand—and he seemed the type to take it out on her.

You were pulled from your thoughts by the sight of a fork in front of your face, and lock clockwork, you leaned in to eat what Peter offered. Your embarrassment lessened as you thought of the humiliating things the other wives probably had to go through. One incident stood out amongst the rest, and as you glanced up, your eyes met a familiar brown pair. She threw you a brief sympathetic look, something in her eyes telling you that it was okay, and you looked back down.

You tried to remind yourself that if your husband had been literally anyone else, you’d be dealing with far worse. Even Thor—who seemed a gentle giant most times—had forced Jane to hang the clothes to dry while completely naked once. At least, that was what Jane had said, and despite how long ago it was, you’d been able to see that she was still hurt about it. You wondered if that contributed to how “well behaved” she was for the blond. You wondered if she just didn’t want to experience that hurt again, and that was something you could understand.

When dinner was over, instead of following behind the rest of the men, Peter remained seated. You could feel his gaze on you, and you kept your own on your lap as you heard him stand. He stood there for what felt like a long time while the other women cleared the table. When the both of you were alone again, he quietly told you to stand and follow him.

Peter hadn’t said all that much to you since that day, and you didn’t know what you were walking into.

You kept your gaze on the back of his head while you followed him, tracing the brown strands with your eyes. There was a part of you that could acknowledge Peter’s disappointment, even understand the twisted logic in some sick way, but another part of you didn’t feel bad, at all. Whether or not Nat was pregnant was not something Peter needed to know. It simply wasn’t for him to know. It hadn’t even been for you to know until Nat decided it so, and it equally hadn’t been for you to tell.

…and you weren’t…until Steve and Bucky were itching to hurt her in ways she just didn’t deserve.

Even now, you wondered if you did the right thing. Only time would really tell, but you felt so…helpless. That night, you’d felt helpless, but it was a different kind of helpless. It was a helplessness that came about of your own accord. You could have very well told Peter you saw her. You could have even ran downstairs yourself to go after her, but you hadn’t. You’d remained quiet, and the opportunity to do anything to help or hinder the situation had passed you by.

You had left the fate of everyone in the house—including you—in her hands. Your future had depended on whether or not Nat was caught or not, both yours and Peters. You felt like something of a coward to leave that in Nat’s hands. Although, you guessed that your decision had been made when you simply…let her go.

You were frowning when Peter spoke to you again.

“You do understand why you’re being punished…don’t you…?”

You licked your lips, starting to nod before thinking better of it, remembering that Peter preferred you use your voice.

“Yes,” you told him.

“Tell me,” Peter urged, sitting down on the bed.

Your eyes met his, and like they had been for days, they gleamed with a mixture of confusion and disappointment.

“It’s important that Bucky knows everything pertaining to Nat’s health…and I helped her hide that from him.”

You repeated the words he’d said to you even though you didn’t quite believe them yourself.

Peter reached for you with a small sigh, and you slowly reached for his hand in return, moving closer. When his fingers threaded with yours, he pulled you to stand in between his knees, taking your other hand too. He looked at you with a look you couldn’t name, pink lips pressed together as he studied your face.

“If you were pregnant…surely you’d understand why I’d need to know that,” he continued before you could say anything. “Even if you just thought you were pregnant…that’s important, Y/N.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“Now…now I have to find a way to bring this up to him. I did make a promise, after all,” he said to you, reminding you of your plea not to tell Bucky you told him.

Peter pulled on your hands, forcing you to sit in his lap. One of his hands came to rest on your waist, and you held his gaze as he kneaded his hand into your side.

“…and you wouldn’t want me to break my promise…would you?”

Peter tilted his head at that, and you shakily shook your head.

If Bucky knew you knew…you shuddered to think of what would happen. Peter reached up to cup your face, gently brushing his thumb over your skin. It disgusted you to think that not even thirty minutes ago, he had you kneeling at his side and eating whatever he fed you like a dog…and now… Now, you were sitting in his lap, reaching up to cover his own hand as it rested on your face.

Was this how any of the others felt?

Did Margaret feel that conflicted mix of anger and sadness and admiration whenever she gazed at Steve? Did she remember the ways in which he’d humiliate her as he kissed her? Did Pepper think of Tony leading her around the house like a pet when he smiled at her? You wondered what Laura thought about when Clint hugged her and if it was that time she was forced to keep him warm in her mouth at the dinner table?

“I was very proud of you tonight,” Peter eventually told you. “You were so well behaved and did exactly as I told you.”

Peter pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, lingering there.

“Only four more days to go.”

You were outside in the garden when you first saw it.

Laura and Jane were planting some garlic with you when you saw Steve and Bucky talking and walking around the house. They were coming from the front yard, presumably from work seeing as they were still in their uniforms, and Steve had it in his hand. A whip­—long and braided and dark brown. By the looks of it, you could tell it was real leather, and even in Steve’s grasp, it looked big…and torturous.

The sight of it made your stomach turn, and you had the brief thought that you were going to be sick…until you actually were sick.

“Oh my God!”

Both Laura and Jane’s voices caught their attention, and the poor garlic bulbs you’d had every intention of planting were suddenly covered in what you ate that morning. Your legs were unsteady as both women hurried to pull you to your feet. Both men were nearing you, something crossing their faces that looked oddly like concern.

It was strange.

You’d seen something like that on Bucky’s face before, notably that night when you ran into him outside the basement door. There was a hurt and crestfallen look there that told you as mad as he was at Nat, something in him hated the idea of punishing her more. Steve, however… You had never seen anything remotely resembling unease before, and it was then that you were reminded of something Peter had said to you once.

“You’re family, Y/N,” Peter had whispered one night. “Steve may be hard on you, and it may seem like he’s out to get you, but he just wants you to fall in line and be part of the family.”

Laura was wiping your mouth with a napkin she kept in her apron.

“Are you alright? Did you eat something bad?”

No.

You didn’t know how to tell her that the sight of that whip in Steve’s hand—the whip that was still in Steve’s hand—had disturbed you so badly you couldn’t even keep your food down. You could feel pressure behind your eyes, a burning sensation, and you wanted to scream. On top of throwing up on yourself like some child, you were now on the verge of crying too.

“Y/N…”

You weren’t on the verge of anything. You were crying…and badly too. You couldn’t stop shaking, covering your face with your hands as you fought to keep standing. Laura’s hands were on you as she guided you into the house, and your knees buckled. You would have collapsed if it weren’t for familiar arms catching you, and you clung to him instantly.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Talk to me, Y/N,” he softly urged, one hand on your head and the other on the small of your back. “What happened?”

He was addressing someone else, now, and you didn’t hear what they told him. You only shook your head, unable to get the words out. You wanted to be sick again, and you pressed a hand to your mouth. Peter took that as a sign, hurrying to get you up the stairs.

He softly called your name again as soon as you made it into the room, and you finally did collapse.

“Is that what he’s going to do to her?” you asked him, tearfully looking up at Peter as he looked down at you in confusion. “Whip her?”

Realization bled into Peter’s eyes, and you watched his shoulders fall.

“Like…like some animal that needs to be broken into submission? …and for what? Because she ran?”

You swallowed down something else that threatened to come up, and Peter knelt down with you. You were fighting to keep it together, but your chest felt so tight, and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The mere thought of Nat being on the other end of that almost made you sick again, and the room spun just a bit.

“Woah, woah, hey,” Peter cooed, wrapping his arms around you and leaning you back into him.

You descended into another fit of sobs, turning your face into Peter’s shoulder, and he rocked you. You reached up to grip the arm around your chest, holding onto him. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right, but what else could you possibly say that would stop this?

“Did you talk to Bucky…?” you finally choked out.

You both felt and heard Peter sigh.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “Look…Y/N…”

Peter paused, rubbing your arm and resting his chin on the top of your head.

“I know you want to protect Nat…want to stop this from happening to her, but she did a bad thing.”

You started to shake your head, but Peter continued.

“She has to be punished, made an example of. Hell…we still need to figure out how she escaped.”

Those words gave you pause, and you swallowed.

“She won’t say a thing about how she got out of the house with any of us none the wiser. How she snuck past all of us, Bucky especially,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “She could do it again. Any of you could try to imitate her…and we can’t have that.”

Peter pulled away a bit, looking at you as you looked at him.

“I would lose my mind if you escaped,” he told you. “…and I mean that.”

He took your face into his hands.

“You don’t understand what you mean to me…all I’ve done to keep you by my side,” he gently said. “All I would do to have you again if you ever did what she did.”

You believed him.

You didn’t doubt him for a moment, and that in itself didn’t scare you. It was the fact that you didn’t see yourself ever doing what Nat did, never even trying, and that thought was equally imprisoning as it was freeing.

You stared into the darkness with your arms wrapped around your knees. The stair beneath your bottom didn’t even feel that hard to you anymore, long growing numb to the feel. It was so hard to sleep lately, so tonight you’d just given up. Even with Peter at your side, you hadn’t been able to find lethargic bliss, too plagued with thoughts of Nat.

The memory of that whip in Steve’s hand made you grow so cold, like something was being sucked out of you. You had imagined the worst for her, but actually seeing it was another thing entirely. As much as Bucky scared you, you couldn’t really picture him doing that to her. Even for him, it seemed wrong, but then again, it was hard to tell what Bucky was actually feeling and what he wanted.

He kidnapped the girl he grew up with and he was the one to feel betrayed when she ran.

You wondered if a day would come where you’d sleep soundly again. Maybe when you knew for sure that Nat was going to be okay? You wondered if you’d even fret this much if you hadn’t seen her that night. You liked to think that you would, but you couldn’t deny that your guilt and fear over the whole situation played a huge part.

Rubbing your forehead, you pushed yourself to your feet.

When you turned around, the imposing figure at the top of the stairs almost made you fall back. You let out a gasp, taking a stumbling step back and almost falling in the process. The sound of your heartbeat was loud in your ear, and even before he turned the light on, you knew who it was.

Steve was as scary as he always was, but even more so now with the memory of him holding the whip that was most likely intended for Nat. It was crazy to think that even in the middle of the night, a time of day that should be for the most relaxed version of oneself, he still looked like a strict leader just itching to hand out a punishment.

“You should be in bed.”

You swallowed as he looked down his nose at you, lips trembling.

“I…I couldn’t sleep. I have trouble sleeping, sometimes,” you forced out, truthful.

The blond didn’t reply right away at that, simply raising an eyebrow at you as he studied you.

“Is that so…”

It came out more like a statement than a question, and you frowned.

“Since when?” he wondered, and you realized this was probably the longest you’d ever talked to Steve and definitely one on one.

“Since…since I got here, I guess,” you whispered with a frown.

He sniffed, looking past you for a few moments before meeting your eyes again. They narrowed at you, and for the life of you, you couldn’t place the look in them.

“You spend most of your nights awake? Sitting on the stairs? Hmm?”

“No,” you hurried to say. “No, this is a first. I guess I didn’t want to wake up Peter.”

There was a brief pause, and the silence was so loud.

“Is that okay…?”

You tried to keep your voice even, but you supposed you couldn’t cover the mocking tone well. It was hard to keep up with what was allowed with Steve, and it wasn’t like the other night when you were trying to bring Nat some food. You’d just been sitting on the stairs. What rule was there against that?

Steve stared at you for what felt like a long time before suddenly throwing you a tense smile. It looked fake, plastic even.

“Of course,” he almost sang as if it were obvious. “You’re family, now, and this is your house too.”

His tone, like yours had been, sounded almost mocking, and you didn’t like it. Unable to continue engaging in conversation with the blond without wanting to hurl, you moved to make your way back to your room. Steve’s gaze remained on you the entire time, and it was only when you were past him did he speak again.

“I never realized what a night owl you were…”

You slowed to a pause, looking over your shoulder at him, but his back was still to you as he stared ahead.

“You probably see all sorts of things from your perch.”

Your chest grew tight at that, and you stumbled back to your room without another response.

Peter seemed to reach for you on autopilot, pulling you into his arms and holding you close even in his sleep. You held onto him too, tears kissing your eyes as you forced your heart to stop racing. You pressed your face into his chest, thoughts going a mile a minute.

You hadn’t liked Steve’s words nor his tone, and you wondered…

Did he know? He couldn’t know, but his dubious tone and hidden meanings in his words couldn’t mean anything else. Unless he only suspected, and even then, that did little to reassure you. You weren’t good with lies, poker faces. As it were, it was taking everything in you to keep lying to Peter, and the way you felt about Peter was nothing at all how you felt about Steve.

It was taking all you had to lie to the man whose face you looked forward to seeing every day. You couldn’t even pretend to imagine you’d be good at lying to Steve. The thought made you sit up some, gazing at Peter’s face as he slept. You thought about your conversation earlier and what he’d done for you, the feeling in your chest when he told you he’d talked to Bucky.

“I just mentioned to him he might want to have Bruce come and look over her first before…”

He had trailed off after answering you when you asked him what he told him, quieting at the look on your face at the reminder of what was in store for her.

“They’ve been trying, you know, and I just reminded Bucky that he’d never forgive himself if he did anything that could take away something he didn’t even know he had.”

Your worry hadn’t disappeared completely, but it had definitely lessened, causing you to hug Peter. He had hugged you back, but you’d been more concerned with pressing kisses to his face. Even if Nat turned out to not be pregnant, it would put off her punishment for a bit at the least.

Sometimes you wondered why Peter did anything for you. You supposed it was equally for his benefit, to make you more susceptible to him, and you couldn’t deny that there was merit to it. Did it really matter the reasons behind anything he did to make you happy? As long as it made you happy, right…?

You leaned over, pressing your lips to his cheek, silently thanking him. You grazed your fingers over his own, listening to the sound of his breathing, and you kissed his cheek again before sliding out of bed. You moved to stand at the window, feeling very reminiscent of that night as you wrapped your arms around yourself.

You knew that you needed to get up early, and that you’d probably regret having such a late night in the morning, but you saw no value in trying to force something that would not come. Like the night Nat ran, you stared out of the window, looking over the yard...

…and just like that night, movement caught your eye.

The figure was unmistakable, his hands on his hips as he stood in the backyard, gazing around. You didn’t know why he was out there, especially at this time of night, and you frowned as you watched him. The sight of Steve would always serve to do the opposite of calming you down, so you were just about to turn away when he suddenly turned instead. Steve’s eyes met yours from so far below, and you could tell by the look on his face that he could see you.

You could also tell by the look on his face…that this did not surprise him.

His expression was even as he stared up at you, and you blinked, a slow frown forming between your brows. You didn’t understand why he was out there nor why he was preoccupied with looking up at your window, but the longer he stared, the more he seemed to find whatever he was looking for, frowning at you before you made the choice to turn away completely.

The next morning was as normal as any other.

For some reason, you hadn’t expected that. It had taken you forever to fall asleep, doubly so when coupled with the memory of Steve staring you down both on the stairs and through the window. You helped Margaret make Egg’s Benedict before getting started on a key lime pie she wanted to have ready by dinnertime. She brought little Sarah around for a bit, something you were grateful for.

“I know what they think,” she whispered as you shook the girl’s hand playfully. “What they say…”

You glanced up at her at that, and she sent you a sad smile.

“You would never hurt any of them,” she assured you. “You just need more time to adjust, that’s all.”

Knowing that Margaret trusted you around her child despite what Steve thought made your chest feel warm, and you thanked her. You often wondered about your own future child, and you would be lying if you said you didn’t worry for them. After all, if Steve and the others were worried about you around the other children, what could you possibly expect with your own?

You helped Christine in the garden, feeling much better than the other day. You felt that had more to do with the lack of a whip in your line of sight than anything. Peter was gone most of the day, at work, and when he finally returned home, it was almost time for dinner.

“What were you two planting? You smell wonderful,” Peter mused, watching you as you helped him undress.

“Sweet Pea,” you replied, unhooking his belt. “Pepper wanted some on the side of the house.”

You felt Peter press his face to your hair, deeply inhaling with a hum that fell over you like a warm blanket. When Peter kissed you, you were unsurprised when it didn’t remain just that, allowing him to pull you into the bathtub with him. Much wasn’t said between you, more preoccupied with the feel of his lips on yours and his hands on your waist.

It was a wonder neither of you were late to the dinner table.

Despite your interactions with Steve the previous night, dinner remained unproblematic. In fact, the blond was much more concerned with his wife whose forehead he kept touching. Truthfully, you didn’t quite know what you’d expected. Perhaps your disastrous birthday was still fresh in your mind, no stranger to Steve’s lack of reluctance to cause a scene.

You left dinner without a care, and you managed to go to bed without a care.

It was late in the night, however, when the horror you expected finally arrived.

It was the sound of yelling that disturbed you, the height of sound something you’d only heard the morning Nat went missing. You remained in bed in confusion—and slight annoyance—as you blearily stared at the ceiling. Sleep was still just within reach, and despite the disturbance, you were determined to find it once again.

That wasn’t possible though.

“Let me talk to her!”

It was Peter’s voice, the sound of it making your eyes fly open. You slowly sat up, never knowing Peter for one to raise his voice under any circumstances. There were a lot of voices mingling together from below, and they all quickly drowned his out. You slowly blinked as you stared at the door…

…and an uneasy feeling started to stir deep in your gut.

It only just occurred to you that if he was downstairs, then he wasn’t asleep next to you. You reached over and slid your hand along his side of the bed. It was cool to the touch, telling you he’d been gone for quite some time, and your frown deepened. What was going on?

Just as you thought that, you heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and you stared at the door in dread. They were nearing your room, the sound of them echoing in the hallway, and for some reason, you expected Steve’s imposing frame to be on the other side of the door. It wasn’t, but you still felt no relief at the familiar sight of Peter.

You rubbed your eye as your gaze met his, the dark-haired man standing in the doorway.

“Peter…”

It was hard to pinpoint the look on his face, only that it was strained and pinched. You watched the way his jaw ticked, chest heaving slightly, and when your gaze lowered, it landed on his tightening grip on the doorknob. You said his name again, growing even more nervous the longer he didn’t speak.

“Peter.”

That wasn’t your voice.

Your lips parted at the sound of Steve’s stern voice coming from over Peter’s shoulder, and you guessed that he was somewhere in between the door and the stairs, somewhere in the hallway where you couldn’t see him. At the sound of the other man’s voice, Peter seemed to visibly tense. He stood there for a few more seconds before finally stepping into the room.

“Peter, what…?”

“It’s okay,” he whispered to you although you felt like it was absolutely not okay. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

He took your hand, threading your fingers together.

“I just…I need you to come downstairs.”

His voice was so low, and despite the confusion you felt as you gazed into his eyes, you allowed him to lead you out of bed. You surmised that Steve went back downstairs because he was nowhere to be found when you followed Peter into the hallway.

Every step of yours felt heavy, and you didn’t miss the tight hold Peter had on your hand as he gently pulled you downstairs. You had no inkling of where you were even going, but you were shocked to realize that he was leading you towards the den. However, the biggest shock of all was the sight that met you.

You faltered as your eyes roamed over every single one of the husbands.

“Peter…”

Your voice was barely a whisper, but you knew he heard you by the feel of his hand gently squeezing yours.

You didn’t understand what was going on, and as you looked around, you almost wished you hadn’t. None of them looked happy, and while that in itself wasn’t alarming, it was the degree of unhappiness that unsettled you. Your gaze briefly met Bucky’s, and you suspected that if looks could kill, your throat would have slit on sight.

You took a step behind Peter.

“I always knew that your methods would backfire one day, Peter.”

Your eyes landed on Steve as he said this, and you watched the blond pour himself a drink. Thor was sitting in the seat closest to him, and you felt grateful for that because you were sure that the sight of an angry and imposing Thor towering over you would have made you faint.

You glanced at Peter, face almost hurting now from how much you were frowning.

“Peter, what’s going on?” you whispered.

“Yeah, Peter,” Steve mockingly agreed. “What’s going on?”

You looked between them, that feeling a full-fledged impairment, now as you almost felt like you couldn’t move.

“Ask her, Peter.”

Steve’s voice had lowered, his tone cold when his blue gaze finally met yours.

“Ask her, right now.”

You wanted to run for some reason, get far away from here…but you couldn’t. Peter seemed to be hesitating about whatever he was supposed to be asking you, and Bucky beat him to it.

“Did you help Nat escape?”

The question shocked you both for how unexpected it was and also because it wasn’t true. You felt your lips part as you looked at Bucky, withering under his venomous stare.

“What?” you gasped. “N-No!”

You looked around, a painful feeling washing over you as you realized what all of this was about.

“No, I-.”

“I don’t believe you,” you hadn’t even been able to get the words out, interrupted by Bucky who charged towards you. “I don’t fucking believe you.”

You stumbled back per courtesy of Peter who forced you back with a hand on your waist. Your hand gripped his arm in fear as you looked around him, watching with wide eyes as he faced Bucky. The other man looked at you like he could kill you without thinking twice about it, and you supposed that he could. He’d done it to Wanda, after all.

You hadn’t realized that you’d started crying, your cheeks cold all of a sudden.

“Bucky.”

“She helped her, Peter. I know she did!” Bucky spat, pointing at you as you shook your head.

“No! I didn’t-! Peter,” you pleaded, looking at him, now. “I didn’t!”

Your voice was cracking, and you hoped they didn’t take that for an admission of guilt or something. You hadn’t helped Nat escape, but you knew that to them, the truth might as well be the same, and you couldn’t stop crying.

“Remind us again, Peter… Repeat to us the events of that night for you,” Steve finally spoke up again, his voice eerily calm as he looked at you both.

His words had you blinking, and you looked to Peter in confusion. He looked conflicted, almost miserable, in fact, and you watched him pull his lip between his teeth.

“What was it you said? You woke up…?”

You looked at Steve, hating him and his mocking tone. You hated the way he talked like he already knew the answers he was looking for, like he was the smartest person in the room.

“…because Y/N wasn’t beside me,” he finally answered.

Steve nodded, slowly and with a hum.

“…and why not? Where was she?”

Your heart dropped to the very bottom of your stomach, and the room swayed for half a second as you tightened your hand on Peter’s arm. You didn’t stare at any of them, your eyes falling to the floor as you fought to keep your food down. You felt numb and heavy all at once, and for the first time in a long time, you genuinely wanted to die.

“Where was she, Peter?” Steve asked again, not so nice this time.

Peter didn’t respond right away, and you wrapped your arm around him, forehead falling to his frame as you held in a sob.

“She was by the window,” he finally breathed, sounding defeated. “Looking out of it.”

You heard Clint mumble something, and although you couldn’t make it out, you knew it wasn’t nice.

Only another moment passed before Peter was harshly pushing you back, but it wasn’t fast enough. Bucky’s hand had gripped the sleeve of your nightgown, both ripping the fabric and scratching your skin in the process. You screamed in both shock and pain, hurrying back until you met the wall, clutching your arm as Peter harshly shoved the older man away.

“She didn’t do it!”

“Move, Peter,” Bucky hissed. “Anyone with half a brain can see that she helped her! She-.”

Bucky cut himself off, and when you looked around Peter, the other man’s chest was heaving as he stared you down.

“Anything could’ve happened to Nat,” he forced out. “Anything, and she-!”

“I didn’t help her!”

“Shut up,” he snarled at you, so harsh and violent that more tears fell.

You pressed your hands to your mouth, trying and failing to hold your sobs in.

“I don’t want to hear another word out of her mouth unless it’s the truth,” he bit out.

“Do not talk to her like that,” Peter told him, taking a step towards him. “Do you hear me?”

He continued before Bucky could say anything else.

“You’re angry, I get it, but if you think I’m going to stand here and let you talk to her like that, you’ve taken one too many blows to the head,” Peter sneered.

They stared at one another for what felt like too long, just staring each other down, and you felt yourself sliding to the floor. The room was blurry from your tears, and it felt so hard to breathe. You brought your knees up to your chest, squeezing your eyes shut as more tears fell.

“Let me talk to her,” you heard Peter whisper, the same thing you’d heard him yell earlier.

You couldn’t stop crying no matter how hard you tried, and you let your head fall into your hands. The room was quiet save from the sound of you, and it wasn’t long before you felt Peter’s hands reach for your own.

“Peter,” you sobbed.

“Look at me. Hey…look at me,” he softly said. “Please…”

You reluctantly peeled your eyes open, and you glanced up when Peter gripped your chin.

“Don’t look at them,” he told you, voice gentle. “Look right at me.”

His voice was soothing, and you reached up to grip his wrist as you met his dark gaze. His eyes were soft, but there was something swirling there that made you nervous. An underlying skepticism lie there, and you pressed your lips together.

“There’s my pretty girl,” he quietly praised, sadly smiling at you.

He wiped your face, tongue darting between his lips. He stared at you, running his eyes over your face, and drinking you in for a moment.

“Did you help Nat escape?”

“No,” you answered without hesitation. “I didn’t. I… I could never.”

…and it was true.

You weren’t like Nat. You were weak, passive at best, and you could never have the courage to actively help anyone in this house escape. At least, you didn’t think so. The best anyone would get out of you was…well…simply looking the other way, and that was why as Peter took a deep breath, hinting that he was not done, you feared what would come out of his mouth. You dreaded his next words…

…and Peter looked like he dreaded them too.

He looked like he dreaded them more than the question that had just left his lips, and maybe it was because he knew the truth in this moment.

“…but you saw her leave.”

He held your gaze, and you held his. You didn’t move…didn’t speak, but you didn’t need to. Your silence was confirmation enough, and you flinched when you heard Bucky break something. It sounded like a glass.

“Peter…”

“You saw her leave…and you didn’t say anything,” he sounded heartbroken, and you soon realized why. “You lied to me.”

Your head lowered, and you wiped your face, but more tears just replaced those. You reached for him, gripping his shirt, trying to keep him close.

“Peter… Peter, I’m sorry,” you choked out, trying to pull him closer.

“That’s why…” he trailed off, sighing to himself as his eyes fell closed.

He chuckled to himself, but it lacked humor.

“That’s why,” he said to himself, his own head lowering so that his forehead touched yours.

You felt him wipe your face, a shaky sigh leaving him.

“I’ll never stop loving you,” he murmured. “…but I’m not who you should be apologizing to.”

You looked at him with wide eyes when he pulled away, and you released another sob. Just the thought of what was waiting for you had you breathing short, and you pressed your hand to your chest. Peter still had one of your hands, and you could feel his chin on top of your head.

“Anything could have happened to her,” he told you. “Nat could’ve been seriously hurt…she could’ve died.”

“We told you,” you heard Bucky harshly tell him. “We told you you were being too soft on her.”

“Bucky…”

Peter’s voice reeked of exasperation as he held you to him, letting you cry into his chest. You couldn’t stop shaking, and your head was pounding so much from your tears. What would happen to you now? Would you be going down into the basement? For how long? Or…

Or was Steve going to make Peter tie you to a tree?

“What? You’re going to look at us and tell us we’re wrong, now? Nat escaped!”

You flinched as Bucky raised his voice, sounding much closer, too close.

“…and she just let it happen,” he snarled. “If she wasn’t yours…if she was just some random woman on the street, I’d wring her neck.”

That was enough to have Peter pulling away from you, presumably confronting Bucky, but you couldn’t even care, couldn’t even focus on that. You couldn’t stop crying no matter how hard you tried. Every time you did, you almost choked, and between that and trying to suck in air…

“…and why would I be like you…? Or Steve? You don’t think you broke her enough when you killed her friends? What did you expect, for her to behave rationally all this time?”

You heard Bucky chuckle, and for some reason, you hated the sound of it. It was cold, nasty, and it sounded like something that preceded trouble.

“Get off your high horse, Peter,” Bucky threw at him. “You’ve done just as much damage to her as we have…”

Bucky’s next words made your breath stop entirely.

“…it wasn’t us who killed…what was her name? Was it Michelle? Was that the one you shot?”

You felt…paralyzed, and the distinct lack of sobs filling the room was evident. Your hands had been on your forehead, and you could only stare at the floor as you felt like nothing was below your feet, falling without an end in sight. A sharp pain in your head forced you to squeeze your eyes shut, and you shook your head.

No.

No…no…

That wasn’t right.

It couldn’t be.

Sam…Sam killed her. Hadn’t he?

Your chest was hurting so bad that you actually clutched it, gasping for breath, and your other hand reached for the wall, trying and failing to steady yourself. You felt like you were in pain, and when you tried to stand up, you only fell back down. You felt familiar hands on your arms, and when you looked up, you flinched.

Peter frowned.

“Y/N…”

“What…?” you breathed.

That couldn’t be true…and yet…you couldn’t recall actually seeing Sam shoot Michelle. You…you had just assumed… But Peter was the first one to get to you that day, but he’d also spoke as if it was Sam…but Peter… As you looked into his brown eyes, the brown eyes that you had grown to look forward to looking into, you realized that Peter was a liar…and a murderer.

…and you wanted to be sick.

His hands were on your face, and you tried to bat them away.

“No, no, no,” you repeatedly mumbled, shaking your head. “No!”

You shoved at him, but Peter wouldn’t budge, determined to get you to calm down. Too preoccupied with wanting to be as far away from him as possible, you were none the wiser to Steve’s approach.

“It’s a good thing you brought Nat back up to prepare for Bruce’s visit,” the blond said, shoving past Peter and roughly grabbing you. “…because now she’ll have the whole basement to herself.”

The scream that you let out hurt your throat, and despite your anger and disgust with him, you still reached for Peter as Steve dragged you away. Your hand just barely grazed his as your feet lifted from the ground, and you reached out, trying to grab onto anything you could. You could hear Peter following behind Steve, begging and pleading with him on your behalf.

You could hear something occasionally being knocked over by you, the sound of breaking glass reaching your ears here and there. When Steve finally did reach the basement door, you pressed your feet to it, trying in vain to prevent this from happening. You hadn’t been in the basement since your first few days here, and it was not somewhere you wanted to be again. Not now…not after…

However, enthusiastic to see you suffer for letting his wife get away, Bucky unlocked and opened the door for Steve, the darkness threatening to swallow you whole. When Steve’s arm pressed into the cut Bucky had made on your arm, you winced.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time…”

…and with those last words, Steve tossed you inside. Your hands slid over the steps as you fell, feet tangling together, and you reached out to grab the rail, but it only slowed your descent. It did nothing to stop it, landing at the bottom of the stairs in a heap just as the door was slammed shut. You were surrounded by darkness, but it was the least of your worries, a choked wail escaping you at the thought of Peter.

You pressed your face into the floor as you cried, lacking the strength and will to move.

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