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areyouwell · 3 months ago

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Autophobia

Noun: An extreme and irrational fear of being alone. Children or adults with this condition often suffer from severe panic attacks at the thought of being completely alone.

Ch.5.5

Ch.5, Ch.4, Ch.3, Ch.2, Ch.1 <--

Paring: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of a depressive spiral, atypical methods of self-harm, severe mental breakdown

Word Count: 6.8k

A/N: just a little follow-up chapter cuz if i put this all in one it would have been almost 20k words. let's not talk about how my mini-chapters are over 6k words i'm fluent in yappanese let me monologue

Taglist: @badbishsblog @reidsworld @idioticstar @toogaytofunctiondangit @ghostyv @wolviesgirl @over-bi-the-wayside @justice4billiam @holyhumorliteraturelight @cxptainbuck

The last twenty-four hours had been a complete blur. Numbly going through the motions of packing a rucksack, letting your body take you to where you needed to go whilst your mind was stuck in a loop. Eighty years. Eighty years. That’s how long you were kept from the world. That’s how long you’d been fed lies and bullshit. Eighty fucking years. And everything about your life, about who you are, what you’d been through, was in that venomous folder you couldn’t bring yourself to open. Nobody looked at you the same way. Ororo could barely stand to be in your presence, having to leave every time you entered the room. Charles kept looking at you with fucking sympathy and you wanted to knock his bald head clean off his shoulders. Scott kept apologising every time he passed you in the hallway, saying he didn’t know and would have done things differently if he had. Kurt and Hank barely knew what the fuck was going on and you hadn’t seen Jean since before the raid.

And then there was Logan. Who kept almost tiptoeing around you, asking if you were alright every five fucking seconds, asking if you needed anything or if you wanted him to do something. Honestly, you wanted him to shut the fuck up. You wanted them all to shut the fuck up. You hadn’t processed anything. Hadn’t been allowed to process anything. After you woke up, you’d explained to those in the med-bay what Dr.Kremlin –or whatever his stupid fucking name was– had told you. Charles filled in the gaps, and you were given all of thirty seconds before you were taken upstairs to pack a bag and to meet Logan in the garage. You felt nothing as you swung your rucksack in the backseat of the beaten pickup truck, clambering into the passenger’s side and falling into dead silence. You didn’t even get to say goodbye. Not to Jubilee, not to little Artie. Not even to Kitty.

At least your trip away made more sense now. Charles wanted you out of the mansion so he could monitor those neurotransmitters from the supposed environmental research facility without you catching wind of anything. Not that you’d know anyway, but maybe he thought it was safer if you didn’t know. What you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you, right?

How ironic did that feel?

You’d been driving for around four hours in complete silence, your head resting against the slightly smudged window, eyes trained on the outside world as it blurred past, a kaleidoscope of greens, browns and greys. Feet perched on your seat, your arms tucked atop your knees as you subconsciously made yourself as small as possible. You didn’t know how long left you had of the drive, and honestly, you didn’t care. He could keep driving forever and it wouldn’t matter to you.

“Y’alright?” Logan broke the long silence a little tentatively, his voice hushed as if not to disturb you. You found it vaguely amusing. He could shout at the top of his lungs and it wouldn’t disturb you. Not at the moment. You didn’t care. Didn’t even care to respond. It was a stupid fucking question anyway. You’d felt like this only once before. At least, only one time you could remember, if that was even real. And it was the days that followed after Jade’s death. A bus could have hit you and you wouldn’t have been able to find it in yourself to care.

Logan sighed through his nose. Stealing a glance at your huddled form, staring unblinking out the window, he went to rest his hand on your shoulder but thought better of it as you tensed. Seeing you like this, so utterly devoid of emotion, was almost jarring. He was used to seeing your smile and hearing your laugh. Fuck, even when you lost control and tried to kill him was better than this. At least he could smell the fear on you. But he couldn’t smell anything right now. Just the oil of the engine and dust of the seats. You’d faded. Not just your personality or your mental state, but everything about you had faded. Suppressed. This was nothing like when you lost control. He had an idea of how to bring you back then. But this?

He was way out of his depth.

“Talk to me,” he urged quietly, and he thought his pleas had fallen on deaf ears until you finally raised your head, turning to look at him blankly.

“About what?” Though your voice was completely flat, he was still glad to hear it. If he could get a response out of you, then perhaps he could bring you back after all. If he could just get you to talk to him…

“Anythin’. How you’re feelin’. What you’re thinkin’. We have a long ways to go yet.”

Your shrug wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. “So? You’ve never had a problem with silence before.” It was all he was going to get out of you before you returned to leaning against the window, your vacant eyes falling to watch the grey skies beyond. Suffocating quiet consumed the truck once again, only the hum of the wheels against the tarmac acted as a symphony for your thoughts. “Ya know what’s fucked?”

Logan almost jumped as you talked again, not expecting you to continue the conversation. Though he couldn’t say he wasn’t glad. “I don’t even know what’s real. If it was all a simulation… I don’t even know if this is real. If you’re real. Or just another sick twisted plot produced to make me believe I’m living a life that I’m not.” It was a thought that had plagued your mind since the raid. If everything in your past had been a lie, how did you know any of this wasn’t just more bullshit spun to widen the web?

Stretching out his hand, this time he didn’t hesitate to pry your own from your folded arms, clasping your knuckles in his palm. “‘M real, sweetheart. This is real. We’re real.” He held his breath, waiting for you to pull away from his touch, but you didn’t. Instead, you raised your head from the window again, offering him a small smile that didn’t even come close to reaching your eyes. He squeezed your hand and found a kernel of hope kindle in his heart as you weakly squeezed back. You’d be okay. He’d make certain of it. It didn’t matter how long it took, or what he’d have to do. He wouldn’t stop until you were okay. “Get some rest, we’ll be on the road for a while.” He pulled your hand up to his face, pressing a light kiss against the front of your wrist where the scars from your past fed into the present, before interlacing his fingers with yours.

“Logan?” your voice was barely audible, timid in a way that had him fighting the urge to pull over, gather you in his arms and hold you until all of this blew over and you could be safe again.

“Mmm?” was all he could say instead, always ready to listen.

“You–” you paused, finding the words heavy in your throat and stuck on your tongue. You hated feeling like this. Feeling the need to be reassured. Hated coming across as insecure or needy, but just this once, you needed to know. “You’re not gonna leave, right?”

Wordlessly, Logan flattened your hand over the centre of his chest, and you felt his heartbeat beneath your fingers. “Not whilst this is still beating.”

It was the first emotion you’d felt since waking up, and you couldn’t stop a silent tear slide down your cheek. His devotion to you incarnate, beating beneath your palm. You knew the weight of his words, and felt their meaning in your soul. He wasn’t going to leave you. Not now. Not ever. And it was one of your fears put to rest, knowing that he wasn’t one for lying.

“Okay.” You responded quietly, your free arm shifting to hug your knees whilst he returned your other, not letting go of your hand. And you found you didn’t want him to. You were afraid earlier that any kind of touch would send you into a spiral, but now he held your hand in yours, you never wanted him to let go.

“Sleep, firefly. I’ll wake you when we get there.” He hushed, and you nodded, curling up against the humming door, letting the soft vibrations of the truck lull you to sleep.

True to his word, a slight shake to your shoulder had you jolting awake, eyes flying open, heart racing as you tried your best to gauge your surroundings as quickly as you could.

“‘S okay,” Logan soothed, and your breathing calmed slightly, whatever dreams had been haunting your unconscious mind faded into nothing with each swipe of his thumb against your shoulder. “We’re here.”

Your eyes scanned the woods beyond the windscreen as he opened his door, the hinges squeaking with age. It was dark out, meaning you’d been on the road for at least eight hours and four of those you’d been asleep for. There was the distinct smell of cigarette smoke clinging to the upholstery of the seats, and you looked down at the source, a burnt-out cigar lay discarded in the central unit, brown paper blackened at the roach.

The door to your right opened and Logan offered you his hand. It wasn’t that you needed help, and you really fucking hoped he knew that, but you took it simply as an excuse to touch him as you stepped out of the truck, the smell of pine needles hitting you almost instantly as your feet touched soft earth. Wherever he’d taken you, this was certainly off-grid. It was so peaceful here. To the point where you’d surpassed tranquillity and landed right back into unease. It was too peaceful here.

“Where are we?” You asked as Logan retrieved both rucksacks from the back seat, mindful not to slam the door shut before locking up the truck. Swinging both backs across each of his shoulders, he took your hand again, leading you around the hood of the truck and you finally saw your new halls of residence.

A sizeable pinewood log cabin. Dark on the inside, but it looked homely enough. A small pair of antlers adorned the front door, piles of firewood stacked neatly beneath little shelters around to the left. You could imagine this as a forest getaway for some rich family who owned several yachts and a sports car. But when Logan produced a thick iron key from his pocket, you blinked. “Is this yours?”

It was the most emotion he’d heard from you since he’d started driving eight hours ago, your words delicately laced with surprise. He smiled back over his shoulder. “Belonged to an old friend, left it to me when he passed.” He wasn’t ready to launch into that whole story, not yet. You had enough to deal with without him banging on about his own past. Sliding the key into the lock, he turned it anti-clockwise until the iron gave way, giving the door a gentle shove as it swung open. It definitely needed doing up, but he was happy to do that himself. “Home sweet home,” he murmured, vaguely hoping all the electrics still worked as he flicked the light switch.

The cabin was illuminated in a soft orange glow, the faux candles on the walls giving the same ambience as torch flame. The interior was cosier than you could possibly have imagined. A comfy-looking, though slightly faded brown sofa faced a broad hearth with yet another stack of kindling piled next to it, a red and green tartan print blanket draped over the back of the sofa. Logan shrugged off his jacket, hanging it on one of the multiple cast iron coat pegs lining the wall by the door, setting the rucksacks down next to the dark wood dining table. There were no arches or doorways that you could see, an open floor plan joining the small, rural kitchen area to the lounge.

A set of stairs led up to another floor behind the hearth, various antlers and horns of different woodland animals hung on almost every available wall, as well as a TV, which you weren’t expecting. Every cupboard looked identical, even the fridge, learning which one it was due to Logan immediately grabbing out two bottles of larger for you both.

You smiled as you inhaled, and recognised the distinctive amalgamation of smells. It was him. Pure, unfiltered Logan.

Crossing to one of the windows, you ran your fingers over the corrugated radiator, noticing the various blankets and pillows set up on the windowsill looking out into the dark green woodland beyond, brown woollen tassels hanging a little too close to the heater, to the point where you tucked them in. Staring out into the forest, you held your arm tightly until Logan’s arm wrapped around your shoulder, tucking you into his side and handing you the second bottle of golden liquid.

“What’ya think?” He asked, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, and you moved your hand from your arm to hold his wrist against your shoulder.

“It’s very you.” You offered as much mischief as you could muster, which wasn’t much considering your circumstances, and unfortunately resulted in a confused raise of his brow.

“That’s a good thing, right?”

You huffed an exhausted chuckle, pressing your head into the space between his shoulder and chest. “Yeah. It’s a good thing.” You breathed, before raising the bottle to your lips and taking a long sip of the icy cold beverage. He held you in silence, offering to be whatever you needed him to be, and for right now, you just needed him close to you. You didn’t know what had happened in the past, and you didn’t know what was going to happen. You couldn’t hide forever, and there would come a day where you would have to face the contents of that folder. But it was enough for now just knowing you weren’t alone, and when that time came, you wouldn’t be alone.

“There’s a bathroom down the hall or you can use the ensuite upstairs if you wanna freshen up. I can get started on makin’ dinner, should have some preservatives lyin’ around somewhere.” He looked towards the cupboards and you wished you had the energy or emotional bank to tease him properly about his cooking. But you didn’t need to, he looked back at your face of slight mock disbelief, a small, almost bashful smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “I’ve picked up a few things over the last couple months.”

He didn’t resist as you weakly shoved at him, his smile widening as you showed small signs of your old self before your eyes took on that faraway look again and you retreated back into your protective shell. He knew it was a defence mechanism, he’d seen it in the kids now and then. When things got overwhelming or something went wrong, they’d shut themselves away behind emotional walls, appearing almost hollow before he’d sit them down and pry their emotions out one thread at a time. It nearly always resulted in them sobbing their eyes out, but it was a tried and true method.

One he was planning on using on you when he felt the time was right. You couldn’t shut yourself away forever. He wouldn’t let you, for one. There was no future where your past wins over and you remain this way. Even if it resulted in you drowning the cabin in shadow as you lost control, he didn’t care. In this state, any emotion is a good emotion.

Setting down your bottle, you clung to his wrist for as long as you could before the increasing distance forced you to let go to retrieve your rucksack. You’d packed essentials, being under a strict time limit. A few spare pairs of clothes, toothbrush and toothpaste, cleanser, moisturiser, a Swiss army knife and as much underwear as you could stuff in the little space that remained at the top. You swing the bag over your shoulder, heading to the stairs before Logan caught your forearm.

“Shout if you need anything. I’ll be right here, ‘kay?” He looked so sincere, so serious it almost broke you. The first time he’d said those words to you, you’d laughed them off, teasing him for being overprotective. You couldn’t find the energy to do the same now, thinking back to how things had changed so much in the last day or so. Well, since you returned, really. You simply nodded in response, attempting to offer him a smile that could ease his worries but clearly failing miserably as his brows pinched in concern.

You had nothing left to give him, your emotional reservoir completely drained. So you simply turned away to head up the stairs, guilt gnawing at your chest. You didn’t want him to worry about you. Fuck, you hated it when he worried about you. Even about mundane things, you’d wave off his concerns. But you knew this was an issue that couldn’t be solved by telling him to ‘take his concerns elsewhere’ because where else would he go? You’d pried him away from his home, from his friends and teammates because he had some twisted obligation towards you. It was selfish of you to ask if he was going to leave. You’d all but trapped him into staying by asking that very question. He was too good of a man to say no, he was going to dump you off and dip.

You hated it. Hated how much he was giving up for you. You didn’t deserve any of this, and he certainly deserved so much more. A wall erupted in your mind, locking your guilt away with everything else you were supposed to be feeling at the moment, your heart once again emptying of the hurt it had felt, leaving you with blissful numbness.

Cresting the top of the stairs, you were faced with one of the homeliest scenes in the house. A large four-poster bed piled high with various pillows, cushions and blankets stood against the back wall, yet another window seat snuggled against the window straight ahead of you, overlooking the opposite side of the forest. Two hunting rifles, one barrel crossed over the other, hung triumphantly above the headboard, yet another set of antlers positioned between the two guns, larger than the other sets you’d seen yet. You couldn’t imagine the choice of decor was Logan’s idea, at least you vaguely hoped it wasn’t, but it made you wonder who this place originally belonged to.

Your shoulder went limp as you carelessly dropped your bag to the floor at the foot of the bed, turning to your left to see the door to the bathroom slightly ajar. Crossing over the thick rug on the floor, you pulled the door open, eyes widening in slight surprise. It was a lot bigger than you’d expected for an ensuite. A large bathtub took up most of the space, the shower standing right next to it. You were glad they weren’t one and the same, for some reason you had a vendetta against bathtubs that doubled up as a shower. Maybe the reason lay in that fucking folder, who knows?

Stripping yourself of your sweaty clothes, you cracked the window open, allowing fresh air to circulate around the room before fiddling with the taps and switches of the electric shower. You wondered how often Logan visited, considering how well kept the place was, and how well everything still worked. Steam rolled from the shower into the rest of the bathroom as you stepped beneath the stream, your skin tingling with the heat. It was a pleasant sensation, to feel something other than all-consuming guilt, sinking despondency or nothing at all. You cranked up the dial on the temperature, hissing slightly as the water increased from warm to scalding, staining your skin red raw.

The feeling was addictive, turning ever so often to get that kick of pain on whichever side of your body wasn’t beneath the volcanic stream, inhaling as the pain drowned every other sensation in your chest and head. There was no room for anything else other than the burning against your flesh. You only wished you could turn the dial further, but it seemed you’d reached the maximum.

It could have been anywhere between a few minutes and twenty years before Logan came up to check on you, you’d lost complete track of time. There was a soft knock at the door, a vague call of your name you barely heard and partially ignored in favour of getting lost in the heat. At what point you dropped to the floor, knees hugged against your chest, you couldn’t recall, eyes too focused on the pattern of the droplets against the tiled floor to look up as he entered.

“Christ it’s like a sauna in here, can’t fuckin’ see anyth–” He stopped instantly as he saw you huddled on the floor in the same position you’d spent a good portion of the journey in. But that wasn’t what scared him. It was the angry red of your skin that had alarm bells ringing loudly in his head. He rolled up the sleeve of his flannel shirt, preparing to plunge his hand through the cascading fall to switch the power off. But the moment his skin came in contact with the water, he hissed loudly. “Fuck! ‘S fuckin’ scalding sweetheart.” You didn’t move. Didn’t even look as if you’d noticed him. Panic surged in his veins, gritting his teeth tightly as he endured the searing burn of the lava stream to twist the handle for power, taking a breath as the waterfall eased from a deluge to mere droplets.

Only then did you look up, as if snapped from a daze. He crouched before you as you blinked at him, remembering where you were and what you were doing. However, what you should say in this moment never came to you, only able to stare straight ahead at him, his pinched brows and wide-eyed concern only fuelling the self-loathing in your gut. You hated the way he touched you so gently as if you deserved to be touched like that. You despised the way he draped a large, fluffy towel around your shoulders as if you’d done anything to warrant such comforts.

And you couldn’t stand the way he hooked his arms beneath your knees and carried you from the bathroom, all without a single word. And you loathed how your body reacted, leaning into his touches like you had any right to comfort. You’d all but dragged him away from the life he’d built for himself. Dragged him away from people like Marie and Bobby. Fuck, you couldn’t even think about them right now. You’d stolen one of Marie’s best friends from her, how could you ever go back there now?

Would you ever go back there now? You hadn’t even thought about it. Most likely not. Why would they let you? You’d killed a team member, been sent away for two years, lost control of your mutation, tried to kill not only another team member but the man you love, and have been lying to everyone you’d ever met because the life you thought you’d lived never fucking existed and it turns out you were over eighty fucking years old. Scott was right.

He should have killed you years ago.

“Lemme grab some aloe gel…” you’d been so lost in your head you hadn’t even noticed Logan removing the towel from your shoulders to inspect the raging raw burns on your back and arms. You barked a harsh, joyless laugh.

“Why? What does it matter?” you asked savagely, and Logan turned from where he stood near the bathroom doorway, slowly looking at you in suspicious bewilderment. “I mean, I can just heal, so who cares? I’ll just disappear into shadow and come back good as new, so don’t bother.” You shrugged, feeling burning hatred bubble in your gut. “That is, if I come back out at all, of course. Because that threat still hangs over my head every fucking day.” The shadows writhed with your growing fury, only furthering your tirade of self-deprecation. “And hey, would ya look at that, my mutation only fucking works when I’m insanely pissed off. And I lose control completely when I’m terrified, my only fucking instinct being to survive. How fucked up is that?” You continued, laughing bitterly as you stood from the bed. “Probably some result of whatever the hell is recorded in that file. Eighty years, by the way. Eighty fucking years. Here I was, the fucking asshole who thought she was thirty-two. Imagine that?” Your fingers found your scalp, scratching desperately at the roots of your hair as if to claw your way into your own mind and pry out your memories. “And you just seem to be fucking fine with everything!”

Logan didn’t so much as flinch as you directed your inferno of rage toward him. Sure, his heart shattered with your every word, but not because they hurt him.

“I’ve lied to you. For the past couple of months, I’ve straight-up been lying to your face. About everything! I’ve dragged you away from your friends, from your family, all because I manipulated you into thinking you owed me fucking anything. All those bullshit sob stories are lies. None of them even happened. And ya know what? I can’t even say if that’s true or not because I don’t fucking know.” You gestured to your surroundings wildly, laughing manically as the shadows whipped out from the walls like vines. You always knew the day would come when you completely lost your mind.

“I killed the woman I loved because I couldn’t control myself. I tried my fucking damnest to kill you too, because it seems I just fucking bleed toxicity. And I don’t even know how twisted that makes you for still being here. For still caring. It’s fucking pathetic. I tried to fucking kill you, and all I can see is your ridiculous, unwavering sense of devotion. Do you know how fucked up that makes you? How little must your self-worth be that you’re still here? That is if this isn’t just another simulation created to test my mental durability because who fucking knows at this point? I sure as shit don’t. And ya know what’s worse? No matter what happens, I still have to read that fucking folder. Because we sure as hell can’t hide out here forever, and the only way I can even begin to understand anything is the one thing I can’t bring myself to do.

“So instead, instead I’ll just make everyone suffer along with me. Strength in numbers, right? I’ll just force you to isolate yourself away instead of getting the fuck on with it and reading that fucking file. Nah, I’d rather torture the people I care about, because that’s just what happens. That’s what always fucking happens. And I can’t seem to stop,” your hands returned to your hair as you slowed down, squeezing the sides of your head as if to silence your mind. “It never seems to stop. It’s all just so fucking loud. I just want it to stop… I just want everything to stop…” You sank to the floor, drawing your knees up to your chest, your back pressed against the end of the bed. “I’m so tired, Logan. I’m so fucking tired.” Your voice faded to a whisper as you screwed your eyes shut, your mind still a roaring tornado of anguish and heartbreak. You didn’t want to hurt him. Fuck, that was the last thing you wanted to do, but you did it in a desperate bid to keep him safe. Maybe, if you sank enough knives into his chest, he’d walk away. The shadows receded into their natural places as you withdrew back behind the walls inside your head.

Logan thought he’d seen vulnerability before, both in you and in others. But the way you looked now, naked, trembling on the floor, your head tucked behind your knees, hands clawing at your own hair…

Nothing could have prepared him for that.

He said nothing, silently crossing the floor to kneel next to you. Softly, he removed your nails from your hair, setting your arms limp by your side as he cupped either side of your jaw, raising your head to look at him. Tears flowed freely from your eyes as you desperately searched his face. What for, he didn’t know, but he let you look. He let you hunt in the corners of his brows, digging around the slope of his nose, finally returning to his eyes. What you found, or rather didn’t find, pulled a sob from your chest, and he tucked your face beneath his chin. Wrapping his arms around your naked body, he just held you as stuttered sob after stuttered sob wracked your body.

Grief was a funny old thing. Always lurking around the corner, rearing its bittersweet head when you least expected it. You cried. You cried for Jade. You cried for Rowan. You cried for the other members of NLMO. You cried for Kitty, and her guilt for hating you. You cried for Ororo, having been burdened with the knowledge not even you wanted to know about yourself.

You cried for Logan. Holy shit did you cry for Logan. You didn’t want this for him. Only the previous morning was he talking about being a normal couple and doing ‘normal couple things’, and now he was stuck in a relationship with a woman who didn’t even know who she was. Who didn’t know what parts of her were real and what parts were fabricated? Your voice scratched your throat raw, every breath like rusty nails in your lungs as you sobbed harder than you ever remember in your life, both real and fake.

And he held you through all of it, gently whispering sweet nothings against your damp, tangled hair, soothing soft caresses against your bare skin with his calloused hands, fingertips grazing every scar he could reach, from the healed burn on your calf to the serrated needle in your neck. His hatred for the Kreva’s only grew with each newly discovered scar on your body, even as your full-bodied cries quietened to mere hiccups of despair.

Tentatively he drew your head away from his damp neck, using his thumb to wipe away the salty lines carved down one side of your face, and using his little finger for the other. “C’mon firefly, let’s get you changed. Gotta do somethin’ ‘bout these burns too…”

You shook your head with teary incredulity. “I don’t understand… why are you still doing this? Why do you still care? After everything I've just said. After everything I’ve done… why?”

“Because I love you.”

Your mind fell completely silent as you stared up at him in utter, petrified shock. “What…?” you managed to whisper, to his slight knowing smile.

“I love you.”

You shook your head again, though this time you looked horrified. “You’re insane.”

Logan nodded as if he already knew this. Of course, he was insane. But not simply because he loved you. He was insane because if anything happened to you, nothing and nowhere would be safe from him. He would walk through hell itself to get you back, and make as many deals with as many devils as he needed to. What was insane was the lengths he would go through to protect you.

“Who am I, Logan? You read the folder, you’ve seen everything… how can you love what’s in there? Who am I?” You almost pleaded with him, and he caught the sides of your neck in his palms.

“‘M gonna need you to listen real close, okay? That folder doesn’t define you. You are who you are in spite of what’s in that folder. I didn’t read all of it… I– I don’t know if I can. But from the reports I did see, you’re still you. You were almost killed because you stepped between your brother and four bullets to the chest, and I’ll be fuckin’ damned if I said you wouldn’t do that with who you are now. What you endured is fuckin’ harrowing, I’ll be honest. There were very few happy moments from what I saw, and fuck, if you don’t you deserve to be happy, none of the rest of us do.

“I don’t know if I’d read that entire folder if you gave the rest of my life, which I’m thinkin’ is a real long time. But if that’s how long it takes for you to read it, I’ll gladly spend the rest of my days with you. I don’t give a shit where we are. At the school, in this cabin, hell, we could be squatting under a bridge for all I care. I’m tired of being too damn scared of saying I love you. Because I fuckin’ do. And you’re crazy if you think any of this changes a goddamn thing about how I feel.”

It was your turn to be rendered completely speechless. Somehow, in one fell swoop, he’d put the fears that hovered around your head concerning him to rest. The terror that he was going to leave you, the fear that you weren’t good enough, that you didn’t deserve him melted away as you peered into his hazel eyes shining with such conviction you wanted to sob into his arms all over again.

“You love me?” you asked a little diffidently, and Logan rolled his eyes with a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

“It wasn’t obvious? I love you. And before you ask; yes. This is real.” you blew out a breath as he answered your question before you’d even had a chance. How did he know you so well? His hands moved from either side of your neck to your waist, helping you back onto your feet. You continued staring at him in awestruck adoration, still unable to quite believe what he’d said. He loved you. You don’t know why it came as such a shock, he’d shown you almost every day since you danced in the kitchen. Probably before that, in the way, he’d helped redesign your room. In the care he’d taken to learn about your mutation and adapt your new living situation accordingly before he even met you. Before he even believed you existed.

You followed almost blindly as he led you back into the bathroom, opening the cabinet behind the mirror and retrieving what he went to get before you exploded in front of him. Turning you around, he swiped your hair to one side, and you winced slightly at the cooling balm touching your shoulders, his hands gently kneading at the stiff muscles. The aloe took almost instant effect, soothing the angry burns left behind by your shower.

He worked in comfortable silence, snapping the lid back of the bottle and placing it back on the shelf when he was done. His fingertips grazed up and down your slickened arm, before placing both hands back on your shoulders and guiding you back out the bathroom to sit atop the bed.

“I love you, too.”

Logan froze. Though it seemingly came out of nowhere, you’d said it like you’d wanted to say it for a long, long time. In the moment, he didn’t think he’d cared all that much that you hadn’t said it back to him, but hearing you say those words now, those words he’d been yearning to hear since he first set eyes on you and you teased him for something or other filled him with a warm sense of belonging.

You smiled and his heart stopped as your eyes shone along with it. How did he get so damn lucky?

Bending at the waist, he tilted your head up with a finger beneath your chin, his other hand braced against your cheek as he moulded his lips against your own, finding an instant, slow rhythm. And if he hadn’t known you were utterly exhausted, he’d have you there and then, gasping and whimpering on his cock. But he could tell by the way you kissed him back, you were shattered. Not that he was in any rush. From the looks of things, it seemed like the two of you would be hiding away for some time.

Pulling away a fraction, Logan reached for the clothes he’d pulled out for you earlier from his closet before he interrupted your shower. It wasn’t anything spectacular, just a pair of incredibly loose sweatpants and a faded t-shirt of his. He slipped the shirt over your head, biting back a smile as it all but hung off your shoulders, and you shot him a flat look.

“I have my own clothes, ya know?” You pretended you were reluctant, though showed no signs of hesitation when he opened the waistband of the sweatpants for you to step into, pulling the drawstring tight around your waist.

“I know.” Was all he responded, and you snorted a small laugh as he stepped back, almost to admire his work. You were positively drowning in fabric, the short sleeves of the t-shirt reaching your elbows, sweats hanging low off your hips. But it was comfy and smelt like him, so honestly it didn’t matter to you. “C’mon, I made soup.” He outstretched his hand toward you for you to take, which you did with a suspicious raise of your brow.

“You had fresh ingredients for soup?” You asked, following behind him as he led you back down the stairs, the crackling of the lit hearth filling you with a sense of cosy tranquillity you never expected to feel again, not after everything that had happened.

“A’ight so I found a couple cans of soup and heated 'em up, same difference.” As if being parted from you robbed him of breath, Logan brought you back into his arms, feeling his chest loosen when you didn’t resist the way he walked you over to the gas stove.

“I’m going to ignore that,” you instinctively took the wooden spoon from the rack of utensils to the right of the backsplash, stirring the bubbling pot and grimacing slightly as you felt the bottom of the pan. Definitely burnt. Though you couldn’t exactly blame that on him. He’d been a little preoccupied with making sure you didn’t plunge the cabin into suffocating shadow. “A gas stove in a wooden cabin is a bold choice.” You mentioned absently, turning the dial for the gas down and watching as the blue flame lessened beneath the iron pan. Logan set his chin atop your head, arms still circling your waist.

“Not my decision. Previous guy’s choice.” he offered as a means of explanation, and you shrugged in acceptance. Much like you thought with most of the decor in the cabin, whilst there were a few things you’d noticed that you were sure were his, the rest you couldn’t see being his interior design choices. Not that Logan had much interior design, even his room at the mansion was pretty barren.

Reaching above you, Logan pulled open one of the cupboards, keeping one of his arms still wrapped around your middle, and started rifling through the contents. There was a slight clatter of boxes before he pulled one of them out, setting it down on the counter. You eyed it curiously, a warm smile tugging at your lips as you read the italic cursive on the front of the box.

Honey and Chamomile tea. You dropped your head back against his chest, heart almost exploding when he left briefly to retrieve two mugs, one of them you knew like the back of his hand.

When the fuck had he found the time to grab your favourite mug? He stood next to you, gas clicking rhythmically as he went to light a second burner, the huff of ignition breaking you from your stare of wonder and watching as he placed the black kettle atop the flame. It was rudimentary, old school but you kind of liked it. It suited him.

Logan’s heart and eyes softened as he looked down at the top of your head resting against his bicep, not bothering to fight the urge to press a kiss to your hair.

“I love you.” You whispered, and the words struck him like a bolt of lightning, still completely unused to both saying and hearing them. He let the warmth in his chest wash over him, let the encompassing adoration flood his veins and fill his heart. He couldn’t be by your side in the past, couldn’t save you from the horrors you’d endured. But he was going to make damn sure he was there for your future, whether you’d stayed in the cabin or managed to return to the mansion, he’d ensure he was by your side for all of it.

Never again would you face these things alone.

“I love you, too.”

#wolverine x reader #logan x reader #logan howlett x reader #james logan howlett #logan howlett #x men logan #x men wolverine #x men x reader #logan howlett fanfiction #logan smut #the wolverine x reader #the wolverine #essa's works

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soobnny · 1 year ago

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labyrinth — lee minho.

trope. best friends to lovers. college au. slow burn. angst. fluff. a story on second loves.

synopsis. sometimes, the path towards healing involves not only mending your heart but trusting in the love of those who have been there all along, or alternatively, in which lee minho teaches you to love again

word count. 20k words

warnings. drinking, mentions of vomiting, curse words, intoxication, the aftermaths of heartbreak, not feeling good enough

note. hello it’s me again! have this semi self-indulgent lee know fic i wrote

one.

When Mark breaks your heart in the first weeks of summer, Minho doesn’t say “I told you so”. Instead, he becomes your gentle refuge, sitting still and letting you cry on his shoulder.

He’s careful to touch you, doesn’t want to shake you out of the pretense of composure you’ve built for yourself. Though, it only takes a brush of his hand before the inevitable scrunch of your face that follows into a sob. His hands pull your waist closer, running soothing circles down your back.

You bruise yourself for your naivety.

In the tapestry of first loves, it’s easy to be bound to the intoxicating notion that he will be all you’ll ever know. When you fall, you think it’ll last forever. The memory of him emerges from around you, slipping in like sand through your feet. Most of it passes quickly, but some moments sink on your skin, desperately pulling you down and forcing everything down your throat—–the sound of ocean waves bathing the seashore when he held your hand, barefoot and laughing, the birds singing from outside the window as you spend the morning in, the scent of coffee in the morning, the sound of laughter in grocery stores, and the feeling of rain dripping down your clothes as you run for the night train where you tell each other everything.

How are you supposed to forget pieces of him you’ve cemented in your heart?

Loss is too terrible to grasp at once, especially when unexpected. Especially when you had thought the world of him only to have your heart shattered.

Pain only stems from the comfort of memories. It snags on you, clinging onto you and reminding you that they will just be memories now. You will only remember him now, remember falling in love over and over again, remember your first kiss and every single one after. You will only remember how he looked at you, with so much love in his eyes, you thought you would last an eternity.

“I’m going to kill him.” Minho’s voice is soft despite the connotation behind his words. He has his arms firm around you, bringing one hand to pat your hair down.

“You don’t even know what he did.” You mumble, voice coming out shaky and incoherent from sobbing the past few hours. There’s snot running down your nose and staining his shirt, and your prickling tears still haven’t stopped. His favorite shirt is soaked, but he couldn’t be less bothered.

“He—,” Your best friend pauses, taking a deep breath in. It’s something he does when he tries to recompose himself. “He made you cry.” He breathes out, taking the back of your head and pushing it further into his chest. He doesn’t think he can bear the sight of your tear-stained eyes, doesn’t think he can handle the quiver in your lips.

“Maybe I just wasn’t good enough. If I was prettier–”

The words sound practiced in your lips, slipping far too easily that it breaks Minho’s heart to think it must’ve been something weighing in your mind for a while now. He shakes his head rather fervently, carefully peeling your head back from the crook of his neck so your eyes meet.

“I don’t want you to finish that sentence.” His thumb swipes at the tears falling from your eyes, and while Minho hadn’t had the time to switch on the living room lights when you had knocked on his door at close to midnight, you can still see anger swimming in his eyes. You know it isn’t directed to you, know that he’s trying his best to subdue his rage and not drive and crash into Mark’s house right now.

“He’s going to hell for even letting that thought run through that little head of yours. There’s already barely anything in there, and he dares plant something so painfully untrue?” You notice his lips are twitching in effort of a teasing smile.

Despite the unbearable pain, you can’t help but laugh at your best friend’s words, even though it comes out sounding more like a sob. “My head has a few things in there.” You manage to croak out, and Minho pockets the accomplishment of making you laugh to think about later.

“Of course, of course. Definitely not differential calculus, but there are a few things in there.” His eyes are soft when he speaks. “One of them is that you’re enough, and it’s that fucker’s loss for letting you go. Want to hear you say it.”

He follows along with you, accompanying you with every word. “I’m good enough.” He nods his head, urging you to continue speaking. “And?”

“And it’s that fucker’s loss for letting me go.” You almost cry when you say it.

“There you go.”

Minho pulls you back in his arms, wrapping you in his scent and the entirety of his comfort. He says nothing, only listens to your heavy inhale and exhale. You’ve never been here before, never felt this pain before so he lets you feel your emotions. It’s an ache that doesn’t need to be taught, but is inevitable to learn.

“Thank you, Min.” Your voice wavers, sucking in a deep breath. “I’m…” An apology sits on your tongue, but you know your best friend won’t let you. He’s picked you up multiple times before–failed tests, college admissions, family arguments, and never once has he let you apologize for crying. “Thank you.” You say through the clatter of your teeth.

He doesn’t say anything, only squeezes you in his arms. It’s two in the morning now, and Minho can hear your quiet snoring. It’s prominent, sitting louder than the few honks of cars outside. You must’ve barely gotten any rest these past few days.

Your face is still wet when he lays you down on his bed, pulling his covers over you and letting it fall just by your chin. Minho falls asleep on his small, run-down couch.

two.

The process of disentangling Mark from you is a lot harder than you thought it would be. The first time you cross off his favorite candy and brand of milk from your shopping list, you sobbed for two straight hours. At one point, when Minho was accompanying you, you had started crying in front of the sweets section and he’d had to whisk you away embarrassingly and calm you down in his car.

Since the break up three weeks ago, you’ve refrained from doing anything that remotely reminded you of him. For one, you’ve stopped wearing his favorite hoodie, the one tucked away at the back of your closet. You don’t know how to return it to him yet. It’d be too hard to face him when you can barely hold yourself together even by just the sight of it. You stopped viewing his Instagram stories, after making the same mistake a week ago. Minho has told you to block him, but it’s too big of a step to take right away.

Though, you think the most painful was seeing Juyeon on your way to class. You don’t know whether to greet him or not. He was Mark’s friend over yours, but you’d like to think you’d gotten along quite well to consider him a friend. Though, it seems too much of an overstep towards the boundaries created when Mark had called it quits. His friends will take his side on the breakup, and your friends will take yours. It’s no longer a shared “our” friends. It's just yours or his now.

The realization stings so badly that it physically hurts you, and what starts as stabs of pain evolves to a dull ache. You crave for the time to come where days without him would feel far, especially when you can’t sit still at this stupid restaurant without recalling your second date and how you’d spent everyday thinking forever of him.

“(Name)? You okay?” Felix’s voice is piercing, reverberating through your thoughts.

“Hm? Yeah, yeah, sorry.” You swallow, propping your elbows on the table and leaning forward to seem more present.

“You spaced out a little bit.” He laughs, taking a sip out of his service water. “Is it cause you miss Mark? I know you had one of your dates here.” His voice is teasing, and you shiver a little at the mention of your ex-boyfriend.

Minho shifts in his seat, scooting a little closer and ghosting a hand behind your chair. He’s looking at you now, unrecognizable expression on his face as he waits for your response. He hadn’t told any of your friends, kept his promise when you had asked him, but he doesn’t like the way you’re cornered into a response.

“Oh…” You blink, eyes scanning each person from the table before dropping down to your glass of water. “We— we broke up actually.” You swallow again, taking the glass but not quite bringing it up to your lips.

There’s a recollection of Mark sitting adjacent to you, his voice sodden and repeating. And you don’t like all the eyes frozen on you as you share the pathetic end of a relationship you thought would be everlasting.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Felix feels guilty, voice growing smaller and smaller with every word. You’re quick to reassure.

“It’s okay. It happens.” You shrug, even though it’s not okay. Even though it wasn’t supposed to happen to you. You were supposed to be an exception to fate's horrible hands.

Everyone’s eyes buzz, and you know they’re thinking of it. You bite your lip, eyes searching for Minho’s in desperation. For a barrier. For someone to break the pity dripping from everyone’s features. It makes you feel small.

Minho’s head peps up, smile pulling on his lips as he suddenly claps his hands. “Hyunjin-ah, do you remember the last time we were here?”

“Why are we suddenly having this conversation?” His friend groans in embarrassment, but rides on the conversation anyway.

Hyunjin pretends not to remember even though he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the shame of mispronouncing the names of the dishes while you, Minho, and Jisung were stifling in your laughter. You’d almost forgotten the way you laughed until your stomachs hurt when the waitress finally walked away after a cruel 15 minutes of asking Hyunjin to repeat himself.

“The one I ordered was pretty good though. I have a pretty good eye for food.” Jisung joins in on the conversation, heart clenching at the way you quietly retreat in your seat. He’s always had a soft spot for you.

“Yeah, sure, you have eyes, I guess.” Minho replies without hesitation, which has Jisung dropping his mouth and staring at the boy in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

Laughter falls in laughter as everyone stares between the two, who are bickering back and forth. You turn to them with a smile on your face, grateful to break away from the impending conversation about Mark. The attention is elsewhere now, and you feel like you can finally breathe properly.

“As if you didn’t order something horrendous too. It was a silly time.” Minho leans towards you with challenging eyes at your input in the conversation. It’s abrupt, the way he suddenly twists his body so he’s facing you, and so Minho-like.

“You had fun.” He points at you. “You had so much fun. You had fun.”

“Okay, okay, damn. You’re being really aggressive right now.” You laugh a little, falling back in your seat and pushing his pointing hand away.

“We enjoyed ourselves.” He says one more time as a matter-of-fact, just as the food arrives. The conversation takes a short pause as hunger hits, long arms reaching out to grab as much food as they can on their plates.

Jisung stares at the variety of dishes, mouth watering as he holds a critical stare–as if he’s about to make life-altering decisions with the food he chooses. There’s everything you could name, variants of chicken and beef and noodles and seafood all plastered on the table. You quietly take a few portions when it looks like no one’s going for the same serving spoon.

“Oh, oh, yes, try that (Name). I tried it a while back, and it’s so good.” He waves his spoon around, eyes lighting up at your choice and you laugh at the way everyone moves away from the table to avoid getting hit by the splattering sauce.

Jisung only stops holding you hostage when Chan moves to distract him.

By the time you fill up your plate, Minho is already digging into his food, chewing diligently with furrowed eyebrows. The steak he ordered for himself looks good, and a smirk forms when he senses your prying eyes. He plays dumb, like he always does, slicing the meat in an annoyingly slow pace before sticking his fork into it.

“Your order looks good.” Your smile is nothing but innocent as you stare at his fork without shame. He mirrors your grin, sly as he picks up his fork.

“I thought you said the food I ordered was horrendous.” He interrupts, lifting up the slice of meat and waving it around cartoonishly. He is so annoying with his rolled up sleeves and his hooded eyes.

“That was before. I’ve changed!”

“No.”

You pout, stuffing a piece of fish in your mouth at failing to coax Minho into sharing his food. All efforts against Minho always end in vain, but you’ve always held pride in the way he takes a second longer to reject you. You’re just about to twist some noodles in your chopsticks, terribly hunched over posture, when a fork is shoved in front of your face.

Minho doesn’t say a word as he waits for you to eat the slice of steak, free hand hovering just under your chin in case the food falls. Your eyes fall on his, horribly failing to hide the smile on your face as you lean forward to bite the meat off.

“Oh, it’s so good.” You huff, chewing carefully with widened eyes. It’s a close second to the steak Seungmin and Minho cooked for you on your birthday last year.

Though, it’s only taking the Number 1 spot because the criterion was solely based on who made it, and how they took time out of their day to cook one of your favorite meals for you. The taste of the steak in this restaurant wins by a landslide, but you don’t think they can replicate the love put into your birthday steak.

Minho makes that face exclusive to his friends when he wants to put up mock annoyance at being forced to do something out of his will, like sharing his food, yet everyone’s accustomed to his cold exterior.

“Have you ever—” Jisung starts after your table becomes a victim of silence, stuffing his mouth with a few chips. He doesn’t finish his thought, though, reaching out for Hyunjin’s glass of water after having finished his before the food was even served.

“What?” Changbin asks the question brewing on everyone’s throats.

“Nevermind. I’m gonna keep it to myself because you guys are gonna say it’s gross.”

The ongoing conversation falls deaf in your ears. You hate to admit you were too busy weighing your options on whether you should have shrimp or not. It takes you a feverishly long time to peel them, and everyone might as well have finished their meals before you can make it to five shrimps. But the sight makes your mouth water, and you’re stuck at a crossroad. Maybe Jisung was onto something when he had stared at the food earlier, as if it was the most important decision in his life.

“Woah, woah, woah. I peed on a tree recently if that makes you feel any better.” Jeongin says without a stutter in his sentence, and everyone pauses from their meals. “Now, what was that gross thing you wanted to talk about?” He nudges Jisung’s shoulder.

“....Have you ever wondered if there’s snot flavored chips?”

“Jisung!” Chan chastises as everyone else shares judging stares. Hyunjin is having a hard time holding his laughter, and Changbin almost spits his water out. Minho is too busy peeling his shrimps to give the conversation the time of day.

“We shouldn’t have allowed you to talk in the first place.” Seungmin grimaces.

You’re too immersed in still deciding whether you should eat shrimps or not to notice Minho transferring the seafood he had peeled on your plate. He doesn’t say anything when he reaches for your plate, doesn’t even look at you when you glance at him. Instead, he resumes eating and listens quietly to the ridiculous conversation from his friends.

“This is why I didn’t wanna say it!”

“Yeah, you definitely should’ve kept that to yourself.”

The breach of silence from Jisung doesn’t last long as the noise quiets down into chewing and Minho’s quiet yet persistent “eat more” when he sees small portions on your plate. He knows you haven’t been having the appetite to eat lately, but he still makes sure you’re at least intaking a healthy amount to sustain your body.

An hour and a half later, you find yourself in the passenger seat of Minho’s car as he drives you home. He lets you connect to the Bluetooth, lets you control the music despite preferring to drive in silence. Though, he’s ill-prepared for you to actually start singing.

“You are an expert at sorry and keeping lines blurry, never impressed by me acing your tests—”

Minho groans, briefly gazing in your direction before keeping his eyes on the road. A half second is enough to see you moping with your head leaned against his window.

“All the girls that you’ve run dry have tired lifeless eyes cause you burned them out.”

“When I gave you control over the music, I didn’t expect you to start playing Taylor Swift.” He shoots you another glance, one hand on the steering wheel and the other just behind your headrest. He’s giving you a judging look, as if he hadn’t blasted Adele when he had his first heartbreak years ago.

“Deal with it.” You stick your tongue out childishly before turning to your mini karaoke session. “Don't you think I was too young to be messed with? The girl in the dress, cried the whole way home—”

It takes four more songs from your Spotify playlist titled Taylor Swift but you’re heartbroken before Minho’s finally pulling up to the front of your dorm building. You know he’s so fucking done with you, with his eyes closed and head rolled back as he waits for you to finish sulking. He doesn’t kick you out of his car, though. He only crosses his arms with his lips pressed into a bored line until you’ve decided you’re done singing for the night.

You don’t think you can take the quiet. Without music blasting in your ears, you’re confronted by a suffocating silence. There is no relief when you see how the night sky looks so peaceful outside his car window because why can the night sky bask in calmness while you have to sit there in this excruciating hurt?

So, you stay there for another two songs. You are too fragile to be nudged right now, and Minho doesn’t think it’s an appropriate time to confront you about the band-aid you’ve stuck to temporarily keep your heart together.

three.

Time doesn’t stop for your grieving. Everyday, the same sun will mockingly look down at you, reminding you that days would go on without you. That despite the squeezing pain in your sternum, time will not stop for your hurt. People will go on about their days unknowing of your suffering.

Ironically, while time stops for no one, it does move excruciatingly slow. When you’re in love, time passes by you so quickly that you don’t know it’s the last time. You’re never given a warning. Endings are always so sudden that it makes no sense. When love unclasps its grip from you, days and nights drag on longer, stretching out the pain. There is nothing to do but rot over your break.

The past two months have felt like a year. It’s strange how one moment you could be in the middle of clinging onto your lover’s hand, and the next it all feels like a very long time ago, and none of it is ever coming back. How are you supposed to cope with the loss of someone you know too much about as life continues to progress around you?

You don’t understand how you’re supposed to endure this. There is nothing to do but to stare at your ceiling until you feel horrible about yourself.

You’re curled up on your bed like the day before, and the day before that, when the sound of your door opening jolts you awake. Though, Minho’s voice is quick to reassure that a stranger hadn’t broken into your dorm. You didn’t know he was back from his parent’s house. He had even invited you, a few days ago, telling you a change of scenery might do you good but you were pretty adamant on crying through your hurt in your dorm room alone.

“I’m walking into your bedroom. You better not be naked.” Your best friend announces before his familiar silhouette emerges from the dark of your make-do living room. He has his arms folded across his chest as he leans against your doorframe.

“What do you want?”

“You’re coming with me to do groceries.” He speaks with vindication, pacing inside your room in search of something for you to wear in your closet.

“I don’t want to.”

He throws a hoodie to your face, standing by the edge of your bed expectantly. You thrash around for a few seconds, mostly for dramatism, before stubbornly sitting up to wear the hoodie he had thrown at you. “What do I even get out of this? Just let me suffer in peace.”

“Vitamin D.” He’s still hovering. “Your bones are gonna break if you don’t see the sun, and we promised we’d race each other when we’re eighty.”

Your heart rises to your throat at the recollection of when you were seventeen and unaware of what the future would hold for the both of you. It had been some stupid agreement you’d come up with when you had snuck a bottle of soju into Minho’s parent’s house. Perhaps it was the excitement from drinking for the first time or the numbness from losing your grandparent just a few weeks ago, but the alcohol had made you cry. You couldn’t bear the thought of losing anyone else, not your parents, not your friends, not Minho. The introduction to loss was so overwhelming, and you hated how permanent it was. In an attempt to make you smile again, Minho had promised to buy you a house if you could outrace him when you’re both eighty and frail. Prideful and under the influence, you accepted.

“I’m getting that house.” You say with a lazy grit, unmoving from your spot. He laughs, shaking his head as he grabs your hands, dragging you out of your bed.

“I’m not gonna go easy on you even if you’re old and wrinkly. Now, hurry up. I’ll cook for you if we get back before 4pm.”

“Seafood pasta and steak?” Your eyes light up for the first time today, and Minho lets out a long sigh at your request.

“Yeah, whatever.” He scrunches his face.

“And you’ll make it spicy?”

“Hurry up before I take it back and let you starve.” Minho takes his leave, turning his back around heading for your front door as you make it out of your bed in record time. You hate to admit that it’s the first time you’re leaving your house in days. And while you were planning to spend the rest of the break like this, Minho’s temporary accompaniment and the meal awaiting you is very much appreciated. Otherwise, you would’ve let your limited supply of cup noodles suffice and seafood pasta outweighs instant noodles by a mile.

The trip to the grocery store is short, but it’s enough to play a song and a half. When you arrive, Minho makes a beeline to the frozen section to restock on his pudding. You sigh, bowing your head faintly and following the bunny boy.

You have to admit, the lighting from the lined up refrigerators does well in making Minho look adorable with his pink nose and a smile that frames his two front teeth. It’s a shame he only ever directs this look to his cats and oddly enough, pudding.

He throws a few cups in his shopping cart before moving along to another aisle. You match your footsteps with his, walking next to him as he pushes the cart along. The grocery store is dangerous. There are ways to find Mark everywhere. So, you look anywhere but aisles–the ground, Minho’s back, his cart. Anything but his favorite candy and the brand of milk he uses.

“Want anything?” You look up at your best friend, and he looks at you with pointed eyes before gesturing towards the bags of junk food lining up.

“I thought you said this was unhealthy for me?” It’s with incredulousness that you look at him.

“Do you want me to take back my offer?”

Smiling sheepishly, you reach out to grab a few bags of popcorn and some honey butter chips before adding it to the pile you hadn’t even noticed. It seems he’s gone through half of his grocery list as you stared aimlessly at the ground.

He tells you to stay there and have a look around if you want anything else, and by the time he comes back, he has two cartons of milk in his arms that he places in his cart.

You skip past the dairy and sweets section as Minho finishes up.

“I’m gonna have a piece of chocolate as a treat. Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it.”

“You’re giving yourself a piece of chocolate?” Minho asks, pulling you back by your wrist to stop you from wandering around.

“Yeah, I think I earned it for leaving my dorm today. I think I earned it.”

“No, you can’t do that.”

“Why not?” You ask defensively. “I don’t understand.”

“Not good enough reasoning.”

“Oh, but I worked so hard today. I feel like I really earned it.”

Betrayal seeps through your features as you head towards the cashier, and your shoulders sag in defeat as you begrudgingly help place the contents of your cart on the counter so it’s easier for the cashier to scan. Though, as Minho runs to grab an ingredient he’d forgotten for the meal he had promised you, you notice a box of chocolates tucked under his other arm as he returns. The price of the chocolate is added to his total bill, and he doesn’t look at you as he puts it in the shopping bag with your chips and popcorn.

Minho drives you back to your dorm, and you busy yourself with putting his frozen goods in your refrigerator so it doesn’t melt while he cooks. He can take it out later when he goes back to his dorm.

You admit to being a little useless in the kitchen, so you sit still as Minho shuffles through the ingredients. He looks mesmerizing, save for the Hello Kitty apron too small for him that he had borrowed from you. It does add to his charm though as he moves around like he takes up the whole space of the kitchen. You can tell he’s used to this by the way he moves and the way he uses a knife. He looks focused, radiating. He always has this look on his face when he’s concentrated, plush mouth parted a little with furrowed eyebrows. You’d teased him about it once.

It’s habit the way he cooks, the way his hand shapes around the knife, the way he chops vegetables and measures in a heartbeat. And it’s pattern that he checks on you once in a while, eyes traveling from the boiling pasta towards where you’re seated on the kitchen counter. From time to time, he walks towards you with a wooden spoon, hand habitually falling under your chin so the sauce doesn’t drip.

Minho hums in satisfaction when you make a noise of approval, eyes widening as you nod your head with fervor. He turns away, licking his lips as he returns to finishing up his cooking. The sizzling of the pan, the bowl of the water, and your quiet humming is the sound of his heart right now, and he smiles to himself at the visible peace of being in the kitchen. He doesn’t have much time to cook these days.

It takes almost an hour for him to finish, but it doesn’t feel that way. Unlike the past two months, time moved at a hare’s pace just in this moment, with Minho presently on your heels as he sets the plates down on your dining table.

“Min, this is so good.” You note at how good the sauce tastes, and how the spice ties everything in. The way Minho prepares food is nothing like the ones you eat at restaurants. It’s better.

“I know. I’m the one who made it.” His response almost makes you scoff if not for the fact that he’s feeding you right now. So, you stay silent as you eat. Piece by piece, bite by bite, that you almost forget the last time you’ve sat on your dining table.

You prefer to eat your meals anywhere but—the couch, your bedroom, the kitchen floor. The last memory leaves a bitter recollection on your throat. Dinner used to almost always be with Mark. He’d bring takeout and you’d spend the rest of the night updating each other on your days. Then, those nights became sparse and you were left with Facetime calls until they were nothing at all. There’s still a space for his shoes by your doorway, and you have yet to throw away the spare toothbrush he kept in your bathroom. There’s fragments of him in your dorm, and you hate it.

The past hangs a heavy air around you that you don’t realize the gutted look of heartbreak on your face and the tears slipping past your eyes until you move to wipe them on instinct. You don’t know if it’s the chili oil on your fingertips or the sudden trip down memory lane, but you start to cry even more as you stuff your face with seafood pasta.

“Is it too spicy?” Minho gently leaves his spot adjacent to you, puts his utensils down in favor of standing by your side. “You okay?”

He laughs when a choked ‘yes’ leaves your lips before you’re stuffing even more pasta down, chewing animatedly as you try to blink the tears away. Though, when you make a move to rub your eyes, Minho is quick to grab them, pushing your arms away from your face.

“Be careful. It’s gonna sting even more.” Pulling down the sleeves of his hoodie, he carefully uses the fabric to wipe the tears off your cheeks. He’s gentle with his movements, consciously mirroring your gutted, frowning look in his usual teasing. It makes you laugh, dropping your hands to your sides before suddenly letting out another sob.

It’s a funny sight, seeing you laugh and cry at the same time and Minho can’t stop the periodic chuckles that escape his lips as you whine out for him to stop laughing at you. It only makes him laugh harder, patting down his sleeves on your eyes.

“Do you want to keep eating?” His tone is significantly softer when your tears finally subside. “Do you want to finish it later?”

“Keep eating.” You mumble.

“Keep eating? Okay.” Disappearing to the kitchen, he hands you the glass of water, and takes your hand in his to start wiping away the chili sauce from your fingers with a tissue. It’s only when you finish gulping down the water does he return to the seat across from you.

“You’re babying me.” You sniffle, staring down at your food before twirling some noodles into your fork.

“Because you’re a baby. Stop pouting.” His lips curve into a smirk. “Want some more steak?”

You grumble, and Minho rolls his eyes as he takes the steak he had sliced for himself and transfers it on your plate. “Come on, eat up. I didn’t waste my time cooking for you not to finish my food.”

“Thank you.” He brushes you off, though, it’s with a small smile on his face.

“Do you think you can stay here tonight?” You ask in small. Under normal circumstances, he would have called you clingy. It’s the answer you’re waiting to hear when the question slips out of your mouth. You don’t expect him to just hum, answering, “okay”.

There’s a short pause after his response.

“But only because I know you’ll spend the night crying if I’m not here, and you look stupid when you cry.” It’s his own way of telling you to stop crying. Though, you still sigh for show.

“What?”

“It’s nothing.”

“What, what?” He acts oblivious, and when his eyes blinks, it’s almost caricature.

“I just love this.” Sarcasm drips heavy, but your heart flutters anyways. You don’t remember the last time you’ve smiled like this, so much that your cheeks start to hurt even if you’d just finished crying.

“Right!” He grins.

Minho cares in ways that others don’t recognize. You can only see it when you pay attention, can only hear the quiet and gentle underlie in his words. He’s loud with his teasing, but he doesn’t need words for you to know he cares.

It’s nice to be cared for.

four.

Autumn sends a harsh breeze as it takes over Summer without much of a warning. It marks a shed of the things that had transpired over the previous season, almost a big red button labeled restart. You have every intention to use it well, to usher in change alongside the changing color of the leaves.

But what kind of heart doesn’t look back?

You wonder, do the leaves hang on tightly to not fall? Do they beg the trees not to let them go, to stay a little longer?

You sigh. The cycle is neverending, and you’ll have to spend the next seasons without Mark.

“Are you even listening to me?” You’re tugged back to your body at the sudden breach.

Minho’s voice is whiny, plush lips pulled in a pout at having caught you spacing out while he was mid-story. He had made an effort to be especially animate with his story, after numerous previous complaints from you that he was a boring storyteller, only for you not to listen.

“I am, I am!” You’re nowhere near convincing as you defend yourself, trying to recall the last words you had heard from him before you had lost yourself to your thoughts. Something about Jisung and fruit punch? You’re not quite sure.

It was a horrible idea to try and balance your best friend’s stories with your own thoughts, letting the former slip so easily. Now you’re being called out for it.

“Then what did I just say?”

“That… you want to buy me coffee?” You ask with a sheepish smile, head tilted slightly to mimic a feigned innocence.

Minho’s lips press into a line in response.

“I’m sorry!” You apologize almost immediately.

It’s funny the way you give up your act right away, pressing your palms together as if begging the boy to forgive you for your inability to listen to him. You were technically listening, synching your movements with his and staring at the way the words rolled out of his mouth. It wasn’t your fault they had fallen short before reaching your ears.

“You just lost a point on my friend tier list.” He walks a little ahead of you now, refusing to match your pace in the name of dramatism.

“You have a friend tier list?” You snort. “That’s kind of lame.”

“Did you just call it lame? At this point, you’re at bottom place with Kim Seungmin.”

Your reaction is funny despite shitting on his tier list: mouth dropping, eyes boring on his back as you struggle to keep up with his long limbs, hurrying to catch up to him.

“Okay, now you’re taking it too far. First of all, I do not bite you so that should nudge me up a spot.”

“If you say it nicely, maybe I will.”

You know he’s messing around when he starts to slow down his pace, waiting for you to reappear beside him before resuming his walk.

“No, but seriously, what were you saying?” There’s laughter laced in your voice, elbowing Minho gently to coax him into repeating what he had said earlier.

“I asked if you were going to Jisung’s party later.”

Minho notes the way your face visibly scrunches at the thought. As if it wasn’t enough, you pair it with a shake of your head.

“Absolutely not. I hate the taste of alcohol.” You pause, head snapping towards him before adding, “Why? Are you going?”

His eyes don’t hide his disinterest, narrowing in judgment as you ask him.

“No. We have a 9am class tomorrow.” He mutters.

You begin to laugh, always amused by the way your best friend expresses himself, but then you stop. It wasn’t immediately made clear to Minho why your demeanor had suddenly shifted so hastily, as if someone had forcefully switched it, and why your eyes were suddenly glazed. The cogs only stop when he follows your line of sight after having noticed it was drawn somewhere behind him.

Mark’s butterfly tattoo isn’t hard to miss. It’s so potently his that you vaguely register his hand holding someone else’s. Someone that wasn’t you.

She looks beautiful, so radiant that it almost blinds you. She looks like she has him wrapped around your finger, and you don’t feel that horrible for hoping she’d break his heart the way he did yours. Though, anger is temporary when pain starts to sift through—especially when Mark is looking at her with the same sparkle in his eyes when he used to look at you.

You try to make the hurt look calculated, the way you will your eyes to draw away, the way you purse your lips. Perhaps you were trying to convince yourself that you were over it, that you were emotionally mature. And while it is half true, there is still pain. No one teaches you how to deal with this. There is no guidebook to tell you what to do when you see your ex with someone else only months after he had called it quits.

It is difficult to look at them without breaking.

A haunting silence settles, before Minho’s scrambling to break it.

“Ah, let’s go. I’m suddenly hungry.”

Minho watches as your shoulders slump in relief when he speaks, turning away from Mark in favor of looking at him. “And my legs are getting tired from standing around. Come on.”

It’s meant to be teasing, but you do not miss the anger in his eyes. It’s always painstakingly obvious when Minho is angry. He didn’t say painful words, never did anything hastily, but his eyes would always tell you he’s angry. They have a look to them, and when they were glassy, you’d know he was angry.

There’s a tap on the back of your hand before he takes it in his, pulling you away from the scene of the crime. It makes your whole face look up at him, and your heart softens when he offers a small smile. It does something inside of you.

“Have you eaten anything since lunch?”

You only shake your head in response.

Minho doesn’t say anything at the sudden drop of your mood, though he doesn’t find any pleasure in seeing your attitude change so quickly. He just squeezes your hand in his. And you’re sure you’re imagining the way he intertwines your fingers because your best friend hates skinship. Lee Minho is always so repulsed when you attempt to take his hand, so why is his hand on yours?

“Don’t think I care about you or anything, but let’s get something to eat first? You know, before we meet up with the guys.”

You hum in compliance, and also because you know he’s teasing you. His hand feels warm.

It’s silent for a while, save for distant honks and the echo of your footsteps. Soft, blinking eyes look down at you when you finally make it to the small food stall, tugging on your hand to get your full attention.

“Come on, get whatever you want.” You lean forward, tilting your head to look at your options. “I’m not doing this again, by the way.” He jokes, looking down at you.

Minho doesn’t eat despite being the one who had said he was hungry. Instead, he hovers next to you, hands in his pockets as you quietly eat your food.

“Are you full?” His voice softens when he speaks.

“A little.” You mumble.

“Okay, now go pay for what you got.” There’s a smug smile on his face when you glare at him, and he only laughs at you when you pull out your wallet from your bag.

“You dragged me to eat here because you’re hungry, and you’re letting me pay.” Your feet hold your ground, flipping through the compartments on your wallet before pulling out a bill—for your pride, more than anything else.

“Of course! What kind of best friend would I be if I paid? I need to teach you independence.”

You scoff. “A good best friend.”

Minho is looking at you up and down as you stretch your hand towards the man to pay for your food, mapping out how he can remember this moment.

“Ah, miss. Your boyfriend already paid.”

“Huh?”

There’s laughter from behind you, and you humiliatingly turn back around and shove your wallet in your bag before slapping Minho’s arm. He flinches, but his laughter doesn’t stop.

“Thanks for paying, I guess.” You mumble, heavy footsteps walking ahead of him the way he did with you earlier. It’s touching, really, and there was a nudge in your heart when the man had told you Minho had already paid. Your best friend’s laugh is too maniacal to ignore, though, so your slap is well deserved.

Kim Seungmin’s face is nothing but irritated when you and Minho finally show up to your meeting spot, hand lifting and pointing an accusing finger at the pair of you for being late. The rest of the boys except Jisung and Jeongin are all sprawled on the empty parking lot’s concrete floor, and you can hear a faint mumble from Minho–something about how the ground was dirty for them to be sitting on it. You sort of agree, already cringing at the thought of rubble sticking to your clothes and the prospect of dusting them away.

“They’re finally here!” Seungmin puts an emphasis on the word ‘finally’, and he’s about to berate you even more when he spots the skewer in your hand. “You guys ate without us?”

It’s so loud and relenting, but Seungmin’s by your side in a second and opening his mouth for you to feed him the remaining of the food Minho had bought you earlier. You suppose you owe him this much for delaying their wait. You know Seungmin’s not very known for his patience.

“We’re all going to Jisung’s party, right?” Chan finds himself asking, head perked up as he plays with his car keys between his fingers.

Seungmin mumbles something incoherent, still glued to your side and still stealing your food. When he moves to grab the stick from you, Minho slaps his hand and tells the boy to leave you and your food alone. It’s like a scene straight out of a sitcom, and all you have to do is stare at the non-existent camera directed at the three of you.

“I don’t think (name) and Minho are?” You hum in confirmation at Felix’s response, spotting him get up from his place on the ground. He asks Hyunjin to dust off the specs of concrete sticking to the fabric of his pants.

“What?” Changbin’s voice is loud, in contrast to the sooth of Felix’s, and he looks his squinted eyes with yours—as if you had wronged him for not going to the party. “Why not?”

Though, the thought of drinking doesn’t seem all that horrible to you anymore. You refuse to acknowledge it might be because of what you had bore witness to earlier, but it is one-hundred percent the reason why. A drink wouldn’t hurt, would it?

“Actually… I think I might.” Your eyes are still on Seungmin as he finally finishes the skewer you’ve been holding, though, your gaze shifts in a split second towards a shrieking Changbin who has jumped from his spot on the ground at your change of mind.

“Really? Let’s get it!” He cheers, hands clapping temporarily in a way that is so fitting for him. His smile is etched, pulling you towards where the others are. The exaggeration makes you laugh a little, at how something as simple as you suddenly agreeing to drink has Changbin giggling and smiling. You know he’s always loved when you guys hang out together.

Similarly, Felix and Hyunjin are cheering alike.

“So, you’re coming too then?” In the span of time it took to confirm your attendance, Chan has dragged his feet towards where Minho is standing, nudging his side and looking at the boy expectantly.

Minho sighs. “I guess I’m coming too.”

“I don’t think we’ll all fit in Chan’s car, though?”

Chan’s fancy 6-seater car would have sufficed for them. However, with the sudden addition of you and Minho, there’s a need to adjust the seating arrangement. It seems Seungmin’s realized the problem right away when he hovers by the front seat, basically denying entrance from anyone that isn’t him.

“Let’s just eliminate people instead. Kim Seungmin, start walking.” Minho is too quick with his response, as if he had already been thinking about it. Seungmin stays unbothered, though, still at his post at being Chan’s passenger princess for the afternoon.

“I can sit on Changbin’s lap.” Felix proposes as Chan unlocks his car. It triggers a sinister smile on Seungmin’s face, and you can tell that whatever he’s about to say next will not benefit Minho in any way after your best friend’s comment earlier.

“And (name) can sit on Minho’s lap. Okay, that’s settled, let’s go.” As predicted, Seungmin is already seated at the front, tugging at the seatbelt to solidify his position before Minho can stomp on his newly bought pair of converse for revenge at the proposition. That boy and Jeongin really need to cut down on their shoe purchases.

“Is that fine for you, (name)?” Chan asks, opening the backseat door for you. You nod, not missing the way Minho’s eyes travel to yours in confirmation of your comfort.

“Is no one going to ask how I feel about this?” Minho asks as the boys start to hunch over and take their seats in the back. Seungmin simply says a ludicrous ‘no’ as he twists his body so he can see the way everyone struggles while he has the front seat all to himself.

Minho pulls you and seats you on his lap, as Changbin does with Felix. The position is extremely uncomfortable, with your back slouched and your cheek pressed against the headrest of the driver’s seat, but it isn’t something you haven’t done before. In fact, you remember a time when even Jisung and Jeongin were present in this same car. Although, you don’t recall much of what happened, just that your neck hurt so much from being craned the whole ride.

“I’m not holding you by the way, so if Chan breaks suddenly then you’re on your own.” Your best friend feels the need to inform you, his arms pressed to his sides to offer you no support while Changbin has his arms wrapped around Felix’s torso.

You know what happens to kids that don’t wear seatbelts.

“Hyunjin, can I sit on your lap instead?”

Hyunjin laughs, staring at the two of you before jokingly offering his hand to hold onto. You doubt it’ll be much help.

The rest of the ride is spent engulfed in Minho’s warmth and the joint scent of everyone’s perfumes which is a little suffocating. And untrue to his words, when Chan does make a sudden break, you find Minho’s arms suddenly wrapped around your waist and tightening around you so you don’t stumble forward.

Chan mutters something with a smug smile as he looks into the front view mirror, though you can’t hear anything over the loud beating of your heart.

five.

The music echoing around Jisung’s house thrums loudly in your ears. It’s the type of volume that solicits yelling just to hear each other, and you’re unsure if you’re prepared for the amount of screaming you’ll be doing tonight just to be heard by your friends.

Jisung is the first to greet the seven of you, a bottle of beer in hand and loud laughing as he tugs all of you in for a hug. You can feel his insobriety, can smell it off of him, but he looks so adorable with excitement basically leaping out of him at seeing his best friends.

Though, his eyes do narrow with a curious brow at the sight of you and Minho who had texted him earlier that you couldn’t make it.

“You made it!” It’s endearing the way his smile grows even more, cheeks protruded as he leans in to hug you. He does the same for Minho, and you can see him whisper something to the boy which earns him a harsh push. You can’t hear it though, and you doubt it’s anything serious when Jisung simply laughs in response.

“Come on, let’s get you guys something to drink.” He yells over the music.

The base from the speakers offers a steady rhythm as you navigate your way across sweaty and drunk college students, and it allows you the time to give the space a good gaze. It’s amiable, as expected from Jisung, and he doesn’t seem to have any form of fear at the lack of supervision of his things during a party. Though, you suppose he must’ve locked up anything important down in his basement.

“Here we go.” He grabs a few bottles for those who ask for a beer, and offers cups to those who want to venture into the unknown mixture of alcohol in the fruit punch bowl. Jisung also apparently has a shot glass, and tells you where he hid the bottle of vodka in case the seven of you want any. He doesn’t want anyone else touching his precious stash of alcohol. Jisung’s lips wrap around the rim of his bottle, chugging down a few gulps, and then he’s pumping his fist up into the air to tell you guys to start drinking.

Chan and Changbin start to take swigs, popping the cap from Minho’s bottle. It’s second nature to them that they don’t even bat an eyelash. You wonder how many times they’ve done this before. Meanwhile, you, Hyunjin, Felix, and Seungmin take a chance at the mysterious concoction.

Chan scolds Felix for smelling it, immediately discouraged by the familiar scent of alcohol.

With a cup in hand and a countdown falling from Changbin’s mouth, you bring it to your lips and take a big gulp. The taste is strong, scorching down your throat as you swallow it down immediately the way you’re taught. There’s a tinge of spice, and the disgusting bite on your tongue solicits a scrunch on your face.

“Oh my god, I actually hate alcohol. Why am I doing this to myself?” You exhale, pushing the cup away from your lips and squinting your eyes in disgust. It’s a mixture of vodka and some type of juice, but it seems they half-assed the ratio of juice so it’s majorly the hit of hard alcohol. You’d kill to have a Cola in hand as chaser.

Felix mutters the same remarks, and you laugh at the way he puts the cup down. At most, Felix is a sweet boy, and he could never swallow down anything as vile as alcohol so he goes to find some more juice to dump into his mixture while you, Hyunjin, and Seungmin force yourselves to empty the contents of your solo cups.

It doesn’t really take long for the tipsiness to kick in, especially with whatever the hell they put in that bowl because before you know it, everything looks a little hazy and the simple scrunch on Felix’s face has you doubling in laughter. Everything is always funnier when you’re tipsy.

“I’m definitely hit.” You bite down at your lips, teeth gliding and chewing. You feel nothing but numbness, and that’s how you know you’ve taken more than you can handle. “Min, you should be drinking more.”

“Min, you should be drinking more.” Minho repeats your words, almost mocking. In his grip is his second bottle of beer, and he stands by your side unperturbed by your swaying and your yelling over the music so your friends can hear you better.

“Are you mocking me?” You’re on your toes, poorly trying to match his height to confirm whether he had repeated your words in mocking or because he can’t hear you properly. You know it’s the former. “Are you serious? You guys heard that, right?”

“Yo, that was so disrespectful. Personally, I wouldn’t stand for that.” Of course, Seungmin is the first to respond. He’s always the one instigating arguments, though, he can’t do it to the best of his ability when Felix is resting his head on his shoulder, grumbling about how awful the alcohol tastes even after he had dumped every juice he could find in Jisung’s refrigerator.

You almost stumble when you bring yourself back to your original height, and Minho’s arms are around you in reflex. Though, they’re quick to let go so he can laugh at you. “Are you really already drunk off of, like, three cups?”

“Where’s Jeongin anyway? He should be suffering with us.” Felix peels his head from Seungmin’s shoulder, breath intertwined with alcohol before dropping his forehead back, eyes half-lidded.

“Crying over his minor subjects.”

Your small circle falls into laughter at Seungmin’s response. Minor subjects were hell, especially when your professor treated them as if they were a major one. You could still recall barging into Minho’s dorm to cry over a project. Thinking back, you really could’ve half-assed it and still passed the class.

“Oh, that poor boy. I remember crying over Foreign Languages.” Changbin’s laugh doubles in volume at the memory of Jisung crying while mumbling some Russian gibberish.

“No, because why would you think to take Russian of all the languages offered? You were setting yourself up.” The way Changbin’s voice cracks at laughing too much is contagious and has everyone clutching their stomachs in laughter.

“I took German with Hyunjin. What did you guys take?”

“Spanish. I’m actually really good.” You boast, laughter slowing down into broken chuckles as you guys try to recollect your breaths.

Seungmin passes you your newly refilled cup. “Okay. Tell us something in Spanish then.”

“Si Papi!”

There’s a pause before all of you laugh your loudest for the night. It’s the type that makes your ribs hurt, bending over with aching cheeks from smiling too much. It even has Minho almost spitting out the beer he had just sipped from his bottle, taken aback by your response to Seungmin’s question. He had spent the night nursing a beer bottle in hand and listening in to your conversations, almost looking bored, though, you always find ways to solicit pure amusement from the boy.

Only you would ever say anything like that.

Minho has to bite down on the back of his hand to stop him from choking over his own laughter and the beer he had almost spat out.

“Yeah! That sounds… yeah! You nailed it!” Felix interrupts with more laughter.

You’d give anything to stop time at this moment. Perhaps it’s because you don’t want to have anything in your mind but the happiness that you feel right now. You allow yourself the time to enjoy yourself, to take away the scorching image of Mark in your head and replace it with the overwhelming volume of the music.

Hyunjin, who has grown more extroverted after chugging down his cup, pulls you, Jisung, and Felix to where everyone else is dancing. Chan’s gone to look for another bottle of beer while Changbin is singing along to the music at the top of his lungs, your personal karaoke as he sways from side to side just right next to the three of you dancing. Minho is the only one sitting up straight from your group, and while the look on his face can be deceiving, you know he’s having fun watching over everyone.

When you turn to look at him, he’s already looking at you, unblinking. He throws you a thumbs up with an arched eyebrow and you nod your head before returning your attention to the music and the way you’re jumping around and singing along to 2000s pop hits with your best friends.

Exhaustion hits pretty fast. You can smell the fatigue on yourself after having jumped around for almost an hour. You stumble your way to where Minho’s seated, and he brings your chair closer to you so you don’t drop yourself on the floor. The way you attempt to sit straight is a pretentious act that you aren’t out of it, but you are, and your stomach’s starting to not feel so good. Your blurry vision and the overwhelming lights and music doesn’t really help your case either.

“Minnie.” You hiccup, putting away your cup on the table and bowing your head faintly. “I don’t feel so good.”

Now the alcohol doesn’t seem that much of a great idea because the after effects are hitting you, and you know tomorrow will be much, much worse for you. At least you were offered a short getaway to stop thinking for a while. The temporary accompaniment was good until it wasn’t.

Minho frowns, having already made his way next to you and helping you up. “Come on, I’m taking you to Jisung’s room. Is that okay? Are you done having fun?”

It’s endearing the way he asks if you’re done, though you can’t fathom any other form of response except for a grumble and the way you almost collapse into his arms from your wobbly legs. You don’t really remember how you end up on his back, but when you peel your eyes open, you’re moving past the crowd with your cheek pressed against the top of his head.

“What’s wrong?” Jisung hiccups, making his way to the two of you and helping move people aside so the path towards his room is easier on Minho.

“I think she’s had too much to drink. I’m taking her up to your room, is that fine?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Minho is strong in the way he carries you with his hands on your thighs, crouching down and hoisting you up when you feel like you’re about to fall. When he successfully makes his way to Jisung’s room, Minho makes sure to knock loudly on the door, ear pressed against the door. “Nobody better be making out in here!” And it’s only when silence greets him does he allow himself to twist the doorknob open.

“Sit down for a moment.” You burp when he places you down, body swaying alarmingly as you move to lay on the ground instead. Minho bends down to sit you back up so you don’t accidentally choke on your own vomit. It’s happened before with Chan, and he is not about to have a repeat.

“Just let me get a few of Jisung’s clothes for you to change into. And I should probably get you water. It’ll help you sober up, kay?”

“No, Min… wait!” The sudden movement has you clutching your head and forgetting what you were going to say to the boy. “Ugh.”

“Are you okay?” He takes a look at your heavy eyelids and your disheveled hair, and the way you hold your head in the palm of your hands. Minho moves from his place by Jisung’s closet to crouch down next to you instead. “Why did you drink so much?”

“Stop scolding me.” You hiccup. The music is more drowned out hidden in the four walls of Jisung’s room, and you know Minho’s teasing you by the tone of his voice.

“I’m not scolding you.” His eyes hold yours, and he speaks softly.

Your faces are a few inches apart, and even in the hazy way you’re seeing things, you can still admit that Lee Minho is beautiful. His hair is a little sweaty from the warmth of the overcrowded house, and his cheeks are dusted pink from the alcohol, but you know he’s not hit.

“I think I’m gonna throw up.” You clear your throat before he can say anything else.

“No, you’re not. I am not cleaning anyone’s vomit. Not today.”

Minho lifts you up from the ground, taking you to the bathroom so you’re seated directly in front of the toilet. He pulls the hair tie around your wrist, taking it from you so he can tie your hair up in case you do end up vomiting.

Tears prick in your eyes in your attempt to puke, though nothing but choked coughs come out. It makes you feel pathetic, so much so that you swat away Minho’s hand that’s rubbing your back. You don’t want anyone to look at you like this, teary eyes and hunched over so you bury your face in your hands where no one can see you.

“I’m so miserable and so unlovable.” You mumble incoherently, banging your head again and again on the wall before it meets contact with Minho’s palm instead. His free hand guides itself across your face, peeling away your fingers so he can see you better.

“Don’t be stupid. You’re not.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m misera—”

“Unlovable. You’re not unlovable.” There’s a pause as he exhales.

“How would you know?”

There’s an unreadable expression on Minho’s face when you ask. He looks like someone you’ve never met with the way he stares at you, although familiar. It’s clear that he’s thinking, but of what, you have no idea. He looks so concentrated.

“I just do.”

He’s so soft-spoken that you can’t bring yourself to rebut. And he doesn’t seem to wait for your response when he bends down to scoop you back up in his arms after making sure you showed no more signs of vomiting.

“I’m gonna get water. It’ll help you sober up.” He repeats, placing you down on Jisung’s bed and you immediately roll over to get yourself comfortable. Minho notes to change the sheets for the boy after classes tomorrow.

When he comes back, you’ve already fallen asleep.

six.

“Wake up.”

Minho’s shaking is unforgiving, peeling the comforter away from you despite your protests. He cringes at the way you grab the pillow, gripping it over your face so his whining would come out filtered and a little mumbly. Though, you fail to consider the way the pillow can easily be yanked away from you, especially from someone like Lee Minho.

His shaking are full-blown shoves now, and his voice is growing louder and louder despite the grumbling from Seungmin who had apparently also stumbled into Jisung’s room and fallen asleep on the floor some time in the night.

“Wake up, or we’re going to be late.”

The mention of class causes you to abruptly sit up, and Minho is about to drag you away from the bed when you fall back down, hands clutching your head and eyes squinted. “Oh my fucking god, my head.”

Too much is happening for your liking. The trance of sleep is still lingering in the way you blink slowly, and the headache you’re suckling under is hard to ignore. This is what you get for drinking on a weekday when you have 9am classes the next day.

The sight of your disheveled hair and the terribly grumpy look you’re sporting almost makes Minho snort, but he focuses on the mission at hand, and it’s to get you out of your bed so you don’t miss the only class you have for the day. And, as much as you want to be pissed off at Minho, you know he has your best interest at heart.

“Drink this and go take a shower.”

You rub your eyes, resentfully sitting up once again with Minho’s helping hand on your back. It’s only now you notice his damp hair, and the way he’s standing there with a plain black shirt and the gray joggers he wears almost everyday–you swear he owns ten pairs. He’s holding a whole pitcher of water too, shoving it in your direction as you blink away the restlessness.

You drink straight out of it even though the water seems to want to expel out of your body. You’ve had a few drunken nights to learn this, and it’s best that you finish it so you aren’t dehydrated for the rest of the day. Something about alcohol and the way it causes excessive urination which makes you lose more fluids than you should.

There’s barely any time to adjust to real-time when your best friend starts shoving you to the direction of the bathroom, throwing you a pair of Jisung’s joggers when he was in high school and an oversized hoodie that the boy had stolen from Minho. You don’t process how you manage to take a shower with your headache and the lack of sleep, only remembering the way the cold water felt and how relieving it was to brush your teeth to try and rid the scent of alcohol.

“You ready?” Minho runs a hand through his hair before pressing it down, eyes meeting yours just as you stumble out of the bathroom. He already has Chan’s car keys in hand.

You follow him tiredly, keeping your head hung to try and remedy the aching, all while Minho is gently shaking Chan’s passed out shoulder on the couch. “Channie, I’m taking your car.” The older boy just stirs, hand lifting in approval before it falls limp on his chest.

“Alright, in you go.” Minho reaches over, grabbing your seatbelt for you so he can fasten it. The position is a little compromising, and he’s inches away from you that you get a waft of his scent. He smells like Jisung’s soap, the same one you had used on yourself. Though, you don’t want to obsess about how close he is.

When he’s sure you won’t topple over in the case that he breaks, he stumbles out of your space and positions himself in the driver’s seat.

He doesn’t need to make much adjustments to anything considering he and Chan are nearly the same height. So, he takes the handbrake off and pulls on the gearshift before he’s guiding you out of Jisung’s parkway and towards the direction of the university.

Lee Minho is attractive as he drives steadily down the highway, eyes never leaving the road. His posture is sharp, fingers wrapped around the steering wheel and turning it in perfect control when he needs to. It’s a little addicting to look at, and you’re sure you would’ve spent the entire duration staring at him if not for the lingering headache that causes you to veer away from your staring and close your eyes instead. It makes you grumble, head falling back into the space between the car window and your headrest.

“You sound like a dying mouse being suffocated by a small knife.” It slips out of his mouth, and even without looking at him, you know he’s wearing a small smirk on his face.

“...You need to go to a psych ward.”

You spend majority of the ride trying to recall what had happened last night, not that you remember much. You vaguely register laughing over Jeongin’s demise, dancing a lot, and Minho’s voice while you tried to retch out what you had for dinner over Jisung’s toilet. “What the hell even happened last night?”

“Do you really want me to tell you?”

“Why? Was I that embarrassing?” You open your eyes for a second to glance at your best friend, though his eyes remain glued on the road. It only makes you whine even more when he nods, shutting your eyes back closed after feeling dizzy over the strain of lights on your vision. “This is why I should never drink ever again.”

“You really don’t remember anything?” Minho tries asking.

“I remember pieces and chunks of it. I… uh, remember dancing and eating ice cream? Dude, I don’t even know. I think I tried to pick a fight with someone at one point.” You start. “And in the bathroom, when… oh.” You smack your lips together at the sudden memory, a pit in your stomach suddenly forming at the recollection.

You’re not unlovable. His words ring in your ears, hovering over the honking of cars and the bustle of business outside as people start their days. Did he really mean it when he said that or had he taken pity over your self-wallowing? Was he only saying it to comfort you? He didn’t feel cold when he said it though. While you don’t remember much, you can feel the faint warmth and the gentle lull in his voice when he spoke to you.

“What?” He eggs you to keep going, but your mouth suddenly feels bitter, pressed together in trial of sealing the words in your mouth.

It was embarrassing enough to yap about it drunk to Minho last night, you don’t need to repeat it this morning. Clenching your fists, you bring them to shield your eyes, shaking your head. “Nothing.”

“If you don’t tell me, I’m leaving you on the side of the road.”

You sigh.

“DoyoureallythinkI’mnotunlovable?” You shuffle out the words as per his request, head tilted away from him so you’re facing the window instead.

“I literally cannot understand you, please learn how to speak.” He deadpans.

“Do you really think I’m not unlovable? Do you actually mean it?” You repeat, slowly this time, like he’s asking of you. You don’t see the way his grip tightens around the steering wheel.

There’s a pause, and he’s silent for a moment. You almost regret bringing it up again had you not remembered that this was a usual thing for your best friend. There’s something about him–in the way he presses his lips together, front lip tutting out, and the way he blows his hair away from his eyes and peeks at you for a second before leading them back on the road. It’s indicative of when he thinks, when he ponders over teasing or being genuine.

“Of course I do.” If you listen close enough, you would’ve heard the way his voice cracks a little at the latter part of his sentence, though it’s well hidden beneath an exhale. “A lot of people love you, (name). The boys love you, your family. I— Soonie, Doongie, Dori too. You aren’t a reflection of what one stupid fucker thinks of you.”

You can’t help the quiet, airy laugh at the way his voice significantly grows softer, free hand patting your thigh for a second before returning on the gearshift. There’s something about the way he says it that makes you feel something inside, a small silver lining piercing through your heart.

“Wow. I didn’t think you would actually… that you had it in you to tell me that.” Your eyes meet his side profile, and you can tell he’s taking quick glances at you before he heaves a heavy sigh.

“Don’t act like I don’t care about you.” He mumbles, and there’s a little hoarseness in the way he said it. You think you might be imagining it.

“You don’t care about me.” You say as a joke, and almost out of impulse at the way Minho is making your bones rattle right now. Maybe if you moved the course of your conversation somewhere lighter, the rattling would stop.

“I don’t care?” He scoffs, but you can tell he’s chaffing by the way his voice increases in volume. “I… don’t… care?” It’s incredulous the way he says it, mouth dropping as if you had dropped the biggest, wrongful accusation his way.

“Okay, okay, okay, maybe you care a little. It’s touching that you give me coffee.”

He hums. “Because for coffee, there’s a minimum order amount.”

You merely laugh.

“That’s right. I guess I’m just a means to match the minimum order amount.”

“Okay, but seriously, you aren’t unlovable, okay? You’re just sad and a little bit angry. Let’s have some coffee after class, hm?” The pace of the car slows down as he puts Chan’s car on hazard. You recognize the building to be his dorm. His words make you look down at the sleeves of the oversized jacket you’re wearing, stomach tying in knots. “Now, wait here. I just need to get my homework.”

That surely makes your head spring up.

“Homework?”

“The one Miss Kim assigned us last time? You know, when she left class early and had us do a few equations.”

“Oh my god.” When your exasperation meets his gaze, he laughs.

“You didn’t do it?”

“I didn’t do it!” You say in panic, eyes widening as he hurriedly jogs into his dorm room to grab the paper hanging on his desk before he shoves his answered worksheet to you. You catch it, immediately rummaging your backpack from the day before for a pen and paper so you can start copying off of Minho.

You don’t finish by the time you make it to your building, and Minho has to push from behind you as you look nowhere but your paper. You don’t even realize you’ve made it to your seats until your best friend pushes you down to sit while he mindlessly scrolls on his phone.

“Minho, Minho, Minho.” You don’t look at him as you call his name, still scribbling down numbers and equations you don’t understand. “If she comes in, please distract her. I’m only halfway done, please, please, please.”

“What do I get in return?” He cracks a vexatious grin, one you want to wipe off his face so bad because of course he’d find a way to profit off of your suffering. He puts down his phone, fixing his gaze on your hunched over figure with the same stupid smirk. You almost want to stab the pen in his eye.

“Please, I would take back every insult I’ve ever said to yo— Actually wait, you’re the one that insults me. I’ll forget every insult you've ever said to me if you do this, please.”

He sighs, body falling limp on his chair in defiance. He’s acting like a three-year-old when their parents don’t get the toy they’re begging for in the mall. “You’re taking me to that cat cafe that just opened.”

“Fine, just do it.” You respond harshly.

It’s with perfect timing that Minho arrives at the entrance to your classroom, just as Ms. Kim walks in and the students start going back to their seats from having gossiped with their friends. This prompts you to look over at your best friend, seeing him pull out his phone and shove it in your professor’s face. You would have laughed if not for the homework that’s staring at you maniacally. You try not to fuck up your numbers.

Minho glances up at you from time to time, and when you’re still bent over the table, he knows he has to keep scrolling through his photo album appropriately labeled Soondoongdori. You better be paying for his coffee later in exchange for the stupid things he does for you on a daily basis.

“Don’t you have a cat too, Ms. Kim?” He asks, tone sickeningly sweet as he forces her to look at another video of Doongie meowing in front of his door. In the first minute, it’s actually kind of cute and sweet for him to show her endearing photos of her favorite animal. That is, until six more minutes pass and he’s still showing her photos when she’s supposed to have started class by now.

“Oh, wait. But look at Soonie and the hat he’s wearing.”

“Lee Minho. I appreciate you showing me photos of your own cats, but please go back to your seat so I can start the class.” She tries to keep an even tone, and Minho all but smiles in faux innocence as he finally returns to his seat next to you just as you finish. “I’ll send you a Google Drive if you’d like!”

She dismisses his offer.

“Alright. Pass your homework.” Ms. Kim announces, and you let out the sigh you didn’t know you’ve been holding as Minho takes both of your papers from you so he can put it on your professor’s table as instructed.

“You’re paying for my coffee.” He whispers threateningly, chucking his phone back into the pocket of his sweatpants before crossing his arms and relaxing in his seat in preparation for your 2-hour lecture.

You would’ve thrown him a gentle punch in retaliation for attempting to steal money off of you, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. Lee Minho is your lifeline, and you’re sure you would’ve dropped out of college if not for his constant nagging and the way he saves your ass every single time you need it. In fact, you were fully convinced you would’ve fallen prisoner to your breakup if not for the way he forces you out of your dorm to do something as simple as grocery shopping or eating dinner with him.

“Alright, fine.” You say, turning your attention to your professor as she begins her powerpoint presentation.

You risk one last glance at your best friend, lips jutted out the way they do when he’s concentrated and bored eyes directed to the front. It’s awkward timing to be grateful for him while your teacher rants about something, but it can’t be helped.

It’s uncommon to come across a Minho in your life. Perhaps all the reincarnations of you before had suffered tremendously for the lack of luck on having Lee Minho, so you suppose the price of coffee will suffice in hinting at your appreciation for the boy for the lengths and hoops he goes through for you.

If you’re lucky enough, maybe you’ll get him again in your next life.

seven.

The Cat Playground is a cafe that recently opened a month ago just outside your campus. You’ve been meaning to head there for quite some time, however, the initial buzz of a newly opened establishment is terrifying. Whenever you and Minho had passed by it, a truck load of people were filling up the space, and you really didn’t want to stress out the kittens.

Though, it’s a little more bearable now that people have gotten over that fizzle. As promised, you take him to the coffee shop for the “embarrassment” you had put him through earlier this morning. Plus, coffee will do the light dizziness you’re still nursing.

The inside of the small building is cold, though the sun does a wonderful job reflecting through the huge glass windows to perfectly balance the temperature. You coo instantly at the sight of the cats, pacing around and jumping to sleep in their little wooden cat houses. There’s a sort of friendliness the place houses that’s striking to you. The paintings lined up give the place a character of its own, pillows on the floor and tables surprisingly stout. You suppose it’s so that it’s easier to play with the cats, though, there is space in the back with normal-sized furniture. You don’t pay it mind. You know exactly where you and Minho will be seated.

You continue to walk a few meters as Minho lines up for the both of you, instructing you to find a seat. The closer you got to where the cats stayed, the more you could distinguish their scent, and there are a few toys sticking out that only look familiar to you because Minho has them back at home for his own cats.

Though, a sharp squeeze turns in your sternum when you spot an empty space only for a huge butterfly painting to decorate its wall. Your throat dries up at the sight.

Oh.

You contemplate whether or not you should just suck it up and sit here, eyes unmoving from the painting that you don’t notice your best friend until he places a hand on your shoulder and pushes you past the painting towards an empty space not far away.

He drops on a beanie bag right away, hand outstretched to start calling the attention of the cats. They come stumbling in, purring loudly and situating themselves by your feet. You wonder if they can sense cat owners, almost convinced they can by the way they comfortably sit by Minho.

One of them jumps on his lap, patting down on his stomach before flopping down to lay down. On instinct, Minho reaches out to rub its head, moving down to its chin and neck. “What are you doing on my belly, hm?” He mumbles, leaning down to bump his nose with the cat’s.

The sight you’re subjected to makes your heart soften significantly.

“Your order is horrible, by the way. How the hell do you drink that?” Minho laughs, face scrunching in faux disgust when you start sipping on your drink. It has way too much cream and sugar for your best friend’s liking. You simply roll your eyes.

“You literally drink straight black coffee. I don’t know who thought that was good for human consumption. Ahh—” You’re immediately distracted by the cats passing by you, trying to coax them to come to you but they don’t. You pout, holding both your arms out to the little group settled around Minho. “They don’t like me very much.”

“They don’t?” Minho coos, eyes full of mirth as he reaches down to one of the cats. A british shorthair. “Can you go to her and make her feel better, hm? She’s being a little sulky right now.”

On command, the little kitten paces towards where you’re seated, hovering around you before you finally scoop the little boy in your arms and place him on your belly, mimicking Minho. Your eyes fall towards the cat before making contact with your best friend’s, big smile on your face so much so that the apple of your cheeks are visible.

“See, they just needed some time, but they like you too.”

The softness in Minho’s gaze takes great effect in whatever the hell you’re feeling inside that you have to avert your eyes back to the small cat lounging on your stomach. This cat, and Minho, and the hot coffee waiting for you on your table makes you so overwhelmingly happy, as little things often do. It’s new, this feeling of contentment.

It’s quiet and nice to just be with your best friend, and the cats, and your coffee. They make you feel like everything will only get better from here on out, make you realize that sometimes happiness is this simple.

“Mark didn’t like cats very much.” Your voice softens, hand scratching the kitten’s head. “So… this is nice.” You mumble the rest of your words, but it’s at the right amount of silence that Minho still hears you.

“Hmm… should’ve ended things right then and there.” He murmurs.

You laugh at his response. “I should’ve. I hate that I can’t— like some things will never be the same.”

Minho scoots his seat closer to where you are.

“Like what?” He asks.

“Like—” You sigh, biting your lips and staring down on your lap. “You’re gonna say it’s stupid.”

Minho raises his eyebrows, not diverting his gaze anywhere but on you. “Only if it is.”

“Like butterflies.” Your shoulders slump, and there’s a dejection in your voice. “We were gonna sit there, but then it reminded me of his stupid tattoo and I just… He took away something beautiful from me— I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” He places his hand over yours, stopping you from fiddling with your fingers. The contact makes your heart jump. “Do you think it’s something you can regain?”

You look down at his hand on yours, carefully taking it to play with the ring he wears, pulling it out and pushing it back in. When you look up at him once again, you’re met with his softening stare.

“I want to… I hope to. It doesn’t hurt as much when I buy milk.”

“That’s good. Hopefully, you’ll be able to feel that more than you feel haunted by it.”

You swallow, nodding your head. “I’m trying.”

Minho doesn’t say anything else, taking your order from the table and handing it to you so you can satiate your thoughts temporarily with the taste of coffee. Then, he positions himself next to you so you can rest your head on his shoulder the way he knows you want to. It’s quiet, aside from the gentle chatter of those around you and the purring of the cats walking around. Minho still has a cat in his arms, his knee would nudge yours from time to time just to check on you.

Then his phone rings. It doesn’t look like he wants to make a move to pick it up, groaning at the sudden breach of his peace. Sighing, he finally picks up the call and presses it to his ear just as the cat hops off of his lap.

“What? Don’t call me if you don’t need anything.” He hangs up just as quickly as he picks up the phone and you laugh a little at the abruptness and his urge to return to the moment with you.

“Min?”

“Hm?” He hums, pocketing his phone and turning to look at you. The sound of his name falling from your lips always makes him perk up like this.

The irritation on his face has dissipated, and he looks at you with nothing but gentleness. You treasure these moments with Minho. He might not look like it, but really does care about the people around him. You’re lucky he let you into his circle.

“Thank you.”

You don’t need to specify for what. He already knows.

eight.

Finals season for the semester marks the arrival of winter, sweeping in mounds of snow.

Your university is blanketed in white, frosted windows as students hurry towards their next exam wearing layers upon layers of coats. The winter’s breeze settles heavy, harsh winds nipping at your dorm window. Though, you can’t quite hear the frigid weather over Minho’s unabashed laughter, meshing with the chilling winds outside. It’s so infectious, that if you hadn’t ensnared yourself into this situation, you would’ve been laughing with him.

“Will you stop laughing?!” The perplexity etched upon your face only seems to make Minho laugh harder, one hand clutching at his stomach while the other grips tightly around your notebook. “Minho, I am going to fail!”

You drop on the ground, piles of papers and notes surrounding you. You suppose this was on you for mistakenly thinking your Calculus exam would take place after your winter break, only realizing it was actually in three hours when Chaeryeong had texted you with a picture of her notes, asking you if it was included in the coverage for the exam later.

You called Minho in a panic, knowing he had taken this class a year before. However, when you had told him of your predicament, he had fallen into a fit of laughter. He knows your distress is genuine, yet he can’t help but find it funny. This would only happen to you.

With your face buried in your hands, you kick your feet around messily, akin to a child denied of things they wanted their parents to buy.

“Get up. Come on.” He interrupts himself with more laughter, kneeling down next to you and slapping your legs so you can get his message. “Get up, we can do this! We still have three hours!”

“I didn’t know the exam was later. I thought it was after the break.” Your muffled cries are punctuated by Minho's choked laughter. He’s still shoving your legs, persistence heavy until you actually sit up from your place on the ground.

“Focus!” Minho’s laughter finally subsides, eyes scanning over the pages of your notes. “Okay, you know how to write polar equations in parametric form right?”

“Dude, I don’t know.”

“Oh my god, you’re actually so fucked.”

“Minho, please!” There is no way in hell you can scold the boy. You need his help. Otherwise, you’d have to fail your exam without so much as an effort to even get a passing grade. And you were not about to retake this class next semester.

He’s laughing again. “You can use the standard transformation from Cartesian coordinates to polar coordinates. Come here, look at this.”

He finishes up writing out the equations and formulas on your notebook, propping it up for you to see better. “You just have to memorize these, and you’ll pass. I swear.”

“This is so ridiculous.” You whine, grabbing the notebook from his hand and staring at it as if your life depends on it. You’re desperately wishing you had just checked on your schedule again, clarified with a classmate, absolutely anything that could’ve gotten you out of the hell of cramming formulas you don’t understand in three hours.

“You’re a lost cause.”

Minho flinches when you attempt to hit him with your notebook.

“I know I am, but one of us has to be optimistic and as my best friend, you’re going to be playing that role.” You drop your head back down on the floor, although the collision isn’t as harsh when your head makes contact with Minho’s head.

“Why are you trying to hit your head? You’ll lose everything you have left in there.” His eyes are mirthful, and you know there’s laughter brewing at the tip of his tongue.

“Minhooooooo!” You whine.

“Look, I’m going to be honest with you. You’re probably going to fail this test. It’s not that I don’t have faith in you, but there’s just nothing we can do about it now. Besides, you still have that final project, right?” You feel a section in your brain twitch and Minho lifts his hands up when you direct a chilling glare at him.

“Maybe Seungmin can be my new best friend.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Minho!”

“Okay, okay! Memorize the formulas and you’ll at least pass.”

You do better than you expect, and it’s all thanks to Minho’s stupid list of formulas.

nine.

You hate that it hits you randomly.

It had been 2 months since you last saw Mark, back when you had gotten so drunk at Jisung’s party. The pain isn’t so much over him, but the powerlessness that you feel. You’re sure you’re over him, but insecurities are so hard to banish when the breakup acts as a fuel to send everything in flames.

When you feel this way, something as easy as your bracelet snapping can set you off. It’s a silly thing to be worked up over, but you are.

It’s how you find yourself in front of Minho’s dorm, nose red from the nipping snow and snowflakes littering your eyelashes and your hair. There’s visible puffs when you breathe, and you’re sure your tears have frozen over from the harsh winds, though the tug of the breeze does nothing to hide how swollen your eyes are.

Snow pollutes your vision, and it’s a little difficult to trek through the heavy snow, but you make it to his dorm building. He doesn’t expect to find you crying in front of him at eleven in the evening.

“Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” His voice wavers, gently tugging you into the warmth of his dorm room. He positions you by the heater, grabbing the blanket he had been using and wrapping it around your shoulders.

“Min…” You try to speak, but your face almost breaks.

He sucks in a deep breath at the sight. “Don’t cryyy. It’s okay, come here.”

Minho dusts away the snowflakes on your hair, tugging you to sit on the couch. He’s careful with his steps, guiding you forward as he walks back.

“Be careful, the floor’s slippery. I just mopped it.” He brings his palms together, rubbing them and blowing into them before resting them on your cold cheeks when you’re finally seated on the couch. There’s a prominent furrow to his eyebrows, but his eyes are soft.

“It’s broken.” Your face twitches, staring down at your clenched fingers.

“What’s broken?” He murmurs, hand wrapping around your wrist to bring your fist closer to him.

“My bracelet. It’s…” You have to bite back the sob that bursts from your throat, opening your hand to reveal the broken string and a few beads that had fallen off when it had snapped earlier. You’re feeling so much—embarrassment, frustration, everything.

“Okay, it’s okay.” He draws himself closer to where you’re seated, wrapping the string around your wrist. “I’ll fix it, okay?”

“Okay.”

Your vision is distorted as Minho ties the string around your wrist, head hung inches away from yours as you stare down at his hands. His elbow nudges your chest gently as he works on your broken bracelet, and you can feel a few strands of his hair tickle your cheeks at the proximity.

“Is that better?” It’s temporarily fixed, string tied in knots just enough so it’s clinging onto your wrist but it’s enough. “See, all fixed now. Nothing to worry about.”

At his words, you start to break into another silent sob, face scrunching as you bow your head so he can’t see you properly. Your free hand goes to fiddle with your temporarily fixed bracelet, sniffling as you feel a few tears dripping down and sinking into the skin of your arm.

“Hey, look at me.” Minho coos, but it only makes you cry harder when you finally lift your head to meet his gaze. You wipe your eyes with your sleeves, taking in a deep breath as you struggle to keep eye contact.

“Have you eaten dinner?”

You shake your head.

“Do you want to eat now? I can cook you something really fast.” He whispers.

You sniffle, blinking back your tears until you can see him enough. “Okay.”

Minho rushes to the kitchen, leaving you with the rabbit stuffed animal you had given him in your senior year of high school. He says it’s to keep you company while he cooks, and that you should take in slow deep breaths with Leebit.

He does return fast, bowl of hot food in hand that he blows into before handing it to you. “Careful, it’s hot.” He blinks at you, voice as soft as you had heard it that time you had cried over his spicy steak and pasta.

“Good?” You nod, chewing into the food slowly. There are still tears bunched up in your eyes, but they don’t fall anymore.

“Of course it is.” There’s a teasing edge to his voice as he leans forward to brush your hair out of your face, soothing it down, and it makes you laugh a little like it did before.

The boy reaches forward, decides to wipe a stray tear away as he sits cross-legged beside you on his couch, eyes staying on you as you continue to quietly eat the food he had made for you. There’s still a lingering feeling in the pit of your stomach, but Minho makes you forget about that.

“Thank you.” Your voice comes out shaky. “I don’t— I don’t know why I was crying.”

“Oh, this poor baby.” There’s an intonation in the way he speaks, setting down your empty bowl on the table as he pulls your head to rest on his shoulder. His heart clenches at the way you instantly succumb, eyes dropping from exhaustion as you nuzzle your head on his shoulder.

“Stop babying me.” You whine. “You always baby me when I cry.”

“You make it so easy, though.” He murmurs.

A warm hand comes up to your chin, stroking it like he would a cat. And you don’t understand in the slightest, but it lifts a pressure off your chest just being here with him. It feels familiar here with him, so comfortable. You’ve always been made to think that crying makes you weak, but it’s never been a problem with Minho.

You’re thankful for exactly who he is, and for offering a type of relationship you would have only dreamed of when you were a child. He makes you feel easy to love, that you don’t have to try and make yourself digestible so people will love you more.

You’ll do what makes you happy, and that’s all he’ll ever ask from you.

ten.

You spend the night before New Years at Minho’s dorm room.

He’s out buying a few things for dinner, and he comes home to you staring outside the window. Your lips are parted, like you want to ask him something, but no words come out. He lets you be, feet waddling to stand next to you as he tries to see what’s outside that has so much of your interest.

“What’re you looking at?” Minho stirs, piping down to try and see things clearer, but all he sees is snow.

“Why? Are you so interested in the things that catch my eye?” He looks down at you with a judging eye, lips drawn together into a line.

“I’m going to stick my fingers in your eye.”

“I wanna go out and play in the snow.” He knows the question hanging in your statement, knows you want him to come out with you. But he also knows that you know he’s not the biggest fan of winter, and the heavy snow, and how it’s prone to make someone sick.

“No.” Minho responds, moving away from the window to start arranging his groceries in the kitchen. You drag your feet to follow him, pouting up at him. It’s manipulative, you’re trying to manipulate him with your stupid pout, but it isn’t working.

“Please! I wanna go outside, and it’ll be boring to play in the snow alone!”

“I know a really nice place where we can go.” He suddenly grins, the kind that meets his eyes in a haunting manner, but you know him better than that. You know exactly what he’s going to say.

“You’re gonna say this dorm, aren’t you?” You mumble. “Okay, fine. I’ll just go outside alone.”

“Really? Great thinking!” Minho laughs directly in your face, and it only makes your pout grow. Even reserve psychology isn’t working on him.

“Minhoooooo.” You whine, tugging at the ends of his shirt and smiling bright at him—almost as if a politician begging for his vote.

He finishes putting away his groceries, head hung back as he lets out a sigh. “You are such an old woman. Fine, let’s go.”

“That’s the spirit! You know, I think this should be your year of yes.”

“I say yes to everything though.”

“Yeah, but like begrudgingly.”

“And that’s the best I can do. Now hurry up, you’re taking too long.” He’s already waiting for you by the door, arms crossed as you struggle to put on your coat and your boots.

When you attempt to run outside, he tugs you back before grabbing an extra pair of gloves for you to wear. You smile at him thankfully before running outside and instantly dropping to start playing with the snow. Minho stands by your side, watching as your eyes stay focused on the falling snow. It’s an endearing sight, the way you crouch down and gather as much snow you can in your gloved hands.

He’s not too eager for the season as much as everyone is, doesn’t find the appeal in freezing your ass off, doesn’t have the time to scoop away the snow just to get his car out of the driveway. He’s almost everything that you aren’t. Though, he thinks he can make an exception by the way you excitedly show him the snowball in your hands. You look like an example of pure, unadulterated happiness brought by the season, and in the moment, Minho sees why people enjoy the snow so much.

“Alright, come on, let’s build a snowman.” Your head snaps in his direction, smile so bright that you have to bite down at your lips to hold the giggle that’s trying to escape your mouth. A winter ago, you had complained to him about how Mark never wanted to build a snowman with you. He had taken his side at the time, having hated the snow himself.

“Actually?” Your eyes are wide as you ask him.

He thinks you look like an idiot as you drag him to where there’s a few piles of snow, but he’ll be mute with amusement as you actually start to build one together. He travels the distance of where you are to his dorm twice just to grab a carrot and buttons for eyes as you scour around to look for a few sticks as arms. It’ll be worth it when you jump back in amazement at the snowman you had built.

To be frank, Minho thinks it looks a bit scuffed. His arm is about to fall off, and his head is way too small in proportion to his body, but he watches with an unconscious grin on his face as you excitedly take photos of the snowman.

When your face starts to flush red, Minho ushers you back inside his dorm. “Let’s get back inside. It’s time for you to go into the oven.”

You laugh.

“Thanks for coming out with me.”

He clears his throat at the sudden sincerity. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

You jump back when his hand makes contact with your bare skin. It’s his silent revenge for you dragging him out into the cold he dislikes so much. “Your hand is so cold! Get it away from me!”

“Ah, I must be passing away soon. My temperature keeps dropping.”

“Can you stop saying stuff like that!”

Minho laughs at the way you throw the gloves you had worn at him, a cute string of chuckles with his habitual ‘ah’ right after. He catches it with ease, setting them aside on the table in case you feel another sudden spur to go outside.

He makes you hot chocolate a few minutes later. Another begrudging yes upon your sudden request. Leebit keeps you company as he cooks up something for dinner.

eleven.

Winter settles heavily, and you’re handed the hot chocolate you were promised. You eat dinner over quiet conversations, new year's resolutions spilled after small sips of the wine Minho had opened. Though, around an hour before the calendar restarts, his voice falls mute in your ears. You just nod at the right times, smile when he does, and focus on the way the words fall out of his mouth.

This is the most relaxed you’ve ever felt.

You suppose you should feel guilty for your inability to listen to him, but there is something enchanting about the way Minho laughs. You didn’t know it looked as beautiful as this, starting from his throat before bubbling out in a boyish chuckle. You would’ve never noticed otherwise.

The moment only unmutes itself when he pinches your arm.

“Ow!” You yelp, drawing your hand back. “What was that for?”

“You weren’t listening to me anymore.” He whines, setting his empty wine glass down.

“I’m sorry, I’ll listen now. I swear”. You laugh, staring down at the space between your thighs before looking up at your best friend. He’s wearing a pout, but you can tell there’s a small smile threatening to pull at his lips.

“Was just talking about how we should ruin children’s dreams by telling everyone Santa Claus isn’t real.”

It’s such a Minho thing to say, and you can only laugh at the boy fondly as he pushes himself to his feet. You’re about to ask where he’s going when he tells you to wait a second, disappearing into his room with a purpose in his eye. Though, when he comes back, he says nothing as he resumes his place next to you.

“Close your eyes.” He finally says.

“Why?”

“Just close them.”

“The last time you let someone close their eyes, you had violently shoved tissues down their mouth.” You accuse, recalling the time when Hyunjin had fallen victim to your best friend’s antics. A smile ghosts on his face at the memory. He truly is a psychopath.

“I don’t have any tissues on me, so close your eyes before I shut them myself.”

“Jesus, alright, I’m closing them. How have you gotten away with this behavior for years? You should be locked up somewhere.” You joke, finally shutting your eyes.

“Give me your hand.”

“Minho, I swear to God, if you put a bug on my ha—”

“Give it to me.” He interrupts you, taking your hand. You feel a weight being pressed down on your hand. It’s light, and it feels a little scattered.

“Alright, open your eyes.”

You feel yourself freeze momentarily, staring at the bracelet on your hand. You had expected him to pull some sort of gag, to put a fake plastic bug on your hand, not a bracelet that looked identical to the one you had broken almost a month ago. It leaves you speechless, looking up at him but he instantly breaks eye contact.

Minho is looking down at his feet, scuffing it around his floor. His lips are parted like he wants to say something, but it looks a little hesitant. Pondering even. And he does intend to say something, but of the thousands of words he has learned from the day he was born up until this moment, he doesn’t think he can find the right words to say to you.

He still tries.

“I know that Christmas is over, but it took me a really long time to find the exact one you had broken.” He settles on something teasing. It’s what he knows best. “I know, I know, I’m the greatest best friend in the world.”

You look down at the bracelet that he quietly wraps around your wrist. You can only blink, frozen in your spot. He’s wordless as he encases it, and it’s only now you see that something’s different about him. There’s a small butterfly charm sitting at the center, beautiful and dainty. Your heart squeezes.

“The butterfly…” You start.

“Is to regain it. No boy has power to take away the things you find beautiful. I hope… in this way, it can be yours again.” He finishes for you.

You’re sure the nudge in your heart is easily seen in your expression. His name falls from your mouth, looking down at the bracelet before back at him. He looks so beautiful. His smile is too pretty, hair too soft. It’s hard not to look at him. It’s even harder when he does things like this, little by little making your heart feel whole again. He introduces you to a warmth you’ve never known.

“What’s with that face? Don’t get emotional. I’m not saying this to move you.”

His response makes you laugh when he says it because it’s just so him, but even his words contradict with the way he’s holding back his smile.

10…9…8…

There’s silence right after your laughter subdues and you hear nothing but your muted breathing.

“I’m really happy I’m spending New Years with you this year.”

He makes you feel like flying that it feels like you need to hold onto him to keep you grounded. With bated breath, you lean forward and wrap your arms around him. It’s hard to express how grateful you are for him, so you hope that your thoughts get closer to his heart if you hug him like this.

Minho jumps back in surprise, hand gingerly resting against your hip for a split second before wrapping his arms fully around your waist and pulling you closer to him. His fingers dig into your skin gently in a warm embrace.

7…6…5…

Minho’s gesture is still taking root in your heart, everything he’s done for you from the moment you met, and all the things he continues to do. It’s all still processing in your head when something registers in your head. Blood rushes to your ears at the realization. This can’t be right.

A million thoughts rush through your head. Maybe it began with a few brushes of contact, so fleeting that if you blink, you’ll miss it—a hand on your back, a shoulder brushing against yours, thighs pressed together. Maybe it was in your stomach, the butterflies fluttering around that you had thought you’d imagined. Maybe it was in your heart, in its constant thrumming and the unidentifiable nudge you felt once in a while.

4…3…2…

You look up at your best friend, taking a good look at the small smile on his face. When he catches you staring, his mouth morphs into a smirk, but it doesn’t look as teasing as it usually does. His features are softened. You think it might be in how gentle his eyes look, gaze so soft.

There’s a look on his face when he looks at you, and you only realize it now—the look he reserves for his cats, and his stupid pudding. There is no better feeling than having the hope of reciprocation.

1…

“Happy New Year, loser.” He mumbles, and the way he’s smiling down at you right now could mute all the fireworks decorating the sky.

Oh no.

You’re falling in love again.

twelve.

Spring arrives overnight, like an unexpected guest. With each budding flower and unfurling petals and the chirps of birds early in the morning, you’re only reminded that things do get better. Spring’s sudden flurry signifies the coming of change in a sweet promise of healing. The barren branches of winter snow now adorn young flowers

You do nothing about your feelings for three months, allowing them to cement themselves deeply into your heart until you’re sure of how you feel. But you’re unsure if you can keep it in anymore, not when the petals of cherry blossoms float around Minho who’s walking next to you, like he always does.

It feels different, like there has always been a premonition of love sitting on your chest until it was the right moment. Like the young flowers growing from the barren branches of the winter snow, you feel your heart adorn a feeling that is blossoming.

It’s quiet, save from your footsteps and the rustling of petals around you. His eyes glisten with a certain warmth that no one can replicate, and it’s something you’ve grown familiar with. A confession is brewing in your throat, and you try to make it look like your mind isn’t reeling. You fail to consider the way Minho knows you like the back of his hand, watching you closely as your brows furrow purposefully.

“Something on your mind?”

The prospect of confessing to your best friend is scary, almost uncharted territory. The realization that you’ve fallen in love once again is even scarier. Your first love had left you with a kind of sadness that took some time to recover from, but being with Minho had made you believe in everything again, at a time when you thought your whole world had crashed down on you, at a time when you thought you’d never feel this way again.

He makes you happy, so screw everything else. Screw that fear. There is nothing else to do, but—

“I think I like you. No, I think I…” You blurt out, stabbing the silence.

The word is sitting on your throat, but it’s much harder to say out loud. Minho’s eyes widen, caught off guard by your words. He feels the need to reassure you, can see the way you’re bruising yourself over being unable to say it.

“Hey, you don’t have to say it right now.”

“But I do. And I… I need— I need to know how you feel… about me.” Your voice grows significantly quieter. You try to maintain eye contact, but it’s a little difficult when he’s looking at you like that. Doe eyes and soft lips parted.

He meets your eyes, as if searching for something. He looks so entirely Minho that it has your heart tumbling.

“I love you.”

“I… What?” Your heart fills with hope.

“I love you.” He says so easily, as if they had been words sitting in his mouth for a very long time. You look into his eyes, searching for any sign that would indicate any teasing, but you don’t find anything. You only find a type of genuineness and softness unique to him, when he’s stripping himself vulnerable in his truth.

“Do you really mean that?” Your breath is shallow, staring at him straight in the eye. You step closer to where he’s standing.

“I do.” Minho’s face visibly relaxes. “Ever since you visited my house for the first time and met Soonie, Doongie, and Dori.”

You remember that day as if it was yesterday. He’d been so excited to finally let you meet his cats, bag slung over his back as he tugged you towards his door. He’d stopped and stared when you crouched down to his cats’ heights, pulling out a few treats you had bought for them when Minho had told you you’d be meeting them. You thought nothing of it, nothing of the way his eyes flicker from you to his pets, lips curved into a small smile and eyes softening significantly. And then you realize that had been years ago. He had been in love with you for years.

“But that was… that was way before. That was…” You stutter over your own words, unable to believe that he had been harboring these emotions for such a long time, far longer than you could fathom.

“And I have loved you every single day after. Even when you wore those god awful bright red parts almost everyday.” He says, taking your hands in his. You snort at the memory.

“Minho, stop joking around.”

“Me? Joking around? I would never.” He brings your hands to his lips and presses a sweet kiss to your knuckles. “I’ve loved you, and I’ve loved past those pants, and your snot when you cry, and when you were puking over your toilet after drinking for the first time, and the crumbs you leave on my couch when you eat your chips.”

A soft laugh escapes you, and you jut your lips out in recollection of every single memory. He mirrors your laughter, eyes forming crescents. He’s been so good at hiding how you make him feel, but maybe if you looked close enough, you would’ve seen it.

“Now you’re just embarrassing me.”

“Hmm, but I love you.”

You crack a smile, even though it feels like you’re about to cry from the way your heart is aching from the overwhelmingness of Minho’s softness. It doesn’t take long before the tears start to form, laughter cracking in a stubborn way when a bubble forms in your throat.

“What are you doing? Are you crying?” He teases, letting go of your hands so he can hold your face in his hands, so he can see you better. There’s no need to answer him when it’s painfully obvious by the way he swipes at the tears on the corner of your eyes.

“I’m not!” You sniffle, letting your hands rest atop of his that’s still cupping your face. “Stop looking at me. This is so embarrassing.”

“Even more embarrassing than when you cried over milk when we were doing groceries?” He murmurs, thumb stroking up and down your cheeks and lips brushing over your face that it makes your heart contract.

“Okay, we don’t have to bring that back.” You pout, trying to will the tears away from your eyes. You fail, but it does make Minho laugh. “Why didn’t… If you loved me for so long, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because you were hurting. And I’ll always be your best friend before someone who’s been in love with you.” His words take root in your heart, injecting itself as he leans in even closer. Now you feel all soft and putty in his hands.

“Do you really mean all this?” You’re having a hard time believing that any of this could be true. Your voice falters as you speak, staring into his eyes but all he was fixated on was your lips.

“Mhm. I love you. Get used to it because I’m never saying this again.” His eyes light up, and it squeezes your heart. Then, his eyes flutter closed and he pulls you gently to his lips, finally closing the distance and allowing himself to fall into you freely, in the open. It’s slow and sweet, and it almost makes you tumble that you have to hold onto his shoulders to keep yourself standing.

He kisses you like he wants you to feel the love he’s kept locked up just for you, and you think you imagine the whimper that falls from his lips against yours. Minho keeps his hands on your cheeks, unable to touch you anywhere else, unable to act out on how in love he is with you. So, he keeps kissing you, and kissing you until he can cement every detail into his head.

When you break away from the kiss, he doesn’t fight back the giddy smile on his face, he doesn’t mask the softness he’d bared himself in front of you. Minho only rests his forehead against yours, leaning down to press a few kisses to your face.

You’ve never been this happy, never felt more love than in this moment. Second loves don’t get as much credit for the way they’re able to rebuild a heart you thought would be shattered for a long time. They don’t get enough recognition for the way they teach you that maybe your first love hadn’t been your first love after all. That maybe everything was meant to happen to lead you down a single winding path towards Minho’s heart. Maybe this has always been your predetermined destination.

In a few months, summer will come again, and you’ll be ready to move past the seasons with Minho, the way it was always meant to be.

note. u have made it to the end !!! let me know what you think :’) i hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i did writing it

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lenievi · 5 months ago

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My fave spones fics

It's spones day!, so I decided to finally publish this extremely subjective short list I wrote years ago (hence no new fics). If a link doesn't work, put it through a wayback machine.

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TOS McCoy/Spock romance, friendship, anything in between

A Man of Integrity by Jane Carnall. M. 18k. A mirror ‘verse story. Spock didn’t mind meld with McCoy, but kept him for long enough that the rest left without him. Will McCoy get back home? Written in 1989. (ao3)

Blue Under the Colourless Sky by vail-kagami (LJ). T. 4k. This. was. so. good. And melancholic. And bittersweet. And saying more would spoil it. (death is discussed)

Catharsis by babel. E. 40k+ still WIP. This is all I ever wanted from a McCoy/Spock fic. Follows season 1 of TOS. What if Spock and McCoy had an arrangement.

Coming Through in Waves by Cirth. T. 6k. “Spock dislikes doctors.” This was just lovely. A great character study from Spock’s POV. Includes room sharing and bathroom sharing.

Deepening of the Spirit by lynndyre. G. 1k. A short fic set after the last film. Sweet and warm, finally getting together after all those years.

Distances series by berlynn_wohl. G-E. 54k. The first story is pre-slash and can be read as a standalone mission fic. A nice series spanning years. Written in 2007.

Down The Long Corridors Of Air by Thistlerose. T. 7k. This is another fic that demonstrates quite well what I like in the pairing. “A circle has no end. Spock and McCoy over the years.” Spoilers up to ST VII. Written in 2009.

Further Study Needed by J. Rosemary Moss. G. 2k. Cute pre-canon fic. McCoy tries to teach Spock how to flirt. Pre-slash. Written in 2008.

My Little Town by Phoenix. M. 8k. Post-movies. McCoy’s mother dies, and McCoy goes back to Earth to sell the old house. Spock accompanies him. A bit sad, melancholic story where the two of them finally stop avoiding what’s between them.

something bright, traveling fast by lupinely. G. 7k. “After fal-tor-pan, Spock considers existence.“ Movie-era, really lovely.

Spock of Baker Street by K. V. Wylie. M. 18k. Crossover with Doctor Who. The Guardian of Forever “kidnaps” Spock and McCoy, and throws them into late 19th century Britain. They meet a guy named Arthur, and live at Baker Street. And investigate a murder. Established relationship.

Teshuvah by K. V. Wylie. PG. 20k. A reincarnation AU - i.e. McCoy gets to relive his life again.

The Secrets of Pine Cones by K. V. Wylie. PG. 9k. Movie-era. Married Mc/S. McCoy is observing Ramadan, and this year, after many years spend together, Spock stays at home and keeps him company for the first time. A very lovely fic, written from Spock’s POV.

Through A Glass, Darkly by Jane Carnall. M. 67k. mirror ‘verse. pon farr. mind bond. Written in 1988. (on ao3: prime spones part and the mirror spones 3-parter)

AOS McCoy/Spock

This Must Be The Place by therev. M. 38k. Spock learns that Spock Prime and his Leonard McCoy were in a relationship, and... This was one of the first mc/s fics I read, and it’s still among my favourites. It also showed me that aos!mccoy/spock could work. The mood is a bit melancholic (and perhaps a bit slice-of-life-ish), it’s set post-Beyond, and it has Joanna.

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also older spones fics recs (i.e. written before the reboot)

#you really can tell what i like in my spones from these tos fics :D #spones #spones day #spock #leonard mccoy #fic rec #I’m still awake so i’m just gonna post this

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riacte · 2 years ago

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“hold the line,” a familiar pfp on your dashboard declares. it’s a mutual. you don’t remember when you’ve followed them, you don’t remember when they’ve followed you, because they’ve always been there. you know their blorbo through osmosis, you know who they’ll campaign for. it’s a constant in mcytblr.

“hold the line,” you echo back, fingers trembling as you press the reddit app and carefully place a pixel. kermitcraft is now back to hermitcraft. good grief. the joke stopped being funny ages ago.

“vote for quackity!” “let’s go quackity let’s go!” you go back to tumblr. it’s 50/50. you watch with dazed eyes as the numbers change— 200, 45, 19, 8. they mean nothing, they mean everything. the thin line between grian and quackity fluctuates. your heart thumps, tense and anxious.

“hold the line!”

a ping from your discord, from your comrades in the r/hermitcraft server. not the lime green gme line starting up shit again. with a resigned sigh, you push the gme pixels back to their side.

“hold the line!”

the joehills stans are back. you voted for him in the first hour. you dutifully reblog the propaganda posts anyway. joe has lime green glasses. the gme line is lime green. refresh the stats page. still 50/50. hold the line.

“hold the line!”

oh god, not rogues on r/place. “please,” someone sobs, “we need to maintain peace with our biggest ally brasil.” we cannot afford another crisis. we must remain diplomatic. “HOLD THE LINE!” you blare into your microphone with a resounding @/everyone discord ping. we’ve got to keep our own people in check.

“hold the line!”

scar and techno’s fandoms are rallying. 20k votes, 30k votes, 40k votes. they rise to dizzying heights. another 50/50. there’s a spreadsheet. there’s fanart. there’s fanfic. your dash is in chaos. hold the line.

“hold the line!”

not the reddit void attacking, it creeps over and suffocates your pixels. regroup, rebuild, reapply the blush. it’s day three on r/place and it feels like forever. you’re obsessed. you’re getting too attached.

“hold the line!”

it’s the final minute. grian and quackity are trembling. messages fly by in your discord server as the countdown truly begins. it’s a reverse sweep, an underdog down to the very last second. we are in the metaphorical trenches. honourable allies, honourable enemies.

“hold the line!”

the gme line is our friend now, helping to maintain a sense of structure and stability after the void’s attack. the lime line is decorated with two nether portals. it’s cute. once upon a time, you hated those lime pixels. now, it’s your turn the place them.

“HOLD THE LINE!”

it comes from various people on your dash, text posts melting into one. time is ticking and running out. people are desperate jubilant relieved tense obsessed emotional joyous defeated victorious. we’ve lost track of the days and nights. new accounts flood in. they say the end is coming.

there’s a break.

the canvas expands again.

the fandom regroups.

there’s a break.

new colours are added, a beautiful collision of vibrancy.

(somewhere, someone posts their 8th picture of themselves as their sexyman campaign.)

(somewhere, someone adds a pixel of blush to a beloved mural.)

they say the end is coming. we’re exhausted, energised, exhilarated. so when someone says,

“hold the line—“

you hold onto it. grip onto it with your fingers, knuckles bleeding from countless cactus circles.

you hold the damn line.

#mcytblrsexymen #mcytblr sexymen poll #r/place #ria.fic #sorry 4 being insane 🙏 i was hungry #mcyt

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kingofbodyrolls · 1 year ago

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Coming Home (m) | PJM | Part one

When your best friend, Park Jimin, who you’ve had a crush on since forever, suggests you stay at his house to heal and find yourself again after a series of traumatizing events had haunted you for years, you don’t hesitate to accept. Within those walls, a safe haven is woven, where wounds can heal and memories find release. As he nurtures your shattered spirit, an unexpected intimacy unfurls, leaving the fragile barrier between friendship and deeper emotions in question - can you keep your feelings hidden?

→ Pairing: Jimin x reader (female, “Y/N”) → Other characters: Yoongi, Hoseok, Seokjin, OC (female, she is the therapist) and another OC (male, he is the perp). Also readers parents and mention of Jimin's. → AUs: Best friends to lovers!au, detective!jimin → Genres/themes: thriller/dark, yandere vibes, slice of life, healing after trauma, angst, smut and fluff. → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 → Word count: 20k → Warnings: Mention of past abuse and sexual assault (r*pe), trauma, stalking, trust issues, insecurities, thriller vibes, angst, fluff, slice of life, healing after trauma (including therapy sessions), blood (only in the beginning), BIG feelings, protective Jimin, previous character death (a parent), Jimin being soft and loving, self defense. → Disclaimer about warnings: I know nothing about sexual or physical abuse (I only know psychological because I experienced that, not in a sexual context though). This story is fiction, I do not mean to say that this is how one would go through their emotions or handle this situation. This is a delicate and fragile subject, so proceed with caution. I also know nothing about police work or the work in emergency/hospitals. Also, I don’t own BTS or know how they would act in a similar situation. This story is purely fiction, a fragment of my imagination. They just inspire me so much 💜

Cross posted to AO3!

→ Taglist: @thelilbutifulthings

| s.masterlist | m.masterlist | next →

Rain pelts down relentlessly, each drop a sharp reminder of the danger chasing you.

The downpour blurs the line between raindrops and tears as they cascade down your face.

Clothes cling to your skin, suffocating, strangling.

Keep moving, keep running, the mantra plays on a loop in your mind.

With each pounding heartbeat, the echo of footsteps grows louder. The adrenaline coursing through your veins drowns out the sound of the rain, but the fear in your heart is deafening.

Each breath is a desperate gasp, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and the promise of danger lurking in the shadows.

Every second counts, and the darkness seems to conspire against your escape, threatening to swallow you whole. Amidst the chaos, doubt gnaws at your resolve.

Why did things have to turn out this way?

Could you have done something differently?

But you push those thoughts away; now is not the time for self-doubt.

The world around you blurs, but your heart beats like a war drum, urging you to escape the nightmare chasing your every step. Clenching your fits, you find a sliver of strength and determination within yourself, vowing to fight until the very end.

Your tears mix with the rain, blurring your vision again, but you can’t afford to stop. The pain in your chest isn’t just from exhaustion; it’s the weight of a thousand regrets and shattered dreams.

Memories flash before your eyes like lightning strikes, and you wonder if you’ll ever get a normal life again. But amidst the turmoil, one thought anchors you: survival.

The empty streets seem to stretch endlessly, dim streetlights casting flickering shadows that dance around you. An eerie feeling tightens in your chest - what if he had followed you?

Exhaustion gnaws at your limbs as you continue to run, legs turning to jelly beneath you. In the distance, a familiar fence and yard comes into view, you feel a twinge of hope surrounding your heart.

You quicken your pace, stumbling forward, almost there.

The front door is within reach, and relief wash over you.

You slam your body against the door, desperate for refuge. Pain sears through your shoulder, but you hardly notice.

Knocking feverishly, you hope someone, anyone, will answer in this dark hour. But the silence that follows only heightens the fear bubbling within you.

The wind whispers, carrying with it haunting whispers that seem to echo your own terror.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

His eyes snap open, frustration already creeping into his mind. What in the world is going on outside this time?

Those blasted drunk teenagers just never seem to learn, do they? Groaning, he begrudgingly leaves the comfort of his bed, fatigue tugging at every step he takes down the hall to the front door.

Should he open it and scold them?

Or maybe he should just yell from inside?

“Go home and sleep it off!” he yells, clenching his jaw with irritation.

Just as he turns to retreat to his bed, the knocking grows louder and more insistent. He can’t ignore it any longer, and what’s worse, he hears someone crying amidst the chaos. Mortified by the possibility that someone might be hurt, he gives in and opens the door.

What greets him, he had not expected at all.

You.

As the door swings open, your heart leaps with relief, and tears of joy blur your vision.

There he is, Jimin, your best friend of countless years, his dark brown eyes locking into yours.

Without a second thought, you rush inside, seeking refuge in the familiar space of his home.

Your back collides with the nearest wall, and you bury your face in your hands, overcome with emotions you’ve been holding back for too long. Jimin is taken aback by your sudden appearance, his mind racing to process what just happened, as he runs a hand through his dark locks.

It takes a moment for him to register that it’s in fact you, his dearest friend, standing before him after a long period of time. He can’t help but look you up and down, trying to find words that seem to escape him in this moment of surprise and bewilderment.

His eyes widen, mouth agape, as he struggles to comprehend the sight before him.

“Close and lock the door, dammit!” your voice trembles, the fear palpable in every syllable. Shivering uncontrollably, you stand on the threshold of his home, vulnerable and on edge.

Jimin snaps out of his stupor and hurriedly complies, shutting the door in a swift motion. He watches you, torn between terror and warmth reflected in his eyes. Seeing you in such distress, his heart aches, but he knows not how to ease your pain.

You stand here, trembling and panting, a state he’s never witnessed before. Without hesitation, he pulls you into a comforting embrace, but your body remains unresponsive, numb to the touch.

“What in the world happened to you?!” Jimin’s eyes widen in shock as he tightly grips your arms, searching for answers in your tear-filled eyes. You can’t meet his gaze and instead fidget with your fingers, the burden of your secret weighing heavy on your heart.

With a sudden realization, Jimin’s eyes dart downward, and he gasps as he sees your bare and bloodied feet.

“OMG! You are bleeding! Did you run here barefoot? What happened?” he urgently asks, his mind racing with concern.

He rushes into the kitchen, his voice a mix of worry and instructions to stay put. You can’t find the words to explain, so you merely nod as he returns with bandages and a glass of water.

The sound of your sobbing fills the room as Jimin carefully tends to your injured feet, his hands gentle and comforting. He’s always been there for you, a pillar of support, and in this moment, you’re reminded of why he’s your best friend.

The glass of water he hands you feels like salvation, a small act of kindness that speaks volumes about the bond you share.

As the silence envelopes the room, you take a deep breath, unsure of how to articulate the series of events that led you here.

Jimin sits besides you, his presence a source of solace, and you feel a flicker of courage to share your pain. You know that you can trust him, that he’ll listen without judgment, and that thought alone is enough to make you feel a little less alone.

“We need to get you to a doctor,” Jimin begins to say, but you immediately shake your head, chanting ‘no’ repeatedly, your heart pounding in your chest. An uneasiness settles in Jimin’s expression, his concern growing with every passing second.

“You have been missing for five fucking years!” Jimin’s voice raises, a mix of frustration and desperation evident in his tone. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and implores you to slow down and relax.

The gravity of his words sinks in, and your whole world comes to a halt.

Five years? It couldn’t have been more than a few months, you think in disbelief.

You lock eyes with him, and the floodgates of your emotions burst open. What started as sobs turns into pained screams and gut-wrenching cries. Your whole body vibrates with anguish, and in that moment, you find comfort in Jimin’s embrace.

Being in his arms feels like coming home, and you instantly feel safe, your body beginning to relax under his touch.

“I have to call the police, Y/N, and you know that,” Jimin says with a heavy heart. Deep down, you know he’s right, but the thought of facing what happened to you is terrifying.

You nod, trying to hold back the tears that fall from your red, swollen eyes, the realization of your missing years cruising you from all sides.

Jimin leads you into the kitchen, gesturing for you to take a seat on a worn stool beside the counter.

As you sit down, your eyes wander around the room, landing on familiar photos adorning the walls. Some feature Jimin, his family, and others of you both together, capturing moments of laughter and joy. A bittersweet smile tugs at your lips as you remember the warmth of those times.

Jimin’s presence beside you is both comforting and heartbreaking. The burden of the past five years hangs heavily in the air, unspoken but palpable.

Despite the reunion, a sense of distance lingers between you, as if the chasm of time has carved an unbridgeable gap.

“Y/N, I have to make the call now,” he says softly, his voice laced with concern.

“I promise I’ll find you some new clothes and finish taking care of your feet afterward” his words are reassuring, but you can’t help the unease gnawing at your heart.

The prospect of facing the consequences of your disappearance looms before you, and you can’t help but wonder how much has changed in your absence. You glance at the photos once more, your smile now tinged with melancholy. The memories they hold are precious, reminders of the bond you share with Jimin, but they also serve as a reminder of the time you can never get back.

As Jimin steps away to make the call, you find solace in the familiarity of the kitchen, a place that once felt like a second home. The creaking of the floorboards and the faint scent of a home cooked meal bring a sense of nostalgia, but the gravity of the present is too heavy to ignore.

Uncertainty lingers like a shadow, and you wonder how your life will unfold from this point on.

Still sobbing, you watch as Jimin rushes around the house, his voice firm and commanding as he makes the urgent phone call.

“It’s Y/N! You have to come now. Yes! Y/N! Get your asses down here. Get all of them!”

The gravity of the situation settles heavily in the room, leaving you both anxious. Jimin returns with a first aid kit, his eyebrows furrowed with concern. He kneels before you, gently inspecting your injured feet again. The pain is excruciating, and you instinctively pull away, hissing at the contact.

“It hurts” you cry out, tears streaming down your cheeks.

His worried gaze meets yours, his heart breaking at the sight of your pain.

“I bet it does… Where have you been?… I have so many questions,” he says, gesturing with his hands. As you place your feet back in his hands, he notices the depth of the cuts, and his concern deepens.

He realizes that you must have endured a long and harrowing journey to get such severe injuries. You find it hard to answer his questions; there’s so much to say, yet the words fail to form, you feel a mix of guilt, fear, and relief at being found, but the overwhelming weight of the past five years makes it difficult to find the right words.

So you remain silent, unable to provide the answers he seeks. Jimin accepts your silence for now, recognizing that the wounds go far beyond the physical cuts.

He gently tends to your injuries with gauze and the bandages from earlier, his touch a mixture of tenderness and sorrow.

The unspoken questions hang in the air, leaving both of you grappling with the uncertainty of the future. You both forget the prospect of a new change of the clothes he promised as time tickles by.

About ten minutes later, a sharp knocking at the door sends a shiver down your spine, and you freeze in place. Jimin offers reassurance, but the anxiety hangs heavy in the air as he walks to open the door.

In come a group of uniformed police officers, and trailing behind them, you spot medics from the ambulance.

The realization that your disappearance is something serious only adds to the anxiety gnawing at your heart.

One of the officers stands out from the rest, with mint hair that catches your attention. He exchanges greetings with Jimin, referring to him as ‘Detective Park’, and you deduce that they must work together.

It dawns on you that Jimin has achieved his childhood dream of becoming a detective. It pulls at your heart strings, proudness filling your heart.

The man with mint hair approaches you, introducing himself as Detective Min Yoongi. His calm and composed demeanor sets you at ease momentarily. “Hey Y/N, is it alright if I ask you some questions?” he says, his voice smooth and unwavering.

As the atmosphere fills with tension and unspoken questions, you brace yourself for what lies ahead.

The presence of the police and the sudden arrival of the whole police squad hint at the gravity of the situation, leaving everybody in the room on edge.

The minutes tick by, and the gravity of your disappearance and the uncertainty of the future loom large.

“Dammit Min! Let us take care of her first before you make her re-play what happened to her!” An unfamiliar voice shouts, the paramedic’s frustration evident in the sharp tone.

You glance over and see a tall man with broad shoulders approaching, carrying a bag of medical supplies. Behind him, a younger guy with a smile as bright as the sun follows closely.

The tension in the room heightens as Detective Yoongi steps aside to let the two medics pass.

The tall man’s protective stance and the younger guy’s warm demeanor catch your attention. Their presence offers a glimmer of relief amidst the uncertainty that surrounds you.

The paramedic’s concern is palpable, and you feel a wave of gratitude for someone looking out for you in this disorienting moment.

Detective Yoongi, on the other hand, seems resolute in his approach, keen on getting to the bottom of what happened.

The conflict between his determination and the medics’ insistence on prioritizing your well-being leaves you torn and uncertain of what to expect next.

As the medics attend to you, their professionalism and care give you a sense of security. The man with the broad shoulders, voice’s boldness in defending you feels like a comforting aid, assuring you that you’re not alone in facing whatever ordeal lies ahead.

With a mix of emotions swirling inside you, the room becomes a whirlwind of activity.

“Hi. I’m Seokjin, and this is my buddy, Hoseok. We’re going to take a look at your cuts on your feet and determine if you have to ride with us to the hospital, okay?”

Seokjin’s voice is gentle and comforting as he introduces himself and Hoseok. They both exchange a side-eye with detective Min, unimpressed by his approach.

You feel a glimmer of relief at the soothing tone of the medics, finding comfort in their presence. You allow the paramedics to tend to your feet, the pain and discomfort still fresh from your barefoot run. Hoseok unwraps the bandages Jimin had put on you, inspects your feet and notices the bruises. Instantly, you withdraw your legs, hiding them under your gown, as if trying to shield yourself from further scrutiny.

The sudden attention draws everyone’s gaze, making you feel exposed and vulnerable.

“I, I…” you stammer, looking down, afraid to share the source of your bruises.

Your voice trails off, and fear grips your heart. However, the medics’ caring demeanor slowly breaks through your defenses, reminding you that they are here to help, not harm.

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore,” Seokjin says, reaching out to place a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

You flinch, instinctively trying to pull away from the touch, unable to fully accept comfort in this moment.

Hoseok and Seokjin exchange a knowing glance, understanding the depth of your unease.

Instead of pushing further, they give you space and time to process. Their empathy creates a safe space, allowing you to slowly open up and trust in their care.

With their gentle presence and understanding, you start to feel a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, you can get through this.

As the paramedics continue to tend to your injuries, you notice that all the police officers have circled around Jimin, engaging in small talk.

The room feels charged with tension, and you can tell that Jimin is both grateful for their support and eager to ensure that you receive the care you need. Jimin’s gaze shifts back to you, concern evident in his eyes as he observes the way you deflect any attempts at physical touch.

His mind races, trying to understand the reasons behind your reaction. He’s torn between joining the police officers and focusing on your well-being. Hoseok’s interruption brings him back to the present.

“We should take her to the hospital to get checked,” he suggests, pulling Jimin’s attention away from the crowd. “It’s hard to determine the extent of her injuries here.”

Jimin’s heart sinks at the realization that your injuries might be more severe than he initially thought. He feels a sense of urgency to ensure that you receive proper medical attention, yet he knows that he can’t push you to do something you’re not comfortable with.

“I’ll go with her,” Jimin says, the determination in his voice clear.

He glances back at the police officers, who nod in understanding. They trust his judgment and know that your well-being is his top priority.

As Hoseok and Seokjin prepare to take you to the hospital, Jimin steps beside you, offering a gentle smile.

“You don’t have to worry. We’ll all take care of you” he reassures, his voice soft and comforting. He understands that you may be hesitant, but he’s determined to support you every step of the way.

With Jimin’s unwavering support, you find a flicker of reassurance amidst the uncertainty.

“Jin is just going to get the stretcher from the ambulance, and then we can go to the hospital,” Hoseok says reassuringly. You nod, the load of exhaustion settling heavily on your shoulders.

Your body feels like it weighs a ton, and even the simplest tasks seem daunting. Seokjin arrives with the stretcher, and you manage to sit down with the help of Hoseok.

“Please lie down, and we will secure you.” he says with an encouraging smile. The softness of his voice offers a glimmer of comfort amidst the chaos.

At your side, Detective Min Yoongi appears, determined to take your statement.

The idea of reliving the events feels overwhelming, and you shake your head, too tired to delve into the details.

“I think it will be alright for her to get checked out at the hospital first, no?” Seokjin suggests, his voice firm yet understanding.

The conflict between the detective and the paramedics become apparent, each prioritizing their own objectives. Detective Yoongi grumbles his acceptance, a begrudging nod signaling his reluctant agreement.

As the paramedics wheel you out of Jimin’s house and towards the waiting ambulance, you feel a mix of emotions - exhaustion, uncertainty, and relief.

The events of the night have taken a toll, and the path ahead remains uncertain. But for now, you take solace in the reassurance of the paramedics and the support of Jimin and his colleagues.

On the way out, Jimin informs you that he’ll follow in his car since he couldn’t be with you in the ambulance.

You’re secretly relieved that the paramedics insisted on you riding alone.

In the ambulance, Hoseok gently tends to your feet again, his touch soft and comforting as he removes the gauze. You wince as he cleans the wounds properly, the pain a sharp reminder of the night’s events.

“How come you have all these cuts on your feet?” Hoseok’s voice carries a mix of curiosity and concern, and you can sense his genuine desire to understand and help. He wraps your feet in fresh bandages, his soothing gaze never leaving you.

“I ran barefoot,” you offer a simple answer, not yet ready to delve into the details.

“But why were you not wearing any shoes?” Hoseok persists, his gentle tone an attempt to coax the truth from you.

“I didn’t have time to grab them” you reply, turning your head away, already weary of the questions.

Hoseok’s caring eyes sweep over you, and he notices the black and yellow discolorations on your legs and arms. His concern deepens as he observes the evidence of further injuries.

“I know you’re tired and don’t like me asking questions, but I need to ask some to help you, you know?” he explains, trying to establish a connection with you.

You flinch when he places his hand on your skin, feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Memories of the past five years flood your mind, and you can’t help but pull away, mortified by the unwanted touch. The burden of your experiences is heavy, and sharing them feels like an insurmountable task.

Yet, amidst your discomfort, you find a glimmer of hope in Hoseok’s genuine concern, knowing that he may be the one to help you find the strength to voice the events.

You take a deep breath, feeling your heart pounding in your chest. You know you must tell Hoseok, and later, Detective Yoongi too. Gathering all your courage and mental strength, you feel your body tense as you prepare to share the painful truth.

“I was abducted and abused,” you say in a faint, low voice, your eyes darting away, unsure about the reaction you'll receive.

The weight of the words hangs heavily in the air, and you feel Hoseok’s presence, supportive and patient, as you struggle to find the right words.

You take another breath, steadying yourself before continuing, “And sexually assaulted” you whisper, almost as if speaking any louder would cause the memories to become too overpowering.

The silence that follows feels suffocating, but you know you can’t take back what you’ve shared.

Your vulnerability lies bare before Hoseok, and you wonder how he’ll respond. In this moment of revelation, you realize that speaking about your past is just the beginning of a journey towards healing.

You brace yourself for what comes next, hoping that the weight of your experiences will now be shared, lessening the burden you’ve carried for so long.

Hoseok looks at you, his eyes glistening with tears he’s trying to hold back, not wanting to cry in front of you.

“Y/N, fuck, I’m so, so sorry that happened to you” he murmurs, his voice is filled with raw emotion. He attempts to give you a reassuring smile. But the pain in his eyes betrays the facade.

The weight of your trauma hangs heavy in the air, making the atmosphere in the ambulance feel dense and suffocating. For the rest of the ride, Hoseok falls silent, the words caught in his throat.

The ambulance finally stops, and the doors open, revealing the outside world again.

As they wheel you out of the vehicle, Seokjin notices the tension between you and Hoseok. Concerned, he asks what happened, his gaze shifting between the two of you.

Hoseok hesitates, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. He’s torn between sharing the information with Jin and wanting to protect you from further pain.

In the end, he decides to keep his head down, the weight of the unspoken words hanging in the air. Feeling drowsy, you manage to recount the horrifying events to Seokjin, who listens with sadness in his eyes.

His reassurance that you’re safe now provides some comfort amidst the overwhelming emotions. “You should agree to get the sexual assault kit done. Maybe they can find the guy in the system, you never know.” he suggests, his concern evident in his voice.

As they wheel you inside the hospital, you find yourself surrounded by a team of doctors and nurses ready to help. Hoseok’s presence beside you provides a sense of security, and you notice how he smiles at a particular nurse with a boxy smile, displaying a reassuring camaraderie.

Suddenly, a thought crosses your mind “Jimin?” you ask, looking at Hoseok for reassurance.

“He will be right behind you in a moment. He’s probably parking his car” Hoseok assures you, waving as he and his partner step back outside.

As the nurses wheel you further into the hospital, you feel a mix of emotions - fear, exhaustion, and relief.

The trauma you’ve experienced still weighs heavily on your mind, but the support and care from those around you offer a glimmer of hope.

You take a deep breath, knowing that you’re in good hands, and that with the help of the hospital team, the police and your best friend, you’re one step closer to finding justice and healing.

Jimin keeps a short distance to the ambulance, his heart pounding in his chest as he refuses to lose track of it.

With each passing second, the urgency in his movements grows.

When the ambulance finally arrives at the hospital, he finds himself racing to find a parking space, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of you.

The ambulance is fortunate to park in front of the emergency department doors, allowing medical personnel to respond swiftly.

Jimin spots a free parking spot not too far away and practically dumps his car, almost forgetting to lock it in his haste. He dashes to the front doors, his feet carrying him as fast as they can.

As he approaches the emergency department, he spots the ambulance parked to the side, with Hoseok and Seokjin standing outside, restocking items.

His heart sinks at the sight of the ambulance, knowing that you’re probably inside, dealing with the aftermath of what must be a traumatic event.

Jimin’s emotions are a whirlwind - concern, worry, and determination. He knows he needs to be there for you, to offer support and comfort during this difficult time.

With a deep breath, he pushes forward, determined to be by your side.

Jimin arrives, panting and out of breath, his heart pounding as he seeks answers. As he reunites with Hoseok and Seokjin, his gaze instinctively searches for you, hoping to see you safe and cared for.

Your journey to healing has just begun, and Jimin is resolute in his commitment to stand by you every step of the way.

He greets Hoseok with a worried smile, but something is off. Hoseok’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, a telltale sign that something serious has happened.

“What happened?” he asks, the concern evident in his voice, upset that something has clearly affected his dear friend.

“It’s better that Y/N tells you…” Hoseok replies, turning away from Jimin, reluctant to share the details.

Jimin isn’t satisfied with that response.

Their years of friendship have given him the ability to sense when something is wrong with Hoseok. He reaches out, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, silently urging him to open up.

Seokjin intervenes, understanding the need to share the truth. He places his hands on the two friends, offering his support. With a sigh, he encourages Hoseok to speak.

“She was assaulted…”

Hoseok finally reveals, his voice carrying the weight of your trauma. Jimin freezes, his heart sinking at the revelation. He struggles to process the information, grappling with a mix of shock, anger, and a fierce desire to protect you.

“How?”

Jimin asks in a stern voice, determined to understand the details despite his internal turmoil. He knows he needs to be strong for you, but the truth is overwhelming. He braces himself for the answers, ready to face whatever comes next.

“... Sexually”

Hoseok’s usual sunshine and brightness vanished, leaving the outdoors heavy with the weight of the revelation. Jimin felt the anger take root in his body, making his blood boil. He was furious that such a thing could happen to you, and he regretted not being there to prevent it.

The surge of emotions overwhelmed him; he couldn’t bear the thought of you going through such pain.

“Thanks” he muttered, his voice tinged with urgency, and turned towards the doors in a hurry. He had to see you, make sure you were alright given the circumstances, and let you know he would be there for you no matter what.

But before he could leave, Hoseok’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

Turning back, he faced his friend, his heart pounding in his chest.

“There’s one more thing you should know…” Hoseok began, his expression filled with genuine sadness. Jimin braced himself for more devastating details, but nothing could have prepared him for what came next.

“She was also abused. Liked multiple times… probably over a long period of time.” Hoseok said with a frown, the burden of the truth evident in his words.

“What!?”

Jimin almost shouted, his emotions spiraling out of control. The reality of what you endured felt too much to bear. He needed to see you, to hold you close and reassure you that you were safe now.

Determination and love swelled within him, driving him forward. He had to be there for you, to let you know that he loved you and that he would protect you with everything he had.

As you settle into your hospital room, you feel grateful for the solitude, thankful to be the only patient in it at the moment.

The nurse with the boxy smile, Taehyung, you learned, tends to you with professionalism and attentiveness, his reassuring smiles putting you at ease. His presence feels like a calming force amidst the turmoil of recent events.

As he ensures your comfort, he gently inquires about what happened to you, just like the paramedics did earlier. Taking a deep breath, you recount the harrowing experience, trusting Taehyung to listen without judgment. His genuine concern is evident as he nods in understanding, offering you unwavering support.

Remembering Seokjin’s suggestion about the assault kit, you express your willingness to go through with it. Taehyung agrees that it’s a good idea and asks if you’d feel more comfortable with a female coworker conducting the examination.

You contemplate the option for a moment, acknowledging your vulnerability in this situation. Finally, you decide to have a female nurse perform the exam but request Taehyung to be present by your side for comfort.

“I’d appreciate having you there,” you say, appreciating the calm and caring energy he exudes. Taehyung nods warmly, assuring you that he’ll be right there to support you through the process.

The hospital room takes on a sense of tranquility as you put your trust in Taehyung, knowing that you’re in capable hands.

As Taehyung explains the process of the examination, you feel anxiety wash over you. The police involvement is a daunting prospect, but you're grateful that Jimin is part of it.

When the door opens, and Jimin steps in, a sense of comfort washes over you, his familiar presence easing your tension.

“—You Taehyung?” Jimin asks, panting, concern evident in his expression as he approaches your bed. Taehyung stands in front of Jimin, almost like a shield, protective of you.

“Yes” Taehyung responds firmly.

“Who are you?” he asks, sizing Jimin up with a discerning look.

“I’m a friend of Y/N. Detective Park Jimin” he replies, his eyes searching your face and body for any signs of discomfort.

“Oh.” Taehyung mutters, stepping aise to give Jimin space by your side. You try to sound tough, assuring Jimin that you’re fine, but he sees through the facade.

“You’re in no shape or form fine, and it’s okay to acknowledge that,” Jimin says, grabbing a chair and sitting down beside you, his supporting gesture speaking volumes.

When you ask if Jimin can be present during the examination, Taehyung hesitates for a moment before agreeing, on the condition that he sees Jimin’s identification. You feel relieved when Jimin shows his badge, securing his place by your side.

“I don’t have to be here if you’re uncomfortable with it, Y/N” Jimin says gently, squeezing your hand reassuringly and you feel your cheeks blush.

“I would prefer you. I don’t want somebody from the police that I don’t know” you reply, squeezing his hand back, the trust and affection between you two evident.

“Okay then. I’ll just get a female nurse to come and do the vaginal exam now” Taehyung says, leaving the room with a mix of sadness and determination in his eyes.

The weight of the situation settles in, but with Jimin by your side, you feel stronger and more ready to face what comes next.

The vaginal examination has been anything but pleasant, but you’re grateful that Jimin stayed by your side the whole time, providing a sense of security amidst the discomfort.

After the female nurse and Taehyung leave the room, you find yourself alone with Jimin again.

His presence is both comforting and unsettling, and you can sense the burden of unspoken questions between you. Jimin’s eyebrows keep furrowing as he paces the room, a clear sign of the many inquiries swirling in his mind.

You can tell he wants to ask you so many things, but he’s also aware of the sensitivity of the situation.

He starts to speak a few times but falls silent just as quickly, understanding that this may not be the right moment. Time seems to stretch on, with each passing moment carrying the weight of unspoken words.

The room is filled with an atmosphere of both comfort and tension, the air charged with emotions that neither of you knows quite how to express.

You feel the urge to break the silence, to tell Jimin everything that has happened, but the words catch in your throat.

It’s hard to put into words the trauma you’ve experienced, the pain you’ve endured. It was easier to tell the paramedics and Taehyung, because they aren’t as close to you.

There’s a fear that sharing the details might make it all too real, and might make Jimin think less of you.

Yet, in the midst of the silence, you find a sense of solace in Jimin’s presence. There’s an unspoken understanding between you, a deep connection that doesn’t require words. You know he’s there for you, ready to listen and support you whenever you’re ready to share.

As Jimin continues to pace, you catch his eye and manage a small, appreciative smile. It’s a signal that you’re not quite ready to talk yet, but you’re thankful for his presence. The gesture seems to ease some of the tension in the room, and Jimin’s features soften.

For now, you both find comfort in the silence, knowing that when the time is right, you’ll have each other to lean on. In this moment of vulnerability and uncertainty, the unspoken words between you carry more weight than any spoken ones ever could.

The silence in the room is broken by the entrance of Taehyung, a warm smile on his face. Despite the gentle expression the news he brings sends a shiver down your spine.

“Hey Y/N,” he begins, “I just wanted to let you know that we have called your parents, and they are on their way”.

You freeze at the mention of your parents.

Jimin looks at you, sensing your sudden unease.

Taehyung, on the other hand, seems momentarily puzzled by the tension in the room before it dawns on him.

“Shit. You didn't want them to know…” he trails off, his eyes dropping to the floor with a sense of defeat.

In a small and timid voice, you ask, “What did you tell them?”.

Taehyungs’s reply is gentle but regretful, “Only that you are in the hospital, nothing else”. He offers an apology, acknowledging that calling the emergency contact is standard procedure. You can see the sincerity in his eyes as he feels remorse for causing you further distress.

The conflicting emotions inside you are overwhelming.

Part of you wants your parents’ support and comfort during this difficult time, but another part dreads their reaction, fearing their judgment and disappointment.

You glance at Jimin, hoping to find relief in his presence. Jimin, sensing your distress, reaches out to hold your hand, offering silent support. Taehyung seems to understand the complexity of the situation and takes a step back, giving you both some space.

“Thank you, Taehyung,” you finally manage to say, appreciating his concern and understanding, “I just… I’m not sure how they will react.”

Taehyung nods, his expression sympathetic, “I understand. I’m sorry for any added stress this may have caused you. If you want, I can talk to them on your behalf, explain the situation.”

You consider his offer, grateful for his willingness to help. “Let me think about it” you reply, feeling torn but also relieved that Taehyung is willing to be a buffer between you and your parents.

As Taehyung leaves the room, you turn to Jimin, squeezing his hand tightly.

“I’m scared, Jimin. I don’t know how they’ll react, and I don’t want to burden them with all of this.”

Jimin’s eyes soften with understanding.

“We’ll face it together, Y/N,” he assures you.

“Whatever happens, I’m here for you, and we’ll navigate through this together”. In that moment, you realize the true depth of Jimin’s care and support.

The room falls into silence, and you find solace under the duvet, hiding your body away from the world. Jimin takes a seat beside your bed, the concern evident in his eyes.

“I know you don’t want to tell your parents everything that happened,” he begins gently, searching for a way to support you without pushing too much.

“But maybe you could just… not tell them all of it” he offers, his voice soft with compassion.

You’re taken aback by his suggestion.

How could he know what you’re going through?

You hadn’t even had the guts to confide in him yet. “Did the paramedics tell you what happened to me?” you ask timidly, avoiding his gaze as you fidget with the duvet and your fingers.

Jimin’s heart breaks at the vulnerability in your voice.

He nods, his eyes filled with sorrow.

“I’ve been friends with Hoseok for some time, so I asked him to tell me,” he admits, squeezing your hand gently.

“He didn’t want to. I’m sorry, I know I should have asked you instead.”

You finally meet his gaze, seeing the pain and empathy in his eyes.

“It’s okay,” you reply softly. “I understand why you wanted to know, and I appreciate your concern.”

Talking about what happened is difficult for you, and you appreciate Jimin’s effort to understand without pushing you to share more than you’re comfortable with for now.

“I don’t know if I can tell my parents everything,” you admit, the burden of the trauma pressing down on your shoulders. Jimin doesn’t push; he simply listens and holds your hand, a silent source of comfort.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” he assures you.

“Take your time. Whatever you choose to share, I’ll support you, and so will your parents” you nod, feeling a sense of relief wash over you knowing that Jimin will be there for you, no matter what.

“Thank you” you whisper, feeling grateful for his unwavering support and understanding.

The room fills with a quiet understanding, the unspoken bond between you and Jimin providing comfort and reassurance. As you face the difficult road ahead, you find strength in knowing you’re not alone, and that you have someone who cares deeply for you by your side.

“So you’re suggesting that I only tell them that I was abducted and nothing more?” you ponder out loud, turning to Jimin for guidance.

He nods his head in understanding, his expression gentle and reassuring. The burden of the decision feels heavy on your shoulders, torn between protecting your parents and seeking solace in their support.

A sudden knock at the door statles you, causing your head to whip around in panic.

The dreadful feeling in your body intensities, fearing that it might be your parents. Thankfully, it's Detective Yoongi who enters, peeking his head in. You remember him from earlier, and his presence makes your heart race.

“Hello, Y/N, how are you doing?” he greets you, a mix of professionalism and concern in his voice. Jimin acknowledges him with a nod as the detective approaches the other side of your bed.

“Ehm, okay, all things considered, I think” you reply, trying to steady your breath because you know exactly why he is here and where this conversation is heading.

Detective Yoongi’s gaze softens, and you can sense his desire to help and understand.

“I’ve spoken with Hoseok, and I know it’s been a difficult time for you. We’re here to support you, Y/N. Can you tell us anything about the person who abducted you? Any details you remember?”

Yoongi looks at you and then glances at Jimin, seeking his approval. Jimin meets your eyes, searching for any sign of discomfort, when finding none, he nods and gives your hand a soft squeeze, providing reassurance.

Jimin’s grip on your hand tightens, his protective instincts kicking in.

“She’s been through a lot, Hyung.”

Detective Yoongi nods in understanding, recognizing the delicate situation. “Of course. Take all the time you need, Y/N” he says, conveying his support and patience.

You take a deep breath and begin recounting the night five years ago, the events that led to your abduction, and the aftermath.

As you mention Jimin’s presence there that night, you see his reaction, the anguish and pain etched across his face. You feel a pang of sadness witnessing his emotional turmoil in response to your words.

The Detective listens attentively, his professional demeanor mixed with compassion, creating a safe space for you to share your story.

With every word you speak, the burden of the past bears down on you, and the memories threaten to consume you. Jimin’s unwavering presence beside you offers some comfort, a salvation in the storm of emotions.

It had gone late, and everybody was going home, some of your friends talked about taking a taxi, but you had declined, saying it was only a short walk home for you.

The streets were eerily quiet, lit only by the dim glow of streetlights. The chilling wind sent shivers down your spine, and a sense of unease settled in the pit of your stomach as you walked down the familiar path to the forest.

If only you had chosen to take the taxi, like Jimin had suggested, none of this would have happened, you think now, replaying the nightmarish events in your mind.

As you walked home, you heard the unmistakable sound of a car approaching from the side. At first, you brushed it off, but then a window rolled down, and a man’s voice called out to you, offering a ride.

You declined, trying to keep calm.

But he persisted, his words becoming more sinister with each attempt to lure you in.

Your heart pounded in your chest as the car suddenly accelerated, blocking your path.

Panic surged through your veins, and you froze in your tracks, fear paralyzing your body.

Before you could react the driver lunged at you, grabbing you from behind.

You fought with every ounce of strength, but his grip was unyielding. Your desperate attempts to break free only fueled his aggression. A harsh chemical smell filled your nostrils as he forced a cloth over your mouth.

The world around you blurred, and darkness enveloped your senses. Your mind became hazy, and you lost track of time, lost track of yourself.

As you recount the horrifying memory, tears stream down your cheeks like a heavy downpour, mingling with the raw emotions that have been suppressed for so long.

The weight of the experience bears down on you, and you can’t help but feel the burden of self-blame for not making a different choice that night.

“It’s okay, Y/N,” Jimin’s voice breaks the suffocating silence, his touch a comforting anchor.

“You are safe now. I’m here, and I won’t let anyone hurt you again” he intertwined his fingers with one of your hands, as he hugged you tightly with the other.

The action sends a weird tingle down your spine.

The memories are a torment, and you struggle to find the words as you recount the horrors you endured. Your voice quivers, and you take a shaky breath, trying to compose yourself. It feels like the past is clawing its way back into your present, engulfing you in darkness.

“I woke up in this unfamiliar room,” you begin, your body trembling with the weight of the memories. “There was a bed and a change of clothes, but nothing felt right. I knew something was terribly wrong” your eyes meet Jimin’s, seeking solace and strength.

As you continue, your voice becomes softer, as if you’re afraid to give voice to the nightmares that haunt you.

“He forced himself on me, even as I screamed, cried, and begged him to stop. ‘No’ meant nothing to him” you utter, the pain evident in your voice.

Tears glisten in Jimin’s eyes as he sobs softly, his heart aching for the pain you endured.

He feels terrible and the only way he knows how to alleviate some of the pain, is to hug you tightly.

“I’m so sorry” he whispers, his voice breaking with emotion, “I wish I could have done more, found you sooner.”

“You did your best, Jimin,” you assure him, leaning against his shoulder. “You were the light in that darkness, the reason I held on. It’s not your fault” you stroke his back gently.

“Did you ever try to escape?” Yoongi’s question hangs heavy in the air, and you feel your heart tighten with dread. Memories of the countless attempts to break free flood your mind, each ending in devastating consequences.

“Yes,” you reply, the weight of your past pushing you closer to breaking point. “But every attempt only led to more pain. He beat me until I couldn’t move, leaving me bruised and broken.”

You take comfort in Jimin’s embrace, seeking support as you bare your soul, “I thought I could escape, find a way out of that nightmare. But hope faded, and I felt trapped. There was no way out.”

The ever calm Detective leaned forward, his eyes focused intently on you, “Tell me everything you can remember about the surroundings. Even the tiniest details could be crucial in finding this man” he implored, trying to elicit any information that might lead them to the perpetrator.

You close your eyes, trying to recall the blurred images from your escape.

“I remember it was a rundown neighborhood. Lots of abandoned buildings, overgrown with weeds,” you begin, your voice wavering as the memories resurface.

“The streets were dimly lit, and there was this eerie silence that made me feel terrified.”

Jimin’s hand tightens around your arm, offering silent support as you continue. “I ran through narrow alleyways, twisting and turning, trying to put as much distance between me and that place. But everything felt the same, like a never-ending maze.” You sigh deeply, frustration lacing your features.

The Detective’s brows furrow with concern as he takes notes, piecing together the fragmented information. “Did you notice any landmarks or signs?” he asks, hoping for a breakthrough.

You shake your head, feeling helpless and frustrated with your inability to provide more details. “I… I don’t know,” you stammer, your voice laced with disappointment.

“I was so focused on escaping, I didn’t really pay attention to anything else” you pout defeatedly.

Yoongi’s expression softens, understanding the immense trauma you endured.

“It’s okay,” he reassures gently.

“You did what you had to do to survive. We’ll do everything in our power to find this man and bring him to justice” he states assuredly with conviction.

You appreciate his comforting words, but the fear lingers in the back of your mind.

What if they can’t find him? What if he comes after you again?

Jimin interjects, his voice firm with determination, “We won’t rest until we catch him, Y/N. You’re safe now, and we’ll make sure it stays that way.”

Yoongi nods, sharing the same determination. “We’ll keep investigating and following every lead,” he says, his gaze unwavering.

“Have you ever seen his face?” as the Detective inquires further, memories flood back, and you nod slowly, acknowledging that you had seen his face.

The room grows tense as both detectives exchange meaningful glances, sensing the gravity of the situation.

“Would you be able to describe him to a sketch artist?” Yoongi asks, his voice steady but his eyes filled with concern.

You take a deep breath, mustering the courage to relive those horrifying moments.

“I can try,” you reply, feeling the weight of the task ahead.

Despite the fear that grips you, you know that providing any information could be crucial to catching the man who tormented you. Detective Yoongi then asks about the perpetrator’s name, and you recount how he demanded to be called ‘Hyun’.

The room falls silent for a moment, filled with a heavy tension as you recall the haunting memories.

Exhaustion settles in, and you yearn for a moment of respite to process the traumatic events you’ve just relieved.

However, your desire for peace is interrupted when there’s a knock at the door. As it slowly opens, your parents enter the room, their faces a mix of worry and relief.

Tears well up in your eyes as you see your parents, and you reach for them, seeking comfort in their embrace.

You feel a mixture of emotions; relief to see their familiar faces, but also anxiety about possibly explaining what had happened. As your parents approach you, their eyes filled with love and concern, your heart swells with mixed emotions.

It has been so long since you last saw them, and their presence brings comfort and a sense of home. However, the burden of the truth you carry prevents you from fully embracing their warmth.

You don’t want to burden them with the horrific details of your ordeal, afraid that it will shatter their perception of you.

Your parents greet Jimin with warmth and confusion directed towards the other man in the room. Detective Yoongi introduces himself and explains that he’s here to help with the investigation.

“He’s the detective in charge of my abduction case,” you explain, watching their expression shift from curiosity to shock and then concern.

They eye him cautiously at first, but the firm handshake seems to ease their worries a bit. Jimin stands up, feeling a pang of guilt for not being able to protect you, even though he knows it was not his fault.

Your parents look at Jimin, grateful for his presence. Jimin gestures for your dad to take the chair, and your heart swells with gratitude for your best friend’s support. With a soft smile, your father sits down beside you, and you appreciate the familiar comfort of his presence.

Jimin steps back, giving you and your parents some space, but you can see the concern still etched on his face.

Detective Yoongi, now realizing the delicate dynamics, reassures your parents that they are doing everything they can to find the perpetrator and bring him to justice. He explains that your statement is crucial in the investigation and that they’ll do their best to support you throughout the process. He hums in approval and leaves the room.

Amidst the lingering tension, your parents turn their focus back to you, showering you with affection and love. They express how much they have missed you and how glad they are to have you back home.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” your father asks, his voice filled with love and worry. You nod, attempting to mask the pain and trauma that still lingers within you.

You don’t want them to see the broken parts of you, fearing it will break their hearts too. Tears well up in your eyes as you feel the weight of their love, and you wish you could tell them everything, but you can’t bring yourself to share the horrors you’ve endured.

You squeeze their hands gently, offering a grateful smile.

“I missed you both so much too” you say, your voice quivering with emotions.

As your parents speak, telling you that you can have your old room back at home, a mix of emotions floor your heart. Relief, fear, and uncertainty clash within you.

You had imagined returning to your apartment, your sanctuary, after being rescued, but reality dawns on you like a heavy cloud. Your apartment is gone, leased to someone else while you were missing, and the truth hits you hard.

Your wide eyes betray your uneasiness, and your mother picks up on it immediately.

Her comforting presence beside you offers a glimmer of reassurance, but your mind is still racing. She begins to explain the situation, how your absence resulted in losing the apartment.

You can’t help but feel a pang of sadness and nostalgia for the place you once called home.

“I understand, mom” you say, trying to put on a brave face, but the disappointment lingers. Deep down, you had hoped to return to your apartment, to reclaim a piece of your past. Yet, it seems that life has moved on without you, and the reality of it stings.

Your dad’s explanation about them not paying the rent during your absence makes logical sense, but it adds to the weight on your shoulders. You don’t want to burden them further, and you know they have their own lives and financial responsibilities to take care of.

The conflicting emotions within you intensity. On one hand, you appreciate your parents’ offer and their unconditional love, but on the other, you crave a sense of comfort, independence and the familiarity of your own space.

You long to heal and rebuild your life on your terms, without feeling smothered.

Taking a deep breath, you gather the courage to express your feelings.

“I appreciate it, mom, Dad. I really do,” you start, your voice wavering slightly.

“But I think I need some time to find my own footing again. It’s not that I don’t want to be with you, but… I need some space to heal and find myself again”.

Your parents exchange a glance, a mixture of understanding and concern evident in their eyes. They love you deeply, and they want what’s best for you. After a moment of silence, your mother speaks softly, “We understand, sweetheart. We’ll support whatever decision you make. Just know that we’re here for you, no matter what”.

Tears threaten to spill from your eyes as you feel the weight of their love and understanding.

In that moment, you realize that while you may not have your old apartment, you have something more precious - a family that will stand by you through thick and thin.

As your parents express their concern and worry about your safety by staying by yourself, you try to reason with them, emphasizing your independence and adulthood, you’re almost twentynine years old!

However, your mom’s heartfelt response tugs at your heartstrings, making you realize just how much they care about you. “I know you want me close and safe, and I appreciate that more than you can imagine,” you say, trying to convey your love and gratitude.

“But I also need to find my own way and regain some semblance of normalcy.”

You explain as Jimin interjects, “She can stay at my place.”

You whip your head to look at Jimin, feeling tears fill your eyes at his caring offer.

The tension in the room escalates as your parents ponder Jimin’s offer. They are cautious about trusting someone else with your safety, especially considering the circumstances of your disappearance.

However, Jimin steps in, ready to prove his dedication and reliability.

“I understand your concerns, and I promise, I will do everything in my power to protect her,” Jimin says firmly, looking straight into your parents’ eyes.

“I blame myself for what happened, for not making sure she got home safely that night, and I will not let it happen again. She will be safe with me” he assures them with a stern yet comforting look.

His sincerity and determination leave a lasting impression on your parents. You can see their hesitancy gradually giving way to trust. Jimin’s gesture of holding their hands and expressing remorse further strengthens their belief in him.

“I will never be able to forgive myself if something happens to her again,” Jimin adds, his voice laced with regret. “I promise you, I will be her guardian and protector.”

Your parents eventually agree to the arrangement, recognizing that Jimin’s dedication to your safety outweighs their concerns.

They also think that Jimin will be able to keep you safer, with him being a cop now. They thank him for his commitment, and you can see a sense of relief wash over them.

Your mom still wants to make sure that you are completely comfortable with the situation, and asks if you are fine staying at Jimin’s place.

“I promise you, I’m okay staying at Jimin’s,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “He’s been there for me since I got back, and I trust him completely”.

Your mother’s worried expression softens as she looks into your eyes, searching for any sign of discomfort. “Are you sure, sweetheart? We just want what’s best for you”.

You nod, giving her a small smile, “I know, mom. I know both of you worry about me, and I appreciate that. But being at Jimin’s feels… comforting. It’s like I have a sense of security there,” you give a small smile.

Deep down you know you won’t feel safe or comfortable with your own place like you initially thought, but this was a good compromise.

Your father places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, “If you ever feel uncomfortable or unsafe, don’t hesitate to call us, okay?” we’ll be there in a heartbeat.”

“I will, dad” you promise, feeling grateful for their understanding.

“But please know that I need some time to myself too. I want to try and rebuild my life, and I think being at Jimin’s will help me with that, until I feel comfortable eventually getting my own place,” both your parents nod, accepting your decision while still trying to protect you.

They express their love once again, and you can see the worry lingering in their eyes as they bid you goodbye.

As they leave, you let out a sigh, feeling a mix of emotions settling in. Jimin returns to your side, looking concerned as he takes the seat beside you.

“Are you okay?” he asks gently, brushing a strand of hair away from your face and you blush at the touch.

“I will be,” you reply honestly, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“It’s just… it must be hard for them, you know? To see me like this.”

Jimin wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer. “They love you, Y/N. And they’ll do whatever they can to protect you. It’s natural for them to worry.”

You nod, feeling comforted by his presence. “I know. But I also need to figure things out on my own. I need to feel like myself again.”

“You don’t have to do it alone,” Jimin says firmly. “I’m here for you, every step of the way. We’ll face this together.”

You look up at him, finding solace in his unwavering support. “Thank you, Jiminie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He smiles softly at his nickname, his eyes filled with warmth and love, “You’ll never have to find out. I’ll always be here for you.”

With Jimin by your side, you know you have someone who truly understands and cares for you.

As you prepare to leave the hospital, haven met with the sketch artist too, the weight of what lies ahead settles on your shoulders. You’ve endured so much, and now the road to recovery stretches out before you like an uncertain path.

Jimin stands beside you, his presence a constant source of strength, but you can’t help but feel the apprehension growing inside you.

Taehyung approaches you with a sympathetic smile.

“Y/N, I’ve arranged a few appointments with a psychologist for you,” he says gently, handing you a small card. “She specializes in sexual trauma and can help you work through everything you’ve been through.”

You take the card, trying to hold back the emotions that threaten to spill over.

“Thank you, Taehyung,” you say softly. Feeling your heart warm at his kindness, “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

Taehyung nods, his eyes filled with empathy, “Just take it one step at a time,” he advises. “Healing isn’t easy, but you’re not alone in this journey” he assures you and bids you goodbye with a soft smile and wave of his hand.

You know he’s right, but the fear of facing your trauma head-on still lingers. The thought of reliving those harrowing moments again fills you with dread. Jimin senses your unease and pulls you into a comforting embrace.

“You don’t have to do this alone” he whispers, his voice soothing.

You find comfort in his words, knowing that he’ll be there every step of the way. As you leave the hospital, you feel a mix of emotions swirling inside you; relief to be out of that place, anxiety about the therapy sessions, and gratitude for the support you have gotten so far.

As you step into Jimin’s home, a mixture of relief and vulnerability washes over you. The walls seem warmer, the air more comforting, and the thought of having Jimin nearby offers a sense of security you haven’t felt in a long time.

You can’t help but feel grateful for his unwavering support.

Jimin leads you to the guest bedroom, its inviting decor and cozy atmosphere offering a stark contrast to the horrors you’ve endured. The room feels like a sanctuary, a place where you can begin to heal. You thank him softly, words barely escaping your lips as you try to convey the depth of your gratitude.

“I want you to feel at home here,” Jimin says with a tender smile.

“Take all the time you need, and remember, I’m right across the hall if you need anything, okay?”

His reassurance soothes the residual anxiety that clings to you like a shadow. You nod, a sense of trust growing between you and Jimin, knowing that he’ll always be here to catch you when you stumble.

“I’ve taken a few days off work to help you settle in. I hope that’s okay” he explains as you follow him into the hallway.

“That’s very sweet of you Jimin” you feel a blush creep up on your face, as your heart feels full of love with his kind actions.

As Jimin gives you the rest of the tour of his home, you can’t help but marvel at the simple yet elegant design that surrounds you.

Each room holds its unique charm, and you find yourself drawn to the minimalistic aesthetic that exudes a sense of tranquility.

The bathrooms feel like a serene oasis, adorned with white and blue tiles that create a soothing ambiance. You imagine yourself soaking in the bathtub, letting the worries of the day dissolve in the warm water.

The guest rooms, tough simple, offer a cozy retreat.

His home office is a testament to his dedication and hard work, with a touch of understated elegance in the dark gray hues that enhance the room. It’s a place where he has likely spent countless hours diligently pursuing his career as a police officer and now detective.

Moving into the heart of the house, the open floor plan of the kitchen, living, and dining room leaves you in awe.

The kitchen, with its white and wooden accents, feels like the heart of the home, a place where love and warmth fill the air. The wooden tabletop and thick black metal legs of the dining table strike a perfect balance between rustic and modern, inviting you to gather around for shared meals and laughter.

The living room, with its magnificent dark green couch, beckons you to sink into its comforting embrace. As you envision spending cozy nights here, watching movies or simply enjoying each other’s company, you feel a sense of belonging settling in your heart.

Throughout the tour, Jimin’s excitement and pride in his home are palpable.

It’s evident that he has put love and care into every corner, turning his house into a home - a place of comfort and refuge, not just for himself, but for those he cares about.

As you continue to explore the rooms, you can’t help but appreciate the changes he’s made since the last time you visited. It’s a reflection of how he’s grown, just as you have, over the years.

“This place is beautiful, Jimin,” you finally say, your voice filled with genuine admiration. “I can see how much effort and love you’ve put into making it your own.”

A soft smile graces his lips and he looks around the familiar space with newfound pride. “Thank you, Y/N” he replies. “I’m glad you like it. And I hope you’ll feel at home here too.”

You nod, feeling the burden of your past gradually lifting as you step into this new chapter of your life. This house, with its comforting embrace and the man standing beside you, promises a future filled with hope, love, and healing.

“Did you renovate it? I don’t remember it looking like this when we were kids” you inquire, genuinely curious about the transformation.

“Yeah, I did it myself,” Jimin replies with a proud smile, his hands finding refuge in his pockets.

“It’s really stunning! I also liked how your parents kept it before. But this looks so modern,” you point out, acknowledging the aesthetic choices he’s made.

As you stand in the kitchen, you can’t help but notice the emotions flickering in his eyes when you mention his parents. Sensing there’s a deeper story behind the changes, you ask, “How come your parents don’t live here anymore?”.

His eyes hold a mixture of nostalgia and pain as he reveals, “My dad died of cancer three years ago. My mom couldn’t keep up with the big house, so I bought it from her, and she lives in a small apartment in the city insead.”

You feel a pang of sorrow for him and his family, realizing the significance of this home in their lives and the changes they’ve had to endure.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” you say, offering genuine condolences.

“How were you supposed to know?” Jimin chuckles softly, his laughter carrying a hint of vulnerability. “It’s okay, really. You couldn’t have known.”

His ability to lighten the mood in such a sensitive moment surprises you, but it also speaks volumes about his resilience. Jimin seems to create an atmosphere of ease around topics that could be emotionally overwhelming, and you can’t help but appreciate his ability to find comfort even in the face of loss.

The rest of the day rushes by in a blur of conversation and laughter, leaving you with little time to process the burden of your emotions or even the movies you watched together on Jimin’s TV. The comfort of his company and the safe haven of his home envelop you like a warm embrace.

As the hours pass, you find yourself relaxing in Jimin’s presence, your guard slowly lowering.

When a low rumbling sound fills the living room, you feel your cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Are you hungry, Y/N?” Jimin asks, amused by the hungry protests of your stomach.

He tries to suppress his grin with his hands, but the laughter bubbling from him is unmistakable. Cursing your traitorous stomach internally, you can’t help but nod in defeat. It seems your body is making its desires known without your consent.

Jimin assures you that he has some leftover lasagna, and your mouth waters at the thought. As he brings the steaming dish to the table, the savory aroma fills the room, making your stomach growl even louder in anticipation.

Taking your first bite, you’re pleasantly surprised at how delicious it tastes, and a satisfied ‘mmmmh’ escapes your lips.

Jimin cuckles in response, his eyes twinkling with joy at your enjoyment. You can see the genuine happiness in his face as he watches you savor the meal.

“I take it you like it. I’m glad,” he says with a hint of pride, his own plate half-empty as he eats alongside you.

You nod enthusiastically, your mouth full, and give him a thumbs-up to emphasize your approval. As you continue eating, the conversation flows effortlessly, and the laughter comes easily.

Jimin’s ability to make you feel at ease and comforted shines through, and you find yourself opening up more than you ever thought possible. As the evening wears on, you realize that time has flown by, and you can’t help but wonder how you could feel so comfortable and at home with someone you’ve been apart from for so long.

But in Jimin’s presence, it feels like you’re rediscovering a piece of yourself that you thought was lost forever.

As the night deepens, it becomes apparent that sleep is elusive, no matter how much you try to coax it.

An odd sense of anxiety grips you tightly, and you find yourself restless and uneasy.

You can’t quite understand the reason behind these sudden jitters, especially since you’ve slept over at Jimin’s place countless times in your younger days, but together is different; the weight of your past trauma seems to be pressing heavily on your mind.

Jimin, ever the perceptive friend, picks up on your unease.

He offers a comforting reassurance, assuring you that you can always knock on his door if you need anything. His touch on your hand feels like a lifeline in the sea of uncertainty, offering a sense of calm amidst the turmoil of emotions.

With a grateful smile, you bid him goodnight and retreat to your designated room.

But once you’re alone, your mind becomes a battleground of thoughts and emotions. The reality of what has happened to you, the journey of healing that lies ahead, and the uncertainty of the future all bombard your consciousness like a relentless freight train.

You sit on the edge of the bed, you mind spinning with questions and fears.

How will you find the strength to heal? Will you ever be able to overcome the haunting memories? Can you ever trust again after such a traumatic experience?

The silence of the night only amplifies the cacophony in your head. The ceiling above you becomes a canvas for your restless mind, and you find yourself staring blankly, unable to shut off the overwhelming thoughts.

Every creak and rustle in the house feels magnified, and your heart races with each little noise. Despite Jimin’s presence just across the hall, the fear of facing the darkness alone feels suffocating.

You try to remind yourself that he’s there for you, but your mind is stubborn, refusing to relinquish its grip on the fear that has taken root in your heart.

Hours pass, but sleep remains elusive.

The minutes stretch into eternity, and you’re left feeling like a prisoner of your own mind.

The night feels like a never-ending struggle between the desire for rest and the fear of letting your guard down.

The morning sun filters through the window, casting a warm glow over everything in the room.

The pleasant aroma of pancakes fills the air, offering a momentary distraction from the weariness that clings to your body. But no matter how hard you try to revive yourself, the undereye bags and puffy eyes persist, bearing witness to the restless night that robbed you of much-needed sleep.

You walk into the kitchen where Jimin’s cheerful voice breaks through the haze of exhaustion, greeting you with a bright smile as he expertly flips pancakes on the stove.

“Good morning, Y/N, did you sleep well?” he asks, his voice a melody of kindness and warmth. Despite his cheerfulness, his eyes widen in concern as they meet your tired gaze.

He instinctively knows something is amiss.

You can’t help but sigh in response, slumping onto one of the wooden bar stools. Your body feels heavy, burdened by the weight of a night spent wrestling with haunting memories.

“Not really,” you admit, your voice tinged with fatigue and vulnerability.

Jimin’s eyes soften with sympathy, and he gently scolds you for not reaching out for company when sleep eluded you.

“My brain just wouldn’t shut off,” you confess, a hint of frustration seeping into your voice.

“I kept thinking about the past and all the stuff that I missed… about my future too,” you bury your face in your hands, seeking solace from the exhaustion that permeates your body.

In this vulnerable moment, you find comfort in Jimin’s presence. It’s as if his caring demeanor and genuine concern create a sanctuary for your weary soul. He doesn’t push you to talk about the details of your thoughts; instead, he simply stands beside you, a steady pillar of support.

As the pancakes sizzle on the griddle, the aroma fills the air, intertwining with the tender atmosphere between you and Jimin. The morning light casts a gentle glow, and for a moment, you feel a fleeting sense of calm amidst the storm inside you.

Jimin places a plate of warm pancakes in front of you, garnished with chocolate and jam. He offers this simple gesture as a balm for your tired spirit.

“Here, have some breakfast. It’ll give you some energy” he says, his voice tender.

In that moment, you realize that this is more than just a shared meal. It’s an act of love and care, a way for Jimin to nourish not only your body but your soul too. And as you take a bite of the pancakes, you can’t help the blush that creeps on your face and feel grateful for having someone like him in your life - the kind of friend who stays by your side, offering comfort and understanding.

“It smells really good and looks so yummy, Jimin,” you remark with a genuine smile, appreciating not only the food but also the effort he’s put into making you feel at ease.

Jimin’s own smile widens, pleased to see you enjoying the meal he prepared. He joins in, savoring the taste of the pancakes alongside you. The moment is filled with a sense of calm, a temporary respite from the tumultuous thoughts that have been plaguing you.

But even in this tranquil moment, Jimin’s concern for your well-being doesn’t waver.

He clears his throat gently, drawing your attention.

“Maybe you should make an appointment with the psychologist, like that nurse Taehyung suggested,” he suggests softly, his voice carrying a hint of vulnerability.

The sincerity in his words touches your heart. You can see the earnestness in his eyes, the depth of his care for you. His genuine concern is both comforting and overwhelming, reminding you that you don’t have to face your pain alone.

With a small chuckle, Jimin adds, “Of course, you can talk to me too. I wouldn’t mind lending you my ear.”

It's an offer that comes from the heart, a promise to be there for you in any way you need. You feel a sense of gratitude wash over you, grateful to have Jimin in your life.

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” you reply, recognizing the wisdom in his suggestion.

“And thank you so much, Jimin. It means a lot to me, all that you’re doing to help me,” a lot more than you would ever know, you almost want to add.

Later that day, as the sun was beginning to set, casting a warm golden hue through the windows of Jimin’s living room, as you stood there with Jimin, you found yourself facing an entirely different challenge: self-defense.

Jimin stressed the value in being able to defend yourself, should you ever need it (especially with your perpetrator still at large).

It is a practical and necessary step, given the circumstances. Jimin’s concern for your safety is evident. And you appreciate his determination to empower you. The seriousness of the situation loomed over you, but Jimin’s presence was a reassuring anchor.

“Alright, pay close attention,” Jimin says, his voice steady and encouraging. His arms gently wrap around your waist, pulling you closer against his solid frame. Feeling his heartbeat against your back brings a sense of flutters and comfort as you listen intently to his instructions and you already feel your breath quicken.

“First, if someone tries to choke you from behind, you need to act quickly,” he explains.

“Use your elbows to strike their ribs or stomach. It forces them to loosen their grip.”

As he demonstrates the movement, his arm guides your own, helping you to mimic the motion. His warm touch feels electrifying, and you feel heat rise in your cheeks. Your elbow hits his arms, and you can feel the strength in his muscles as he adjusts the pressure.

“Good job” he praises you, a smile evident in his voice. Jimin’s encouraging words spurs you on, and you feel your confidence growing with each practiced movement.

“Remember,” he says, his tone becoming more serious, “Don’t hesitate to use your elbow, knees, and even your fists if necessary. Your safety comes first.”

He demonstrates the proper stance, weight distribution, and how to strike effectively without injuring yourself. As he continues to teach you, you find yourself amazed at his patience and skill.

He moves with fluidity, demonstrating each technique with precision. It must be his dancing major, that gives him so much grace. You are entranced by his elegance and register your heartbeat quicken and your breath shorten.

While the situation was serious, his lighthearted spirit shone through as he let you practice some kicks on him.

“Nice kick!” he grinned, clearly impressed by your progress.

“But keep your balance steady. You don’t want to lose it and give your attacker an advantage.”

With Jimin’s guidance, you practice each move diligently. It was physically demanding, and hard to keep your mind off his strong muscles, but his presence and encouragement made the experience far more manageable.

He patiently corrects your posture and movements, helping you understand the importance of control and awareness.

As the session is nearing its end, Jimin demonstrates one final move.

“And if you ever find yourself cornered,” he said, “A quick powerful kick to the groin can create the opening you need to escape.”

With a nod you chuckle nervously, and take a step back and mimic the movement from earlier, visualizing the scenario in your mind.

“Trust me,” he says, meeting your eyes with a serious expression, “It’s a highly effective move.”

Jimin’s eyes twinkle with pride as you execute the move with determination.

“You’re doing great, Y/N,” he says, his voice gentle yet resolute. “Learning self-defense is about feeling empowered and in control. It’s not about being invincible, but knowing you have options.”

As you walk into the living room, a sense of excitement fills you.

“I’ve made an appointment with the psychologist, and she actually had a spot for me tomorrow morning because someone canceled theirs,” you share with a bright and hopeful tone, eager to let Jimin know about the progress you’ve made.

Jimin’s attention shifts from the movie he’s watching, and he turns to face you, his eyes lighting up with genuine happiness for you.

“That’s nice, Y/N,” he responds with a warm smile. But it doesn’t end there; he takes it a step further, showing his unwavering support and care for you.

“I can drive you tomorrow and wait for you so you don’t have to go alone,” he offers, reaching out to envelop you in a comforting hug. His embrace feels like a safe haven, grounding you amidst uncertainties that lie ahead. He is warm and soft, making your heart flutter.

It’s a gesture that speaks volumes about his dedication as a friend, and you feel grateful for having him by your side during this journey of healing.

“Thank you, Jimin,” you murmur, your voice tinged with sincerity.

“Having you there with me means the world,” you hug him back, relishing in his embrace longer than friends probably should, but you can't help yourself.

He pulls back slightly, his hands still resting on your shoulders as he gazes into your eyes, his own filled with compassion.

“You don’t have to thank me, Y/N,” he replies softly.

“I’ll always be here for you, no matter what”. In that moment, you know that his words are not just empty promises; they hold true weight and meaning. He’s proven time and again that he’ll go above and beyond to support and protect you, and his presence has become an anchor in your life.

As Jimin’s arms envelop you in another warm and comforting hug, your heart races with a mixture of emotions. The familiar touch of his hands against your back sends tingles down your spine, and you can’t help but yearn for more.

But as much as you cherish his affection, you know the depths of your feelings go beyond mere friendship. Throughout the years, you’ve hidden your unrequited love for Jimin, fearing that revealing it would jeopardize the precious bond you share.

You’ve watched from the sidelines as he laughed, smiled, and even dated others, all the while silently nursing your love for him. Now, being back in his embrace, your feelings resurface with a vengeance, and it’s becoming harder to suppress them.

Jimin’s genuine kindness and the way he selflessly cares for you only deepen the chasm in your heart. You find yourself yearning for more than just his friendship, craving a connection that goes beyond what you’ve ever shared.

But the fear of rejection and the potential loss of his friendship weigh heavily on you.

As his scent fills your senses, you can’t help but wonder if he could ever feel the same way about you.

The thought of confessing your feelings terrifies you, and you push it to the back of your mind, trying to focus on the present moment instead.

Yet, the trauma you’ve endured has left a mark on your soul, casting a shadow over your emotions. The assault and abuse have stirred up a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, making it harder to decipher what is real and what is merely a product of your pain.

As you bury your face in his hair, you cling to the familiar comfort he provides, but you can’t help but feel the surge of emotions threatening to overwhelm you.

The tears you’ve been holding back threaten to spill over, and you take deep breaths to regain control.

As the movie’s scenes play out on the screen, you find it nearly impossible to concentrate on anything but the warmth of Jimin’s body pressed against your own.

Your heart beats wildly in your chest, and each breath feels shallow as his proximity sends a surge of electricity through you. It takes all your willpower to remain composed and not let your feelings betray you.

Jimin’s closeness is both a blessing and a curse.

On one hand, you relish the feeling of his body so close to yours, a sensation you’ve secretly yearned for.

On the other hand, it intensifies the turmoil of emotions within you, making it difficult to keep your composure.

As the movie’s plot unfolds, you find yourself stealing glances at Jimin’s profile, mesmerized by his features and the way the flickering light of the TV dances across his face.

You wish you could be brave enough to tell him how you feel, but the fear of rejection and the potential loss of his friendship paralyze you. Every fiber of your being longs to lean into him, to feel his arms wrap around you in a warm embrace.

Yet, you fight the urge, knowing that doing so would only deepen your emotional entanglement and make it even harder to keep your feelings hidden.

Despite the inner chaos, you manage to keep a facade of calm, smiling when appropriate and nodding along to the movie’s plot.

But inside, you’re a jumbled mess of emotions, and you can’t help but wonder if Jimin can sense your turmoil. As the movie comes to an end, you take a deep breath, attempting to steady your racing heart.

You’re grateful for the movie's conclusion, hoping that it will give you a moment to regain your composure. But even as the credits roll, Jimin doesn’t move away, and you find yourself torn between the desire to stay in his embrace and the need to escape the storm of emotions brewing inside you.

In the end, you opt to remain where you are, cherishing the closeness you share with Jimin and savoring the fleeting moments of intimacy. Though unspoke, the unrequited love you hold for him lingers in the air, creating an invisible bond between you two that goes beyond mere friendship.

The hours pass by in a blur, filled with laughter, heartfelt conversations, and a marathon of movies that bring moments of joy and escapism. You find solace in Jimin’s presence, his genuine care, and the comfort of being so close to someone you’ve admired secretly for years.

Yet, as the day draws to a close, a looming sense of emotional exhaustion settles over you like a heavy fog.

The impending therapy session hangs over your head like a dark cloud, filling you with both anxiety and hope. You know it’s necessary, that facing your trauma is a crucial step toward healing, but the thought of reliving those painful memories is daunting.

As the night deepens, you find yourself sitting on Jimin’s bed, lost in thoughts. The room is bathed in a soft glow, emanating from a small lamp on the nightstand. Jimin, ever observant, sits next to you, his warm presence a source of comfort.

“You don’t have to go through this alone, remember?” he says gently, his voice tender and caring.

You look into his eyes, seeing the genuine concern in them, and you feel your heart clench.

How much you long to pour your heart out to him, to share the burden of your emotions, and to finally reveal the depth of your feelings.

But fear holds you back, and you keep your emotions tightly guarded.

“I appreciate that, Jimin,” you reply, a hint of vulnerability seeping into your voice. “It’s just… I’m afraid of what might come up during the therapy session.”

Jimin reaches out, placing a comforting hand on yours, “I understand. Facing the past can be overwhelming, but remember, you are not alone in this. I’ll be here for you every step of the way.”

The tenderness in his touch and the reassurance in his words almost break the dam you’ve built around your emotions.

You want to lean into him, to finally confess your hidden affection and to seek true comfort in his embrace. Yet, the fear of jeopardizing your friendship keeps your heart in check.

As you lie in your own bed that night, sleep eludes you again.

Your mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, and the weight of unspoken words feels almost unbearable.

You wonder if Jimin can sense the depth of your feelings, if he has any inkling of the unrequited love that resides within you.

The therapy session looms ahead, and you can’t help but feel both apprehensive and hopeful about the healing it may bring. You know it won’t be an easy journey, but having Jimin by your side, even as a friend, gives you the strength to face the painful memories that haunt you.

As you drift into a restless slumber, the turmoil within you persists, leaving you torn between the desire to hold onto your feelings and the fear of what might happen if you reveal them.

The morning air is crisp, and the first rays of sunlight gently kiss the edges of the sky as you step out of the shower, feeling refreshed and ready to face the day. Jimin’s consideration never fails to amaze you, and as you get dressed, you can’t help but think of all the little ways he has shown his kindness and care.

With the appointment with the psychologist looming ahead, you’re both nervous and eager to finally start the healing process. As you make your way to the kitchen, the aroma of freshly cooked breakfast fills the air, and your stomach growls in anticipation. His culinary skills are impressive, and you can’t help but appreciate his efforts to make your morning special.

He hands you a green smoothie, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles warmly.

“I know you need all the energy you can get today,” he says, his voice gently and encouraging. You take a sip, savoring the fresh and invigorating taste of veggies and fruits, while feeling a rush of gratitude for having someone like Jimin in your life.

Together, you sit at the dining table, and with every bite, you feel the warmth of his presence seep into your soul.

The connection between you and Jimin grows stronger with each shared meal and conversation, yet there’s still an unspoken understanding that hangs in the air.

As you finish breakfast, you exchange glances, and it’s as if the unspoken words are dancing on the edges of your lips. You want to tell him how much he means to you, how his kindness and friendship have been a lifeline in the darkest of times, but the fear of jeopardizing what you have holds you back.

You find yourself lost in his gaze, unable to look away, and it’s in that moment that you feel a flicker of hope.

Maybe, just maybe, the unspoken love between you is not one-sided.

Maybe Jimin’s tender gestures and caring ways are more than just friendly acts?

But before you can delve deeper into your thoughts, Jimin’s voice breaks the silence.

“Are you ready for today?” he asks softly, his eyes full of concern and support.

With a small nod, you find your voice, “I am, and I’m grateful you'll be there with me.”

His smile widens, and he reaches across the table to take your hand in his, the contact sending a warm shiver down your spine.

“I’ll always be there for you, no matter what,” he says, his words carrying a deeper meaning that you can’t ignore.

As you sit in the car, the silence between you and Jimin speaks volumes. It’s not the awkward silence you had anticipated; rather, it’s a comforting one. You find solace in the familiarity of Jimin’s presence, and his unspoken support eases some of the anxiety building up inside you.

As Jimin pulls up to the tall building, its glass facade reflecting the city’s hustle and bustle, you feel a mix of nerves and determination. Jimin follows you outside and you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself before stepping inside.

As you grip the handle to the tall building, your heart races in your chest like a wild stallion.

The weight of unfamiliarity and the daunting prospect of sharing your innermost thoughts with a stranger collide, setting off an explosion of anxiety and nervousness within you.

You take a deep breath, knowing that this is a pivotal moment in your journey to heal and move forward.

This is uncharted territory for you, but you’re determined to brave this new experience.

The reception area is modern and welcoming, but your heart still races as you approach the front desk. The green plants add a touch of serenity, momentarily easing the tension coiled in your body.

The receptionist smiles warmly, and you check in using your new social security card, a symbol of your newfound strength and resilience.

Taking a seat, you try to steady your breath and silence the thunderous pounding in your ears.

Your palms feel sweaty, and you quickly wipe them on your things, hoping to dispel any signs of unease.

You remind yourself that it’s normal to feel nervous, but you won’t let it deter you from seeking the help you need.

Just as you’re about to give in to the overwhelming anxiety, you feel a gentle hand on your thigh. You turn to Jimin sitting beside you, his presence like a comforting anchor in the storm. He gives you a reassuring smile as he lightly squeezes your thigh, his eyes filled with support and understanding.

“I’ll be right here waiting for you,” he says softly, and you feel a wave of gratitude wash over you.

The fact that he’s willing to stay by your side, even in the face of your inner struggles, makes your heart swell with affection. As you sit together in the waiting area, you find solace in Jimin’s presence.

The unspoken bond between you grows stronger with each passing moment, and you feel a sense of reassurance that you’re not alone in this journey of healing.

Your heart skips a beat as you’re abruptly brought back to reality by a woman’s voice calling your name.

You quickly stand up, a mix of nervousness and excitement coursing through your veins. In your haste, you extend your hand to greet her, feeling a little self-conscious about the volume of your response, as you say ‘yes’.

Her warm and reassuring smile puts you at ease, and you can’t help but notice the genuine kindness in her eyes.

“I’m Chin-Sun, your psychologist,” she introduces herself, her soothing tone like a gentle wave lapping at the shore.

You exchange a fleeting glance with Jimin, silently acknowledging the strength he’s given you. With a deep breath, you follow the therapist into her office, leaving Jimin behind in the waiting area.

You feel a flutter of apprehension in your chest, but knowing that Jimin is just outside waiting for you, gives you a sense of security.

As you enter the therapist’s office, you feel a mix of emotions swirling inside you. But with Jimin’s reassurance still lingering, you know you can take that first step towards healing and finally find the courage to confront your past.

Outside, Jimin waits patiently, knowing that you’ll come out stronger, and that he’ll be there every step of the way.

As you enter her office, you’re immediately drawn to the inviting atmosphere that surrounds you. Chin-Sun gestures gracefully towards the plush couch adorned with an array of soft pillows.

It beckons you to sink into its comforting embrace, and you oblige, feeling a sense of calm wash over you already.

The small table in front of the couch catches your eye, adorned with candles, tissues, glasses and a jug of water, a thoughtful touch to create a soothing ambiance.

Seated on a chair in front of the table, Chin-Sun's serene presence envelops the room. Her warm smile and kind eyes put you at ease, and you find yourself feeling more relaxed in her company.

The office is a perfect balance of tranquility and professionalism. One wall, painted a soothing navy blue, adds a touch of depth and serenity to the space, while the rest of the room remains in calming white tones.

As you take a moment to glance around, you notice her neatly organized desk, equipped with a computer and other therapeutic resources.

Chin-Sun picks up her pen and paper, explaining her preference for taking notes. It gives you a sense of comfort to know that your thoughts and feelings will be heard and respected.

“It’s natural to feel nervous,” she assures, her gentle voice like a lifeline amidst the storm of your thoughts. “This is a place of healing, and there’s no judgment here. You have the power to set the pace, and if it ever becomes overwhelming, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

As you grapple with the knot of nerves in your stomach, you can’t help but apologize for your nervousness. She leans in, her empathy palpable, and reminds you that there’s no need to apologize. This is your journey, and the feelings you’re experiencing are entirely valid.

“I understand how unfamiliar this may be,” she acknowledges, validating your emotions.

“But remember, you’re here because you want to explore these emotions and experiences. It's okay to take your time and ease into it.” Her encouragement emboldens you, and you find the strength to meet her gaze.

You realize that this therapeutic space is not about judgment or quick fixes; it’s about embracing vulnerability and allowing yourself to heal at your own pace.

As you sit in the cozy confines of Chin-Sun’s office, her gentle encouragement puts you at ease. You feel a mixture of relief and vulnerability knowing that she has your medical report from the hospital and will be guiding you through this process with sensitivity and understanding.

She leans forward with a calming presence, offering you both empathy and professional expertise.

“When you are ready,” she begins, her words a gentle invitation, “can you start from the beginning?”

With each breath, you find the strength to speak your truth.

As you begin recounting the events that led to your trauma, you focus on the broad strokes as Chin-Sun suggested. The weight of the memories may be heavy, but you remind yourself that sharing them here is an essential step towards healing.

Chin-Sun listens with unwavering attention, her pen moving gently across the paper, capturing your words with care. She refrains from interrupting, giving you the space to voice your experiences without judgment.

Her approach allows you to navigate the emotional terrain at your own pace, and you feel seen and heard.

As you speak, you find solace in her empathetic eyes, and the vulnerability in sharing your story with a stranger gradually dissipates.

You appreciate that she doesn't pry or push for more details, respecting your boundaries and giving you the freedom to share as much or as little as you feel comfortable with.

The moments of silence that punctuate your narrative become opportunities for reflection. You appreciate that Chin-Sun doesn't rush to fill the void but rather allows you to gather your thoughts.

As the session draws to a close, you can sense Chin-Sun's genuine sadness for what you've endured.

Her compassion has created a safe space for you to share your experiences, and you appreciate her understanding demeanor. With just ten minutes left, Chin-Sun offers you the opportunity to ask any questions or discuss topics you'd like to explore in future sessions.

You feel a flicker of curiosity and decide to seize the moment.

“Actually… I do have some stuff that’s been on my mind. Can I ask you those questions?” you say, sitting up straight, determined to confront the thoughts that have been swirling in your mind.

Chin-Sun's gentle nod and sip of water give you the encouragement you need to voice your concerns. You share your lingering worry about your captor and whether he might still be out there searching for you.

The fear in your voice is evident as you whisper your words, as if speaking any louder might draw danger closer.

Understanding the weight of your concern, Chin-Sun responds with empathy, “I understand that. Do you have anybody that can help you feel safe while the police are looking for the perpetrator?”

You take comfort in her soothing smile as you fidget with the hem of your shirt.

Gathering your thoughts, you find the courage to speak about the one person who has provided you with a sanctuary – Jimin, your best friend and the detective who has taken you into his home.

Chin-Sun listens intently, acknowledging the significance of having someone like Jimin by your side during this trying time.

She allows you to express yourself fully, creating a space where your emotions and thoughts are validated.

As the floodgates of your emotions open, you find yourself pouring your deepest fears and vulnerabilities to Chin-Sun.

The weight of your trauma is overwhelming, and tears fill your eyes, threatening to spill. Though she tries to offer calming words of reassurance, you feel unable to listen.

The pain and trauma inflicted on you have shattered your trust in men, and you express the feeling that sex is now ruined for you. Images of your horrifying ordeal flash before your eyes, making it hard to escape the haunting memories.

In a desperate attempt to shut out the distressing visuals, you press your hands against your eyes, your body trembling as you curl your feet up onto the couch, seeking some form of comfort and safety.

Recognizing your anguish, Chin-Sun gently hands you tissues and moves to your side, offering a comforting hug.

“It might be incredibly hard in the beginning. But it is possible to trust again. It’s also possible to have sex again, if that is something you want. Just take your time and progress slowly. Do what you are comfortable with and stop and voice your feelings if you ever feel like it or if it goes too far,” she says, her comforting presence providing you a glimmer of hope in the darkness.

As you struggle to regain your composure, you take deep breaths, trying to calm your racing heart and shaking body.

Gradually, the storm of emotions begins to subside, and you feel your body easing into a state of relaxation. The tears eventually stop flowing, leaving you emotionally drained but also somewhat relieved.

Before you leave her office, Chin-Sun offers valuable advice, emphasizing the importance of taking things slowly and not rushing yourself into anything.

She encourages you to communicate your feelings and boundaries with utmost honesty and to seek out the support of people you trust.

As you step out of the session, the burden of your trauma is not fully lifted, but you feel a glimmer of hope for the future.

Trusting again may be a daunting journey, but with Chin-Sun's guidance and support, you are determined to embark on the path to healing and rebuilding yourself.

Your resolve to take each step at your own pace, honoring your feelings and emotions as you move forward.

The thought of having sex again is something that both frightens and intrigues you, but you know that with time and support, you might find the strength to explore intimacy once more.

As you contemplate the future, you recognize that healing is not a linear process. There will be ups and downs, and that's okay. With Chin-Sun's encouragement, you feel more hopeful that, one day, you will reclaim your sense of security and find solace in the arms of someone who truly cares for you.

Maybe you have already found that one person, currently waiting for you in the waiting area.

As you enter the waiting area, Jimin's concern is evident on his face.

He takes in your swollen and red eyes, the dried tear streaks marking your cheeks, and he knows that the therapy session must have been emotionally taxing.

You sink into the seat, feeling a mix of relief and exhaustion.

“Are you alright? How did it go?” Jimin’s voice is filled with genuine concern as he looks for your eyes seeking reassurance. You take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts before speaking.

“I’m okay, Jimin. The session was good, but I’m just so emotionally drained” you say, your voice heavy with weariness. You reach for his hand, squeezing it gently, seeking comfort and connection.

“I’m here for you, always,” he responds softly, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. His unwavering support brings a flicker of warmth to your heart, and you find solace in the knowledge that you have someone by your side who truly cares for you.

“I’d like to go home and rest now,” you add, feeling the need to retreat and process the emotions that have been stirred up during the session. Jimin seems to understand, nodding in agreement.

“Of course, let’s head home,” he says as you walk out of the building, turning on the engine and shifting into gear. The car ride is quiet, but it’s a comforting silence, one that allows you to collect your thoughts and emotions.

As you arrive home, Jimin accompanies you inside, his presence a soothing balm to your weary soul. He lets you rest and recuperate, offering his unwavering support from the sidelines.

In the comfort of his home, you find a safe space to process your feelings and begin the healing journey.

It’s already Jimin’s last day off and he decides it’s a good idea to go grocery shopping so you don’t starve to death while he is working.

You are not really the best cook, so it was a good idea.

As you and Jimin stroll through the supermarket, filling the cart with groceries, the atmosphere is light-hearted and fun. Jimin seems to have a talent for turning even the most mundane tasks into enjoyable adventures, and you find yourself laughing and joking along the way.

“Hey, Jimin, remember that time we tried to cook together in college? It was a disaster!” you chuckle, recalling the disastrous attempt at making a simple pasta dish that ended up in a kitchen full of smoke.

Jimin grins, his eyes crinkling with amusement, “Oh, how could I forget? We set off the fire alarm!” he laughs at the disastrous memory.

You both burst into laughter, drawing a few curious glances from other shoppers, but you don't care. It feels good to let go of the burden of the past and embrace the present moment with your best friend.

As you reach the fresh produce section, Jimin playfully challenges you to a ‘vegetable picking’ contest. You both pretend to be food critics, carefully inspecting each vegetable, making exaggerated remarks about their texture and flavor profile.

It’s all just silly fun, but it brings an undeniable joy to your heart.

With the cart now filled with a colorful array of vegetables, starch, meat, canned goods, and some treats, you make your way to the cashier to pay.

With the grocery shopping done, you head back to Jimin's car, where he skillfully begins to load the bags into the trunk.

“I promise not to let you starve,” Jimin says with a grin, pulling more bags in the trunk and giving you a playful wink.

“We’ll make some delicious meals together. Who knows, maybe we’ll discover a hidden chef in you,” he sticks out his tongue playfully. You laugh, knowing very well that your cooking skills are far from impressive.

“Well, with your help, I might just become a master chef,” you tease back, enjoying the playful banter like old times.

As you stand next to Jimin, watching him load the groceries into the trunk, a sinister presence seems to linger in the shadows, shrouding you with unease.

You can't shake off the feeling that someone was there, watching, but when you glance back, the dark hooded figure has vanished without a trace.

Your heart races, and you try to shake off the feeling, not wanting to worry Jimin.

“Hey, are you alright?”

Jimin’s concerned voice interrupts your thoughts.

He looks at you with a hint of worry in his eyes, sensing that something might be bothering you. You quickly put on a facade, mustering a bright smile and nodding, “Yeah, I’m good to go home.”

As you get into the car, your mind is preoccupied with the mysterious figure you saw by the carts.

Who was it? What were they doing there?

And most importantly, why did they vanish so suddenly?

The questions swirl in your mind, but you keep your thoughts to yourself, not wanting to burden Jimin with your sudden discomfort.

The car ride back is filled with an awkward silence that wasn't there before. You steal glances at Jimin, trying to gauge if he senses anything amiss.

He's focused on the road, but his brows are slightly furrowed, indicating that he's concerned about you.

You decide to break the silence, attempting to distract yourself and Jimin from the unsettling encounter. “Hey, what do you think we should cook for dinner tonight?” you ask, trying to sound casual. You hope that talking about something mundane will help ease the tension.

He glances at you, a small smile forming on his lips, grateful for the change of topic.

“Hmm, how about that pasta dish we tried to make in college? I think we can ace it this time,” he suggests, trying to bring back the lightheartedness you both had earlier.

You chuckle, glad he’s playing along, even though your mind is still preoccupied with the mysterious figure.

“Yeah, that sounds like a plan. We’ll make sure to avoid having the firemen drop by for a visit” you reply, trying to match his playful tone.

Jimin can't shake the feeling that something is amiss with you ever since the grocery store. He tries to play it cool, giving you space to open up if you wish, but his concern gnaws at him like an itch he can't scratch.

He wishes you would confide in him, knowing that you could share anything with him if you wanted to. But as much as he wants to stay by your side indefinitely, reality beckons, and he knows he has to return to work tomorrow.

The thought of leaving you alone with your worries gnaws at him, but he trusts that you'll reach out to him when you're ready.

As Jimin prepares to leave for work, a mixture of concern and guilt gnaws at him. He hates the idea of leaving you alone, especially when he senses that something is still bothering you. But he knows that pushing you to talk won't help; you need the space to process your thoughts and emotions.

He stands by the door, hesitating for a moment before finally stepping outside.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he assures you, trying to put on a brave face despite his inner turmoil. “Take care of yourself, okay?” he gives you a small hug.

You nod, offering him a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I’ll be fine” you say, your voice soft and uncertain. He wishes he could read your mind, to understand the depth of what you’re going through, but he respects your boundaries.

As the door closes behind him, you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

The silence that fills the house feels overwhelming, and you find yourself wandering aimlessly from room to room, trying to distract yourself from the thoughts that linger in your mind.

You spend the day with Jimin's laptop on your thighs scouring YouTube for funny animal videos which gives you a few good laughs.

It helps keep your mind off the haunting feeling you feel inside. Your laughter is suddenly interrupted when you hear a knock at the door.

Startled, you place the laptop off to the side on the couch. It couldn’t be Jimin, because it was too early for him to be home yet.

You feel panic run through your body, but you force your feet to carry you to the door, unlocking it and opening it.

In front of you stands a man in a brown uniform sporting a yellow logo that reads ‘UPS’ on his left upper chest. You let out a relieved gasp as you place your right hand over your heart giving out a low chuckle at your reaction.

The UPS delivery man gives you a friendly smile. “Good morning Miss! I have a package for Mr. Park, is he home?” he asks politely.

“Oh, uh, no, he’s not home yet. But I can sign for it if you want?” you reply feeling a bit flustered by your initial panic.

“Sure thing! Just need your signature here” he says, handing you a small electronic device. You sign your name with a shaky hand, still trying to shake off the lingering nerves.

“Thank you. Have a great day!” he says cheerfully as he hands you the package. You see that your name is on it too.

“Thanks, you too,” you reply, managing a smile as you close and lock the door.

You lock the door and walk back to the couch, dropping down with a heavy thud.

You turn and twist the package to get some kind of information about its contents. You decide that you might as well open it, as it is also addressed to you.

You go to Jimin’s home office and find a pocket knife that you use to delicately cut along the tape to reveal its subject. It’s a phone. A brand new one at that! You take it out of the brown package and inspect the case that reads ‘Google Pixel 7A’.

You unbox the snow coloured phone and find a SIM card and the charger. In a matter of seconds, you have placed the SIM card in the phone and put it in the charger to power it up.

You let the phone charge in peace as you go to the fridge to grab some of the leftover food Jimin had been sweet enough to make for you yesterday.

Then you go back to leisurely browsing through YouTube on Jimin’s laptop while getting comfortable on the couch. You have already spent hours on the laptop, watching random videos of this and that.

But it had definitely helped keep your mind off things, so you hadn’t even noticed the time. It is already around dinnertime and you expect Jimin to be home soon.

You hear a key being inserted in the lock, twisting, and then Jimin enters with a tired smile dorning his face while he drags his body inside.

You jump to your feet, a burst of energy rushing through you, banishing the remnants of sleep from your body. With giddy feet and a spring in your step, you dance your way to Jimin, your heart warming at the sight of him.

“Did you have a good day?” you chirp, eager to bring a smile to his tired face.

Jimin lets out a tired sigh, his shoulders dropping slightly, but a faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He runs his hands through his tousled hair, ruffling it in a way that makes your heart flutter.

“Yes, but tiring” he admits, the weariness evident in his eyes.

You pout at him playfully, determined to lift his spirits.

“Well, you’re home now, and that’s all that matters” you say with a soft smile, hoping to convey your genuine happiness to have him back.

His exhaustion seems to melt away as he gazes at you, and he nods, “And being home with you makes it even better.”

You reach out and embrace him in a big warm hug, feeling the comforting strength of his arms around you. He leans into the hug, his tiredness fading as he draws comfort from your presence. His scent, a delightful blend of musky vanilla and woody notes, envelopes you, making you feel safe and at home.

You rest your cheek against his shoulder, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each breath.

His warmth and closeness ease the tension in your body, too, as if you're sharing the burden of the day together. For a moment, you both stand there, just holding each other, finding solace in the simple act of being there for one another.

“I missed you” he whispers into your ear, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your spine.

You can feel your cheeks flushing red, grateful that he can't see your reaction with your face buried in his chest. You nuzzle your head against his sturdy pectorals, seeking comfort in his embrace, and he chuckles softly at the movement.

“I missed you too,” you murmur, looking up into his eyes. His tired gaze meets yours, and for a moment, time seems to stand still. You think you catch a hint of longing in his eyes, but you're not entirely sure. There's a depth to his gaze, a hidden emotion that leaves you yearning to unravel the mystery of his thoughts.

Still holding you close, he presses you gently against his body, and you can feel the steady rhythm of his heart. His embrace is both protective and tender, making you feel safe and cherished.

The world outside fades away, and it's just the two of you, lost in the comfort of each other's arms.

You feel your body relax in his embrace, the tension of the day melting away. And then, in a playful gesture, you give him a gentle pinch on his side, right above his hips.

He jumps slightly, letting out a surprised, yet endearing, small shriek.

“I got your package” you giggle, pointing towards the new phone charging on the couch table. It's your way of breaking the momentary intensity, adding a touch of light-heartedness to the air.

He adjusts his head, following your gaze to the living room, where the package lies.

“Ah, right,” he says, his lips curving into a soft smile. “I hope you like it, princess” he adds, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

But as he utters the last word, your body tenses, and a wave of discomfort washes over you. His hand on your back feels heavy, and you take a step back, trying to create some distance.

He notices the sudden change in your demeanor and takes a concerned step forward, studying your face for any sign of distress. His playful expression fades as he sees pain and agony etched on your features.

You struggle to find your voice, your body still frozen in place, as if trapped in a moment of overwhelming vulnerability.

The room feels suffocating, and you try to take a deep breath, but your lungs refuse to cooperate.

Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat resonating with fear and unease.

Your mind races, unable to escape the grip of rising panic.

In that moment, you feel like a deer caught in headlights, unable to flee from the intensity of his gaze.

His concern only amplifies your discomfort, making it harder to find the words to explain what's wrong.

You realize you've been holding your breath, and you force yourself to exhale, hoping to dispel the growing tension within you.

But the freckles of a panic attack linger, threatening to engulf you in their overwhelming embrace.

Jimin takes another step closer, his hands reaching out gently, as if trying to touch the pain you're hiding inside. But you step back again, creating more distance between you.

It's not that you don't appreciate his concern; it's just that you're not ready to confront the tumultuous emotions swirling within you.

As the tears flow freely down your cheeks, your voice trembles with each syllable, making it difficult to articulate your feelings.

Jimin's grip on your shoulders loosens, his concern evident in the furrowed lines on his forehead. “I–, I'm sorry,” you manage to stammer out, your breath still uneven.

“It's just... a horrible memory came over me.”

Jimin's eyes soften with understanding, and he pulls you gently into a comforting hug, allowing you to bury your face in his shoulder. His embrace feels warm and secure, offering solace and safety in the midst of your turmoil.

As you regain control of your breath, you find yourself locking eyes with Jimin, his gaze filled with concern and regret.

The atmosphere is charged with emotions, and you can feel the electricity between you two. Your boldness surprises even yourself, but it's as if a newfound courage has taken hold of you in this vulnerable moment.

“That's what he called me,” you repeat, your voice steadier now. “It's a trigger, I guess...” you gulp the realization down your throat as you try to regain composure.

Jimin's eyes soften, and he nods understandingly, his hands gently holding yours, reassuring you that he's there for you.

“I didn't know,” Jimin repeats, his voice soft and remorseful. “I would never intentionally hurt you, Y/N.”

“I know you wouldn't, Jiminie” you say, your voice wavering slightly. “It's just that... that word brought back memories I've been trying to forget.”

“I'm so sorry you had to go through that,” he says, his voice filled with empathy.

“You don't have to face this alone” with his presence, the haunting feeling starts to subside, and you find comfort in his unwavering support. You're grateful for the breathing technique you learned in therapy, but it's Jimin's presence that truly grounds you.

Jimin's hand finds its way to your cheek, gently caressing it as he looks at you with unwavering support.

“I'm here for you, Y/N. You can tell me anything, and I'll do my best to understand and help.”

His words resonate deep within your soul, making you realize how lucky you are to have him in your life. Despite the pain, there's a warmth in knowing that Jimin genuinely cares about you and wants to be there for you.

As you lock eyes with him, you feel a surge of affection and gratitude.

“Thank you” you whisper, feeling the weight of your vulnerability lessen with each passing moment. Jimin's embrace tightens, pulling you into him as if he never wants to let you go.

“You don't have to thank me,” he murmurs, his voice filled with tenderness.

“I'll always be here for you, no matter what.”

→ Author’s note: I don’t know what happened! I planned to write like 5K words to get back into writing and then boom 40K+ 😆I don’t really know how I feel about this story, but I wanted to post it because I finished something 🎉If it’s shit, I’m really sorry. Also, I just couldn’t decide which hair color to give Jimin, because I love all colors on him, so I settled with black 😊

| s.masterlist | m.masterlist | next →

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exhuastedpigeon · 9 months ago

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Buddie Hiatus Fic Rec - Month 10 Feb 16 - March 13

Final rec list of the hiatus! Thanks to everyone who followed along while I shared my favourite fics from each month of the hiatus.

ONE MORE SLEEP UNTIL 911 IS BACK!!!

0-5k

adventures of firehose and eightpack by brewrosemilk / @gayhoediaz Mature | 1.5k Eddie stumbles upon Buck's old twitter account.

to turn my life around (today is the day) by fallingthorns / @fallingthorns Teen | 2.2k Eddie freezes, hands gripping the steering wheel again. Because Eddie loves him. And Eddie promptly flips the car into reverse and peels out of the parking lot before Buck gets to the truck.

in the meantime by oklahoma / @sunshinediaz Teen | 2.3k bad things happen bingo—intubated

a place where i feel at home by Tizniz / @tizniz Gen | 3.1k Sleepy Buck wants cuddles with his boyfriend.

Suit by DaniWib / @daniwib Mature | 3.6k How Buck and Eddie’s suits get ruined before the Madney wedding.

this lovesick thing by fleetinghearts / @shitouttabuck Teen | 3.8k buck is buck: best friend, klutz, star of eddie’s every lovesick daydream. which is to say, things are the same, except maybe what eddie’s willing to ask for

arms race by drh0rrible / @betanoiz Teen | 4.9k When Buck makes a change to his wardrobe, Eddie assumes the worst and won't rest until he gets to the bottom of the change.

5k-10k

Two, Three Times in a Row by Leslie_Knope Explicit | 6.2k “We could’ve gone again.” Eddie snorts. “I’m old. You expect me to get it up twice?” “Yes,” Buck says, like it’s a given, like duh. “I could get you to do it right now.”

lay your cards down, down, down by 42hrb Mature | 6.3k Buck and Eddie get drunk at Chim's bachelor party and wake up married.

And when I sleep on your couch I feel very safe by justhockey Not rated | 6.7k five times Buck sleeps on Eddie’s couch, and the first time he sleeps in his bed.

of laughter, loose tongues, and blurry snapshots of last night by brewrosemilk / @gayhoediaz Explicit | 7.2k Buck and Eddie get wasted, wake up hungover, and consult Buck’s camera roll in order to sharpen their blurry memories of what happened in between.

the devil's on the details by MonsterRae1 / @monsterrae1 Mature | 8.6k Eddie accidentally summons a crossroads demon who won't leave him alone until he signs his soul away. It's all tiktoks fault.

Give Us The Grown by fruitsdoesnotknow Teen | 8.6k Buck starts leaving notes for Eddie. Eddie writes notes for Buck right back. They were always going to end up writing their own love story.

Ace of Hearts by glorious_spoon / @glorious-spoon Teen | 9.6k the poker game was a date. It takes Buck a while to catch on, though.

10k-20k

For the rest of my life (for the rest of yours) by JamesPearce911 / @diazsdimples Gen | 10.6k Buck, Eddie and Christopher go to the zoo to see the baby hippo and Eddie gets all up in his feels about it.

Cooperative Species of the Southern Coastal Husbro by Mad_Lori / @madlori Teen | 11.8k In which Abby Clark attends Buck and Eddie's wedding.

And Life Rushes In by catwalksalone Explicit | 17.4k Eddie runs into Taylor Kelly in a bar and learns a surprising new fact about his best friend.

how this silence of love hurts by bptlmevyemtc Teen | 17.6k it starts when eddie starts leaving daily fun-fact post-it notes on buck's locker. it somehow ends with them kissing.

throw a bone, i’m finally home by fleetinghearts / @shitouttabuck Explicit | 17.9k home for the holidays is a person, not a place, and a puppy can be for christmas and forever

20k - 30k

Hinged by TazzySnow Mature | 20.3k Eddie and Buck match on a dating app.

The Shadows of Every Spark by devirnis / @devirnis Teen | 22.8k the 118 run a front restaurant for money laundering, and accidentally adopt the Buckley siblings

there ain't no turning back by 42hrb Explicit | 28.3k The Buddie healing road trip

A Family Favor by thea_zara / @theazara Teen | 28.7k Evan Buckley never expected to call in the favor he's owed. He also never expected for it to change his life forever.

30k +

Precious & Fragile Things by Daisies_and_Briars / @cal-daisies-and-briars Teen | 46.9k Buck is the Fallen Angel of Petty Temptation, who has been tasked with tempting human Eddie Diaz to sin and enjoy life, but just a little. He thinks the job will be easy - get in, get out, go back to Peru to continue messing around with eternity. But when Buck arrives in Los Angeles, he finds Eddie is harder to tempt than expected, and more compelling than Buck had hoped.

Month 1 (May 15 - June 15) Month 2 (June 16 - July 15) Month 3 (July 16 - August 15) Month 4 (August 16 - September 15) Month 5 (September 16 - October 15) Month 6 (October 16 - November 15) Month 7 (November 16 - December 15) Month 8 (December 16 - January 15) Month 9 (January 16 - February 15)

#buddie #rec list #buddie rec list #911 #ONE MORE SLEEP UNTIL 911 IS BACK

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feyofmay · 1 year ago

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Girls are Never Civil

Laurie x March!Reader x Jo (platonic) Summary: When a Laurie & Jo are walking home, they spot Jo's younger sister on the ground (reader/Ducky). Jo attempts to help her sister, but it does not go as planned. word count: 2.5k Warnings: Fluffffffffff, all platonic, laurie gets kicked in the no no square, reader gets called "Ducky"

This story is a snippet from my longer Laurie x reader romance story, so please let me know if you want more!! its already at 20k wordsssss :)

STORY STARTS UNDER THE PAGE BREAK

This is part of a larger story I'm writing called "What Women are For", which is Laurie x Reader (romantic). Let me know if you're interested in reading it!

Tightly curled up into a knot, in the middle of the dirt road, a trembling wad of buttercup yellow fabric shakes and wails into the torn flesh of her fist. Sympathising with the lump of stains, tears, and snot, the trees hang still in a moment of tender silence. The middle March sister has stopped trying to breathe through her sobs, as the dust from the path had raced up her nose and left a shocking pain. It’s as if someone shoved stinging nettle straight up her nostrils and pushed until the tip of the branch tickled her brain.

A hot red bite mark appears as if it’d been welted to the plush skin of her hand. She swears she’s bitten straight to the bone. Still, the tears continue to cascade down her blubbery cheeks as they slip their way into the wound. Overwhelmed with pulsing, hot pain, she can’t tell if the injury, itself, or the salt from her tears biting at her raw flesh hurts more. Everything hurts so much. All she wants is for Marmee to pick her up and cradle her like she had when the girl was younger. She wants Marmee to kiss away her tears and promise her everything would be alright. She wants to be home, where Meg would wipe at her wounds with a damp rag while Amy buries her face into Beth’s stomach and cries her own, fat tears. Even when she isn’t the one who got hurt, Amy still always ends up crying. However, the middle March didn’t mind Amy’s theatrics, as it meant that Jo would end up teasing the younger March rather than her. Still, she’d never admit that, or any of this. She’d be far too embarrassed. If anyone knew that she felt this way, she’d surely have to run away from home forever. Wherever could she go, anyways? She’d go West to California. No, she’d had to leave the country and go to Europe. Maybe then she could build her life up from scratch and escape the teasing of her sisters.

Caught up in her own puddle of pity, the middle sister doesn’t catch the familiar sound of clumsy, crashing boots hitting the dirt path. Not far down the road and following the setting sun, a grey tattered wool skirt chases the wind as a high collared, perfectly off white shirt stumbles after her. Their laughter sings in perfect harmony with each other, and, around them, the world pauses to smile and watch as their youth passes them by. Each leaf and blade of grass gleams warmly, knowing that they will feed this memory to the flora of next summer. Unsuspecting and attempting to hide within the folds of her baby fat, she doesn’t hear as the footsteps come to a halt. The sound of their panting breaths fills their own ears. For a moment, all they can do is stare at the small conglomeration of dirt and snot. Swiftly, that moment ends as one of them stomps up to her.

“Ducky, what on Earth are you doing?” she spits out with more venom than intended, but such is the voice of a teen girl. The older sister’s hand shoots out and pinches Ducky’s dust-covered forearm. However, the young girl doesn’t squeal as her eyes shoot up to confirm her worst fears. The dirt on her face has mixed with her tears, leaving a thin film of mud on her cheeks. Her face is still stuffed with her baby fat and clinging onto her childhood as she enters her first few years of teenagedom. Immediately after locking eyes with her older sister, Ducky starts to thrash and shake like a force beyond nature. Her fists swing wildly and her legs rise and fall like the waves of the tsunami. Dirt kicks up around them and peels back their human disguise. It reveals what the two truly are. They are girls. They are hurricanes and the screaming wind at night. They are motion and sound and all that will forever remain restless. Girls will never be civil. They will never shed their empathy to trade it for boots and proper manners. Instead, they will spend their days fighting in the dirt and letting the dust mix with their sweat. The dust will turn to mud and clay, and, when the sun sets, they will freeze into statues, preserving their childhood forever.

“Let go, Jo-” Ducky shrieks as she kicks everywhere but where her sister is planted. Still, Jo is stronger than her sister, and her grip is determined. Ducky’s plump fingers wrap around Jo’s wrist as she continues to flail like a blouse in a tornado.

“What is wrong with you?” Jo yells back even louder, joining her sister in her insanity. After all, what are sisters for, if not to join each other in their melodrama? Rushing to her aid, a boy, about Jo’s age, presses his palms to the younger girl’s shoulders and allows his weight to give him the upperhand. Ducky, seeing Jo’s companion, lets out a deafening scream as her eyes shoot up to Jo.

“-No! No! No! Just let me die here! I’d rather die!” Ducky spits out, as she clings onto her sister’s arm. Now, instead of screaming curses about her name, her fingers plead Jo to not let go. Her eyes, the size of teacups at this point, dart between the two. She’s too stubborn to hold her sister's gaze, but she’s too scared to look into the boy’s, who she’s spent the last half year avoiding like he’s death incarnate.

When he first introduced himself to the March’s, after the ball where Meg had sprained her ankle, it was then she started feeling something fester and skitter around in her stomach. An adolescent boy was in her house. He was in her house, and he was talking to his sisters. She didn’t speak a word, and she never intended to ever find herself within a mile of him. Every time he would make his way over to their home, Ducky would race over to tumble behind the nearest wall or piece of convenient furniture. Amy and Beth would laugh and tease her for her ridiculous behavior, but they didn’t understand. How could they? Amy and Beth were still kids, but she, Ducky, was a teen girl. Amy and Beth could never understand.

“No can do. So sorry to dissapoint,” Jo’s friend replies through shallow gasps of air, and, for the first time, Ducky gets a good look at his face. His hair is the same color as when the first calls of morning brush against the forest’s skin, and slivers of his eyes twinkle amber in the last caresses of the day’s gentle touch. When she meets his eyes, his gaze is real but not stern. Without speaking, she can see the boy who’s only truly grown in the ways that allow him to wear a man’s clothes. With hunched shoulders and a tight jaw, what stares back at her isn’t the lumbering shadow she’s stitched onto his frame. All that’s there is a teen boy, who’s not all that different from her.

And, as the dust settles, and all three of them catch their breaths, the youngest of them is able to think again. It’s then, she realizes, a boy, a teen boy, is touching her. Once again, she tenses up and acts before her next breath. To say exactly what happened next is impossible. However, in the blink of an eye, Ducky’s knee raises, his grip loosens, and suddenly he’s curled up into himself and clutching between his legs.

“Are you insa - Oh lord, Teddy are you okay?” Jo stumbles through her words as she rushes over to her friend’s side. Ducky inches away from the two of them. Her breaths are shaky and ragged, and the inside of her throat is torn from heaving in dust. She’s not exactly sure she’s even breathing.

“He grabbed me! What else was I to do?” Ducky shouts over Jo while a new stream of steady tears bubble down her cheeks. All she can hear is the rush of her heart as her skin tightens and squeezes her aching bones. Does Jo care more about Teddy then her? Will Jo hate her forever for this? She can’t lose Jo to a boy. It would be too devastating.

“Because you were kicking and squealing like a rabid pig,” Jo reminds her as Teddy starts to sit himself up and brush off the dirt that cakes his linen pants. The dirt has turned his pristinely off-white shirt a patchy shade of taupe, and pieces of hair cling to the sweat that stains his forehead.

“I’m sorry! Please don’t be mad at me,” the younger sister begs, pulling her knees to her chest. Only then does Jo notice the clean rip across her sister’s dress, and her knees, which may have once been red, are painted a festering purple and green. Jo shuffles on her knees over to her sister. Reaching out to touch Ducky’s wound, her hand is quickly swatted away.

“Don’t touch me-”

“What happened?” Jo asks with a biting tongue that’s nearly indistinguishable from Marmee’s stern tone, who they both knew would be anything but pleased if she saw this scene play out in front of her.

“- I won’t tell you!” Ducky exclaims, her fingers digging into the fabric of what once was a yellow dress. Now, the dress better resembles a scrap of hazy beige fabric with twisting red stains.

“If I say, he’ll make fun of me! I’ll be a big joke to the both of you,” Ducky continues rambling on before Jo can reply. The older sister scoffs before she can even think of a smart response.

“Stop being stupid.”

“I’m not! He’ll laugh at me and then you’ll join in too. I’ll die before I tell either of you.”

“I promise I won’t laugh if you tell us what happened,” Teddy speaks up, stopping the glaring contest between the two March sisters. Rather, he ends up with both of the sisters’ wrath upon him as they try to burn holes through him with their gazes alone. However, after his words settle in a new silence, the younger of the two March’s expression softens like butter left in the sun.

“...Will you pinky promise?” she inquisitively replies, not an ounce of humor in her voice. Still curled into a shaking dust ball, Ducky’s shoulders fall as her skin relents and lets her body relax again.

“Yes, I will,” He replies with the same sincerity as he crawls over, pinky extended. Still shaking, Ducky sticks out her pinky. The blood on her finger has congealed, leaving a deep maroon and brown crust on it that highlights the creases and wear of her fingers. Without hesitation, Teddy curls his pinky around her own, and she stares down as some of her blood coagulates and mixes with the muck that coats his hand. The teen boy’s gaze stops slightly higher, as he finally is granted permission to commit the middle March’s features to memory. Her cheeks are practically about to burst with youth and baby bat. An enteral rosy flush of girlhood stains her skin, and her eyes walk a fine line of being doe-like and bug-like. Her features are an odd amalgamation of the child she’s been and the lady she’s becoming. Suddenly, a fit of giggles bubbles up from her chest, and she looks up at Teddy while their fingers stay intertwined.

“I thought I saw a fairy, and so I chased it. and then I tripped and fell and ripped Meg’s dress and the pain was so bad I bit my hand and I skinned my knees and I think some of my chin,” Ducky admits with a twitching, uneven smile stretched across her face. One of Teddy’s eyebrows raise in an incredulous surprise, presenting a smile that’s symmetrical to the younger girl’s. He slowly turns his head back to meet Jo’s gazes, whose eyes are glued to her sister’s. Slowly, like a pot of water coming to a simmer, all three of them dissolve into a fit of giggles. Their voices bubble and pop into the summer air as they shake the dust off their clothes with their heaving shoulders and shaking heads. None of them know exactly what the joke is, but none of them can fight through the never ending stream of laughter to ask. For what feels like seconds and days, the three lay on the road twisting and writhing in laughter until the sun finds rest in a valley far from the three’s line of sight.

Once the three finish collecting the remnants of themselves and picking up their aching bodies from the road, Jo hoists Ducky onto her back and kisses her bloody hand. A small streak of the dusty maroon liquid stains her lips, but the older sister doesn’t try to wipe it off. Ducky’s cheek is pressed to hers as they walk at a leisurely pace. All either can hear is the steady rate of their perfectly similar breaths. A silent “I love you” is shared in each inhale, and, through each exhale, boths’ feelings are validated and fully realized. Teddy matches their pace as they walk through the beginning of the young night’s song. Stretching out her hand, Ducky lightly brushes the creased fabric of his sleeve in a poor attempt to tap his shoulder. The young girl doesnt look over to him but, rather, rests her chin on her sister’s shoulder.

“I’m Y/N, but Jo n’ everyone calls me ‘Ducky’,” the young girl introduces herself as if he hasn’t been Jo’s friend for several passing seasons, “I hate it, but you can call me it, if you want to.” Although she has found the courage to speak to the young boy, she hasn’t found it in herself to look him in the eyes. Perhaps one day she’ll find her bravery hiding in the trenches of her gut, but today is not that day. Teddy smiles through a sigh as he looks over at her. Half of her dress is so torn it almost drags against the ground, and the rest of her is hidden under the protective folds of Jo’s gray skirt.

“I’m Laurence, but Jo calls me ‘Teddy’ and everyone else calls me ‘Laurie’,” The young boy plays along in introducing himself. For a split second, he catches her eyes darting over to catch his gaze, but the second is quick.

“Okay, Laurie,” she replies simply, ending the conversation as soon as it had started. For the rest of the trek home, the three walk in silence, and the world doesn’t speak either as it watches over the three make their way home.

Please like & repost & comment !! Also let me know if you're interested in reading the whole Laurie x reader fanfic !! It goes back & forth between past & present, similar to 2019 movie adaption.

#timothée chalamet #theodore laurence x reader #laurie x reader #jo march x reader #little women 2019 #laurie laurence #laurie laurence x reader #louisa may alcott #little women #laurie x jo x reader

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traegorn · 1 month ago

Note

It's me again, following up. We're definitely not going to the wedding but are still going to pay for the hotel and things. I don't really mind paying for things because for the first time in our lives we can actually afford things like this, but probably need to dial it back from here on. I've always said if I got money I'd try to make everyone around me have an easier time so 130k a year after making 20k for forever feels like infinite money glitch. And like, I don't HATE her, I just mostly feel indifferent towards her. At worst, annoyed. But she's kinda always been there and hasn't really done anything heinous so it never really occurred to me to just stop interacting. The worst thing she's done to me personally is for some reason she told my mother I'd had an abortion when we were teenagers? I'm not sure why? I guess to get me in trouble or something? My mom is very pro choice and did not care. Ive never been pregnant so i find it extremely funny honestly. She doesn't know i know that. I did not grow up very popular so I guess I have a problem of being overly loyal. I really don't like her husband though. Also, I told my spouse that people on the internet think he's being passive aggressive about it and he agreed! He did not mean to be letting it leak out so he's promised to take the dress to a place on his next day off. He works 16 hour days 6 days a week so there really isn't much time anyways. I just kinda feel bad about making an excuse to not go. I feel like a bad person for not following through on it but I also feel like I've given them enough, way more than anyone else but the venue has given them. I don't know yet how to tell the difference between when something feels bad because it's new vs it feeling bad because it's not good for me.

And if you think this whole thing is wild, I have much more that's worse. The advice is nice and I feel like it gives you a break for a minute from the everything lol

"The worst things she's ever done to me..."

And then describes something that could have turned out really badly in a lot of households. I mean, it's true -- you're adults now and that happened when you were a teenager, so I get why it's in the rearview -- but again, wild.

And look, you may be closing a door on this relationship by doing this. But, like, you paid for a bunch of stuff too -- so it's not like you left her high and dry.

Like this sounds like the kind of person who if I had the kind of relationship you have with them, I'd be at most Facebook friends, meanwhile you're out there paying for chunks of the wedding. You've already gone above and beyond what most people would do in this situation, and y'just kind of have to do what's right for you.

(Oh, and don't worry about me -- if I needed a break I'd just turn off reblogs on the couple of posts that are circulating right now. My stress levels are going to be high this close to an election whether I'm on Tumblr or not. 😆)

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bettsfic · 1 year ago

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hi betts!

i’ve been a fan of yours for years now (training wheels is one of my favorite stories— not just fics. stories— ever, and i really admire your style. as a writer myself, i want to ask how you’re able to keep your motivation up to complete your projects? i feel like i start out so motivated when i fall in love with an idea, but once that fevered haze fades, it’s almost impossible for me to get the motivation i need to write. i have a few wips that i feel so guilty about not finishing/not wanting to finish/wanting to finish but being unable to get the inspiration to. so, in short, how do you maintain the motivation to finish your wips?

thank you so much! i'm glad to hear it; training wheels is still very dear to me.

first, if you want a step by step guide to finishing your wips, i wrote a tutorial earlier this year in my newsletter.

also as i've said elsewhere, i believe it's more important to follow your inspiration and interest where it takes you even if it means not finishing things. one of the reasons i love fanfic is because it's the only genre i can think of where you get to read unfinished works and be present during the writing of them.

but you asked about *my* motivation to finish things, and i'll say it's taken me a long time to build the endurance necessary not only to complete big projects but also complete them to my satisfaction. in my experience, the better you are at finishing things, the worse you become at starting them, and so whereas i used to have a million wips and ideas happening at once, now i can see the ridiculous endeavor ahead of me and pick my battles more knowledgeably.

also, i don't finish everything, especially not right away. sometimes i sit years on a story before i eventually come back to it. but i've found that it's inevitable that when i put something down that i care about, i'll come back around to it when i'm ready. it's not something i have to force. my attention and interest bounces around all over the place but the things i love, i love forever. so i'll always come back around to them.

most importantly--and this is really very important--i lie to myself.

here are the two main lies i tell myself:

"this is the best thing i've ever written," and

"i'm almost done."

being a little delusional is a huge benefit as a writer. if you're too honest with yourself nothing can get done. but i've always had a natural talent for convincing myself of things that aren't true and although that's gotten me in a lot of trouble in all other aspects of my life, in writing it keeps me just far enough away from reality that i can finish things.

the process is something like this:

vague story idea!

will probably be very small, the shortest story i have ever written in fact

begin writing

feels good, feels organic

no no that's not right, bad vibes

start over

ohhh i see what i'm trying to do

outline the tiniest, easiest outline i have ever made. five bullet points. this happens, and then this and this, and the story ends. EASY

will finish by tomorrow, probably

write write write

will finish by tomorrow, probably

write write write

definitely tomorrow, almost done

check word count. 25k. uh oh

doesn't matter, almost done. have *checks* four out of five bullet points to go

write write write

five point bullet outline no longer effective

re-outline. five points turns into five pages. uh oh

check word count. 60k. big yikes

but! almost done! will finish tomorrow, probably

write write write

get stuck? how? but the outline...

the outline is ineffective. re-outline.

check word count. 100k. :(

almost done :)

a plot knot arises. spend six hours staring at a wall to undo the plot knot

plot knot is more insidious than expected. open new document. start over

*now* i'm almost done

rewrite, restructure, reorganize

check word count. 20k. :(

write write write

check word count. 200k. :((

weeks-long fugue state during which i am god

awaken to filthy apartment. i have not eaten a vegetable in many days. i have not seen the sun.

eat a broccoli

go outside

am i living? am i truly living? is this all life is? am i loved? am i worth loving?

return to safety of fictional world to avoid existential despair

write write write

will finish by tomorrow, probably

so it's really less about motivation to finish and more about motivation to chase down an increasingly elusive feeling of joy through immersion into worlds of my own making and control. it's way easier to run away from something than toward it.

#writing advice #motivation #process #listen i'm not saying i have a healthy relationship with writing #if you can do it healthier than i do that's what i recommend

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hlficlibrary · 1 year ago

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HL FIC LIBRARY ✤ AUTHOR REC

AO3: jacaranda_bloom

Tumblr: @jacaranda-bloom

STATS:

✤ Number of fics: 64

✤ Posting Since: 2018

TOP 5 FICS:

1️⃣ In A Twinkling (E, 89k)

Louis’ Nan just wants him to be happy, to settle down with a nice boy, and bring him around for Christmas.

Louis is too busy with his career to bother about relationships, but in an attempt to appease his Nan, he sends her photoshopped pictures of him and his pretend boyfriend, Harry. The fact that the man in the pictures is none other than Harry Styles, world famous Gucci model—and recurrent star of Louis’ fantasies—is irrelevant. It’s not like their paths will ever cross…

So it comes as somewhat of a surprise when Louis returns home for Christmas and walks into his Nan’s sitting room only to find the real-life Harry Styles happily chatting away with the grey-haired ladies of his Nan’s Crochet Circle.

Featuring Niall and Liam as Louis’ childhood friends, Harry as the painfully perfect man of Louis’ dreams, Zayn as Harry’s very protective best mate, Louis’ Nan as a well-meaning matchmaker, and Louis as a guy who thinks he’s happy with his life, until a certain someone shows him what he’s been missing.

2️⃣ When Tomorrow Comes (E, 11k)

When Louis and Niall are partnered up to complete a project on Omega scents and how they effect the nesting behaviours of Alphas, little does Louis know that the course of his life is about to be forever altered.

OR the one where Louis is an Omega who has been keeping himself pure for his Alpha, Harry is a traditional Alpha focusing on his studies while he waits to find his bondmate, and Niall is a sneaky bastard who keeps borrowing Louis’ clothes and never returning them.

3️⃣ Love, Ever After (E, 20k)

One would assume that the charismatic omega in charge of the local matchmaking service would have found a mate and settled down ages ago. His clients, in fact, are always a bit surprised when they come to learn that Louis is still single. But Louis doesn’t mind, not really. His standards are just high; he is happy holding out for his alpha, his soulmate, and chooses to not waste his time with anyone else, despite what his friends might think.

That is, until his best mate from uni drags him out of bed far too early on a Saturday morning after a night of drinking to go to a farmers market, of all places. It’s there that he proceeds to make an utter fool of himself in front of the hottest alpha he has ever laid eyes on. There’s truly no coming back from that, is there?

OR The one where omega Louis makes love matches, alpha Harry makes cheese, and meddling friends might finally make their dreams of finding their soulmate come true.

4️⃣ Player (E, 28k)

Louis’ job should be simple. Harry Styles, one of the top ranking tennis players in the world, is every publicist's perfect client. He’s charismatic, enigmatic, and fit as fuck. The darling of the media, a national treasure, and a sponsor's wet dream. He’s also a goofball with the kindest heart, sweet, and polite, and singularly focused on achieving his goals.

There are just two minor problems. Firstly, Louis' debilitating crush on said client. And secondly, Harry has just accidentally Instagrammed a picture of his dick to his 18 million followers. So no, Louis’ job is anything but simple.

OR the one where Louis is Harry’s highly strung publicist and has a thing for his client, Harry is an international sports star and has a thing for his publicist, Liam and Zayn have a thing for each other, and Niall wishes everyone would just get their shit together.

5️⃣ Wild Hearts Run Free (E, 42k)

Harry is an alpha who is harbouring a dark secret, one that has forced him into self-imposed isolation, far from civilization and far from temptation.

Louis is an omega who has fought the predispositions of his secondary gender his whole life and suddenly finds himself cast aside by his beta partner, leaving him to question his place in the world.

When fate and Mother Nature conspire to trap the two strangers together, will Harry’s worst fears be proven, or will Louis find a way to break down his walls and lead him into the light?

HIDDEN GEM:

💎 Surprise Me, Space Boy (E, 7k)

Louis is a solo officer on Space Station Zeta and the isolation can present many challenges, not least of which is that it’s really bloody hard to date. He’s pinning his hopes on that changing with a fellow solo officer, Harry, from a neigbouring station who gives great banter and has a gorgeous smile. Maybe online dating has its benefits after all?

OR The Space Wank Fic.

#ficrec #jacarandabloom #trackinghappily #hljournal #hlcreators #hltracks #trackinghome #tracksintheam #1dficvillage

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soobnny · 1 year ago

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labyrinth — lee minho (teaser)

trope. best friends to lovers. college au. slow burn. angst. fluff. a story on second loves.

estimated word count. 20k words

release date. mid or end of july

taglist. open (send an ask hehe)

note. i am so so very excited for this one so please look forward to it perhaps. i hope this doesn’t disappoint !!!! i am continuously working on it and will try my best to put it out as soon as i can

When Mark breaks your heart in the first weeks of summer, Minho doesn’t say “I told you so”. Instead, he becomes your gentle refuge, sitting still and letting you cry on his shoulder.

You bruise yourself for your naivety.

In the tapestry of first loves, it’s easy to be bound to the intoxicating notion that he will be all you’ll ever know. When you fall, you think it’ll last forever. The memory of him emerges from around you, slipping in like sand through your feet. Most of it passes quickly, but some moments sink on your skin, desperately pulling you down and forcing everything down your throat — the sound of ocean waves bathing the seashore when he held your hand, barefoot and laughing, the birds singing from outside the window as you spend the morning in, the scent of coffee in the morning, and the feeling of rain dripping down your clothes as you run for the night train where you tell each other everything.

How are you supposed to forget pieces of him you’ve cemented in your heart?

Loss is too terrible to grasp at once, especially when unexpected. Especially when you had thought the world of him only to have your heart shattered.

“I’m going to kill him.” Minho’s voice is soft despite the connotation behind his words. He has his arms firm around you, bringing one hand to pat your hair down.

“Maybe I just wasn’t good enough. If I was prettier—”

He follows along with you, accompanying you with every word. “I’m good enough.” He nods his head, urging you to continue speaking. “And?”

“And it’s that fucker’s loss for letting me go.” You almost cry when you say it.

“There you go.”

“Thank you, Min.” Your voice wavers, sucking in a deep breath. “I’m…” An apology sits on your tongue, but you know your best friend won’t let you. He’s picked you up multiple times before—failed tests, college admissions, family arguments, and never once has he let you apologize for crying.

“Thank you.” You say through the clatter of your teeth.

He doesn’t say anything, only squeezes you in his arms.

It’s two in the morning now, and Minho can hear your quiet snoring. It’s prominent, sitting louder than the few honks of cars outside. You must’ve barely gotten any rest these past few days.

Your face is still wet when he lays you down on his bed, pulling his covers over you and letting it fall just by your chin. Minho falls asleep on his small, run-down couch.

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friendsiguess · 2 months ago

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Long Fics (20k + words)

I decided to start out my recommendations with what is probably the smallest selection in this fandom-- long fics. Here we go.

Chandler Bing's Guide to Romance (The Best Friend Edition) (E) By Anonymous

Wordcount: 81,926

The one where Chandler is awkward and hopeless and desperately in love with Joey. But it’s not like he’ll actually admit it...even when they start dating.

Set after 1x10 and runs through the middle of season 2. Canon events and dialogue are weaved in throughout.

This was one of the first fics I ever read in this fandom and I feel like it's a pretty good starting point for anybody (assuming you want to start with long fics I guess.) Since it keeps a lot of continuity with the show (just with Chandler and Joey having a friends-with-benefits-to-lovers plotline during it all), it's easy to follow along with and the characterization is on point. If you love angst, pining, secret relationships, and a shit-ton of smut, then this is the fic for you.

The One With the Wiseguys (M) By Anonymous

Wordcount: 40,484

Chandler's an FBI agent in need of a case; Joey's the simple-minded, good-natured caporegime working under his father, the head of the Tribbiani crime family. But Joey's more interested in Chandler than taking over the family business, and Chandler's growing pretty fond of him too. When the line between friend and target begins to blur, Chandler has a decision to make. S1. AU.

This might just be my favorite fic in this entire fandom (although that could change if some of you are willing to start writing, I believe in you.) It also happens to be one of the only true au’s I’ve come across in this fandom. Maybe the only—off the top of my head. Casting Joey, with his big family and Italian roots, as part of the mafia seems like such an obvious move, so I’m glad there’s a fic that has taken. I will say though, before you get too excited about mafia shenanigans, the whole mafia thing is more of a plot device than an actual part of the plot barring a few crucial scenes. The story sticks surprisingly close to certain elements of the show, and the romance between Chandler and Joey is mostly sweet and fun. This is not an insult to the story though, there's a reason it's my favorite. Every time I read this, the pining drives me wild, and I’m always left wanting to start the story again.

Melody of Love and Loss (M) By l0w3l

Wordcount: 63,425

Chandler is twenty-five and decidedly too old to be pining for his straight roommate. He makes up his mind to move on, but at the same time, they become closer than ever.

He develops the omnipresent feeling that he is being stalked, but when his dormant illness returns, it seems that he was only being paranoid. That is until he meets his stalker face-to-face.

He can be alone forever, or he can indulge in his stalker's affections. After all, he seems pretty harmless, but Chandler doesn't realize how fast everything can spiral out of control.

Before you read this fic, read the tags CAREFULLY. This story handles some pretty heavy topics, but it is absolutely worth the read. I was on the edge of my seat reading every chapter of this, especially since it was still being updated at the time. This story and the angst had full control of my mind for weeks. This story has a happy ending, but be aware that the journey there is a difficult one so if you’re looking for a simple feel-good story, this isn’t it. What it is though is a deeply emotional, fantastically written story that will stick with you for a long time.

When the Rain Begins to Fall (M) By GuessIWillWriteItMyself

Wordcount: 42,948

When Rachel runs away from her wedding, she finds comfort in her childhood friend, Monica.

What begins as a simple friendship between two roommates turns into an incomparable bond of love, trust, and devotion, and soon, both Rachel and Monica separately have to ask themselves: What the hell do you do when you fall in love with your best friend?

I am so happy to have a Monica/Rachel long fic to put on this rec list, even if it is the only one. As the description suggests, this story is essentially an alternate take on what could have happened after the events of the first episode. However, this story doesn’t take that much from the rest of the first seasons and instead delivers a very creative and original story. I honestly love the depth that is given to Rachel and Monica’s inner dialogues and the way their situations (especially their relationships with their parents) are emotionally fleshed out. This story has some chapters from Monica’s perspective and some from Rachel’s, so you really get the most of that mutual pining goodness.

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UNFINISHED WORKS

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The One Where Everyone is Gay (T) By someonica

Wordcount: 69,637

"Friends but it’s about a lesbian couple, Rachel and Monica, the lovely gay couple that lives across the hall from them, Chandler and Joey, their quirky pansexual best friend Phoebe and their friend, a heterosexual douchebag named Ross”

This work is in screenplay and sitcom format.

None of the couples are really together at the beginning, be prepared for the slow burn!

Yeah, pretty much what is says on the tin. This fic is written in a script format, which may take a little getting used to, but I promise it's worth it. There are many things that I thoroughly enjoy about this fic, but I should first draw attention to the fact that, yes, it is unfinished. It’s technically meant to be a dual slow-burn between Rachel/Monica and Chandler/Joey, but at the point the fics ends at, these couples haven’t quite gotten together yet (one more than the other.) HOWEVER! Do not let this discourage you from reading, because the journey is thoroughly enjoyable despite its lack of destination. Also, the fic features a relationship between Chandler and Brian (you know the one) that is so good I lowkey wanted them to get together at the end despite the fact that I am a gung-ho Chanoey shipper. And of course, it's hard to find Monchel stories at all and this is a good one, so give it a read.

Dead on Arrival (T) By superangsty

Wordcount: 35,624

You can't get a date, your friends all hate each other, and oh right - you've just been stuck with a roommate who's an even bigger mess than you. But hey, at least your outfits are cute.

I think this story has a wonderful balance of sticking to the original but also elevating it in terms of character depth. At least, in the sense that it sort of actually DEALS with all the stuff that's sort of glossed over in the show, like all the issues Monica and Chandler and Rachel have with their parents, plus it throws in the added issues that are involved with trying to be openly queer in the 90’s. This fic includes established Chandler/Joey which is pretty delightful, and there's a slow-burn Rachel/Monica which makes me incredibly happy. Also, if you love Janice, then this is the fic for you because she's Joey’s cousin in this one and is therefore featured positively in the story. Susan and Carol are also important characters. Honestly, the whole gang is here. Again, remember that this one isn’t finished, so read with that in mind. With this author though, its always possible that the story could be updated, considering their first chapter notes specifically says that they usually have long periods of time between updates.

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Honorable Mentions

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So I didn't feel right putting these in my main list, but I felt like I should add them in case anybody wants more reading. Here are two fics that I've written as well:

What a Little Kiss Between Friends Does (Not Rated)

Wordcount: 26,240

Joey really wanted the part, but it meant he had to kiss a man. He was happy when Chandler obliged to help him practice, but he had no idea it would mean the beginning of some unwanted feelings for his roommate.

Basically, what if episode 2.24 had gone a little differently...(and then I shove some events from season four into season three for ~drama~)

Read Between the Lines (T)

Wordcount: 43,237

Chandler Bing is a journalist for one of the many New York City newspapers, and it’s not as exciting as he’d thought it would be. When he’s told to interview up-and-coming actor, Joey Tribbiani, he figured he’d be in for a conversation with some self-obsessed asshole (he was a soap star after all), but instead Joey turns out to be friendly and easily charismatic. Not to mention he’s gorgeous.

Not that Chandler is paying any attention to that, of course. And, even if he was, what would a famous actor see in him?

^ This one is still being updated!

Happy Reading!

#joey tribbiani #chandler bing #f.r.i.e.n.d.s.#rachel green #phoebe buffay #monica geller #ross geller #friends #chanoey #monchel #fic #fic recs #Central Perk Book Club

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queen-of-writing-bad-things · 13 days ago

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Danger Force Reader Insert | Captain Man x Reader: SEASON 1

Episode 10: The Thousand Prank War Part 1 (SMUT)

Season 1 Masterlist

Click for vibes

Word count : 20k (oml)

~Swellview Academy for the Gifted~

Down in SWAG, Miles and (y/n) sat side by side, talking quietly in the strangely silent classroom.

The woman listened to the boy as he ranted about what was on his mind, legs swinging over the armrest of Chapa's scarlet desk. She only hoped the girl would not mind how she took her seat, but she wasn't around. And besides, it was usually Ray who took the brunt of the feisty brunette's temper.

They didn't know where the other kids were, having slipped into the empty classroom during recess to have their little chat. It was another rarity since Captain Doofus wasn't hanging off her arm, nor did Schwoz need her assistance, nor did one of his friends need the kind woman.

Honestly, Miles didn't know (y/n/n) was so popular until he sought her advice.

"So, what you're saying is I shouldn't be bothered by it?" Asked the boy as he thoughtfully stroked his chin, eyes cast upwards toward the ceiling.

"No..." answered (y/n), shaking her head and smiling at him kindly. "Everyone likes different things, Miles. Can you imagine how boring life would be if we didn't?"

"I guess so..." He shrugged, glancing at the notepad in his lap with pages of little scribbles - notes from his friend's wisdom.

Anyone else would have laughed at or passed him a book when he went to her for advice and guidance, but not (y/n). She sat him down and explained every detail so he didn't feel ashamed, silly, or stupid - just enlightened.

"But are you sure changing your recipe is okay? I mean, your oatmeal raisin cookies are legendary..."

The heroine gave him a bemused look, flattered by the compliment, but the look on his face was hilarious. Miles came to her for baking tips, hoping to perfect his signature dish as she had done with the cookies, yet when she suggested updating them with walnuts, peanuts, maybe chocolate chips... He genuinely looked like she'd asked him to rob the Swellview Bank.

"Doesn't mean they can't be improved," said (y/n), giggling as she sat upright in the chair and looked at him properly. "My only condition is that you let me be your taste-tester-in-chief. First dibs and all that."

"Deal." They shook on it, smiling brightly at each other before leaning back, knowing they couldn't hide in SWAG forever. Inevitably, some crime would happen, or, more likely, Miles would lose his culinary mentor to the man-child she called her husband.

"You wanna go find the others?" Asked (y/n), and her fingers neared the button on her armrest that would send the chair flying into the Man's Nest above. "I'm pretty certain there's some homemade brownies left in a box upstairs if Schwoz didn't get to them."

"Say no more..." said the kid, his face deadly serious as their eyes met, and for a minute, the woman thought she'd done something wrong. "You had me at brownies."

Without another word, Miles' hand slammed on his button, and he blasted off, leaving a giggling (y/n) to follow after him in search of those delicious, chocolatey baked goods. It took mere seconds for them to travel through the tubes - something the heroine rarely experienced since she never used the kids' chairs - and then, they found themselves in The Nest.

Where things weren't weird at all.

"Oh, hey, Mika! You should totally try this apple--just try this apple--everyone's doing it! Just try the apple!" They heard Bose's voice yell at them nervously, and across the room, they saw the very boy, joined by Chapa, on the couch.

A suspicious platter of fruit was on the table in front of them whilst they sprawled out like everything was fine in the world. Suspicious because the children didn't eat fruit, not to mention how they assumed a thirty-something-year-old woman and a tween boy could be little, old Mika Macklin.

"Yeah, not Mika, but...what's going on?" Asked (y/n) as she approached the table, frowning at the boy and girl when they visibly deflated upon not seeing their intended target.

"Oh, we're waiting for Mika," Bose replied with his usual goofy grin, budging up a little so his friends could sit, too.

"My sister?" Miles frowned, wondering what was so urgent that it had the typically aloof Chapa fidgeting like a toddler.

"The same."

"Why are you guys waiting for Mi---don't touch that!" (y/n)'s scream cut through her own questioning, shocking herself and the kids when Miles reached to grab an apple from the platter. Not because he was overly fond of them, but because he knew that fruit could be...healthy...occasionally.

It was utterly innocent, yet the woman yanked his hand away as if he was about to touch fire, and the glare she gave the plate afterwards... Maybe years of living with Ray had finally caught up with her.

"What gives, (y/n/n)?" He asked, leaving the apple well alone as Chapa and Bose breathed a sigh of relief - strange, but not as strange as their friend's reaction. And she was usually the one banging on eating fruit and vegetables when she wasn't baking brownies.

"There's something weird about this apple..." said the woman, squinting at its shiny, ruddy skin, dappled with flecks of green. Something about it seemed a little too perfect--enough to make her tummy twist into knots.

"Wait...is this a trap?"

"How did you know?!" Chapa blinked at her, wildly surprised that she, the pure-hearted, well-meaning, kind soul, would suspect foul play when they'd prepared their special trick so carefully; was it that obvious?

A dry look from the heroine, complete with a perfectly plucked, arched eyebrow, was enough to make the girl spill the secret, knowing the glare would come next. She never wanted to receive one of those.

"It's not an apple. It's a water balloon filled with spicy milk that's been painted to look like a real apple."

"Once Mika takes a bite--spicy milk!" Bose exclaimed dramatically, and he and Chapa cackled mischievously like partners in crime. It wasn't the first prank the Man's Nest had seen, and it wouldn't be the last, but on Mika? Poor, innocent Mika?

"That seems mean..." muttered (y/n), although it wasn't as bad as the time a certain blond-haired sidekick replaced all the sugar in her cupboards with salt. Those cookies were the stuff of nightmares...

"Well, at least it didn't happen to you," said Chapa, who was wise enough to steer clear of Miss Danger lest she wanted to be haunted by a furious, wailing Ray for the rest of her days for pranking his sweet girl.

"But how did you know it wasn't real?"

"Well, I didn't know it was filled with spicy milk. I just got the sense it was suspicious," answered (y/n) with a slight shrug, and she tapped her tummy, which had settled down now the peril had been averted.

"I used to get pranked all the time in the Man Cave, but ever since the Omega Weapon gave me my Tummy Tingle, I always see them coming."

"I still can't believe you call it a Tummy Tingle," said Chapa, her teeth gritted at the ridiculous, yet cutesy, name that her friend insisted on using. It made her want to barf, which was part of the reason (y/n) kept using it.

"My power, my rules," the heroine teased as she leaned back against the couch, smirking victoriously. "You can give me as many milky apples as you want, but they'll never work on me."

"Yeah, but why are you guys trying to prank Mika?" Asked Miles, knowing his twin better than anyone. If (y/n/n) thought she was confident with practical jokes, she had nothing on his sister despite all her nerdy, innocent ways.

"'Cause she keeps reminding Ray to give us homework at the end of every day," said Chapa, her tone dipping into a frustrated grunt at her friend's overzealous love of learning. It nauseated her, given how Ray loved to feel teacherish by setting them pages and pages of mindless drivel.

"Yeah, that's messed up," Miles agreed, but his face told another anxious story, "but I gotta be real with you. You're never going to prank Mika. She's un-prankable."

His words drew a disbelieving scoff and a little giggle from his friends, with Chapa throwing her head back in amusement at the stupid idea that Miss Goody Two-Shoes herself could outsmart her.

"Wait, Mika?!"

"Like your sister, Mika?" Bose asked, and even he glanced sceptically at the kid.

"The same!" But for Miles, this was no laughing matter. "She's a prank genius! She comes up with great pranks and sees others' pranks coming. She's like (y/n)! It's like her superpower...except for, you know, her superpower."

"Well, I'm glad I'm not the only one..." said (y/n) as the practical jokers amongst them pondered Miles' words carefully. She was by no means a pranking genius, but at least she wasn't the only one who couldn't take a joke - literally.

But, there was no time for more debate as suddenly, an alarm sounded, signalling the arrival of someone in the main tube. The group gathered at the table and played it casually, relaxing on the couch, when they saw that it was the same girl they'd been gossiping about, Mika.

In her flowery blouse and with her bright smile, she didn't look like much of a threat. Or, at least, that's how Chapa saw her, all pink, girly, and glitzy--the total opposite of a Queen Pranker.

"Hey, guys!" She greeted them cheerfully with a little wave before skipping the steps towards them. "How groovaaaay was that homework Ray gave us last night? Huh?"

"Extra math. Can't beat it..." (y/n) smiled in return, being the one to set the questions since her doofus didn't know his SOHCAHTOA from his surface areas. Still, the same couldn't be said for the furious girl across from her.

Chapa snarled, crushing an apple with her electrified fist, making Bose glance at her nervously. Yet, Mika was oblivious, rambling about how she'd worked into the night, surrounded by equations, sums, and answers.

"Mm-hmm, yup! Nothing like a long night of long divi--" Only, she stopped dead when a foreboding sense washed over her.

She knew that feeling. She knew that smell. The smell of mischief and chaos. A distinct whiff of it came from the table, and now that she thought about it, her impish friends were a little too quiet for the Pranking Queen's liking.

"...sion." She turned around on her heel, staring blankly at them through a long, thick lock of her curly hair with those omniscient eyes. All Miles could do was shake his head; he had warned them.

"Someone's trying to prank me," said the girl, making Chapa purse her lips and scoff coolly.

"Whaaaaat?" Bose asked, sounding a little more awkward, but their friend didn't buy it, ominously stepping close as they avoided her gaze.

"I said...someone's trying to prank me." Her hands landed on her brother's shoulders, making poor Miles tense up, but he was safe in the knowledge that he hadn't grievously sinned. That prank was nothing to do with him.

" I know it's not Miles because he's learned his lesson..." He grimaced at the memory of his utter defeat, twiddling one of the grapes he'd pulled from the fruit platter--not that he had any appetite left.

"And I know it's not (y/n/n) 'cause she's too nice to go around viciously pranking people, so...it must be one of you."

"Whaaaaaaat?" Bose reiterated, another scoff falling from Chapa's lips, and they both shook their heads at her outlandish...if accurate...accusation.

"Why would we try to prank you?"

"Yeah, sis. You're our girl-power B-F-F for life, chica!" Chapa exclaimed, grinning ear to ear, which may have looked more creepy than anything, particularly with the uncharacteristically sweet compliments.

Either way, Mika didn't buy it, frowning because in the few months she'd known the brunette, she'd never called her sis or chica. Other, fouler things, maybe, but B-F-F? She smelled a rat.

"Okay, then, why don't you take a bite of that nice, shiny apple?" He suggested, eyeing the pristinely painted apple that the pranksters had replanted on the plate.

"That apple there?" Chapa asked, masking her gulp as best she could at the terrifying glint in the girl's eye.

"The same."

"I'm not hungry." She twitched a smile, meeting Mika's equally sharp gaze. Not that the girl would back down. If anything, the blatant refusal bemused her, and she smirked at her friend and taunted her, too.

"Aw..." Mika cooed in a baby voice that made Chapa's insides cringe and claw at how saccharine it was - deliberately aimed to irk her. "I'm sure you have room in your tummy for one small bite of this apple..."

"Actually, I am kinda hungry!" When she put it that way, Bose and all his dimwittedness couldn't resist reaching out to take the shining, scarlet fruit.

All (y/n) could do was facepalm as Chapa freaked and yanked it from his hands, careful not to burst the damn thing since she didn't want spicy milk everywhere. But by then, it was too late.

"No, Bose! It's filled with spicy milk!"

"Ah-ha!" The victorious shriek that left Mika was grating, dancing around behind her brother as Chapa growled. She didn't know what was worse; her gloating or how smug Miles was.

"Told you! She can't be pranked!"

"Dang it!" Even Bose was frustrated, knowing how much work they'd put into painting all the fruit. Their effort only made Mika howl harder.

"Oh, But that was cute, though! With your little fake apple filled with spicy milk...and your banana filled with glue! And your grapes, where every fourth one is a rock!"

"Ow!" She could have said it sooner. Miles wailed in agony as he bit down on what was essentially a green pebble, and he swore he felt his tooth crack. Yet, much to her friends' astonishment, Mika was uncanny, seeing through every trick and joke.

"God, she is good..." muttered (y/n), smiling at the girl who made her tummy tingle look measly.

Still, at least she didn't have to clean up after any pranks, wrinkling her nose at the stench of spicy milk staining the couch - and that was the mere thought. The sound of the metal door opening made her smile, though, going gooey-eyed and girly when her beloved doofus wandered in, looking as handsome as ever.

Even if he was as big-headed as ever.

"Not better than me!" Ray said as he swaggered in, flexing his beefy arms and holding a clipboard. "What are we talking about?"

"Well, doofus..." answered his sweet girl, who rose from the couch to smile at him brightly, which made the hero's grumpy frown turn upside down.

He waltzed toward his wife, yearning to be near her since it had been an hour since they last spoke. And that was way too long for him to endure.

"Missed you, sweetheart..." he whispered as his hands found her hips, placing a delicate, yet long, kiss on her soft lips - making the kids groan and wrinkle their noses. Any explanation or other rational thought left (y/n)'s mind, too busy wondering how a simple blue t-shirt could make a doofus look that hot.

"You guys are so gross..." mumbled Chapa with one of her deep, bitter eye rolls - anything so that she didn't have to watch the man pat his beloved wife on the butt.

The worst thing was that (y/n) encouraged him, hanging from his neck as she kissed his cheek and whispered something equally nauseating.

"Whatever--shut up!" Ray snapped back, feeling too fluttery to care about their criticism. Why would he care when his sweet girl hugged his arm and kissed him so softly?

"I've got an assignment for the four of you."

With a press of his remote controller, Ray spun the couch to face the holographic screen, which he'd already programmed to show them the details of his mission. Namely, one that he didn't want to complete himself for more than one reason, starting with the photo of the weirdo on-screen.

"Who is that human peacock?" Chapa snorted once she saw the flamboyant man on the profile.

He looked ridiculous, wearing some embellished uniform and a snooty expression. But the worst thing had to be the brown sausage-looking thing on his shoulder. What was that?

"Who, him?" Asked (y/n), regretfully looking at the man she'd been unfortunate enough to meet several times, each worse than the last. "That human peacock is Archduke Fernando...from Rivalton."

The revelation had her doofus blowing a loud raspberry as he gave a big thumbs down, nearly drowned out by the booing from the kids. They despised that place; it could only be described as the cesspit of the tricounty area - a literal hellhole that stunk as much as it sucked.

"And, as you know, tomorrow is, of course, Kielbasa Day."

"Already?!" Bose gasped as Ray curled an arm around his wife and pulled her close. "I forget Kielbasa Day every year!"

"Anyray... The Archduke's coming to Swellview to give some stupid speech about...something stupid, and he's asked for the best protection possible."

"Nice!" Miles grinned at his friends, excited to finally be recognised and respected by their teacher and this fancy-pants duke guy.

"...Unfortunately, me and (y/n) are busy, so he's going to have to settle for you guys." Or not.

Ray didn't even flinch, never once looking up from his clipboard as he delivered the harsh truth, making his sidekicks glare at him. It was a fair roast, but did he have to be so mean?

"Come on!"

"That hurts, Ray!" They complained, looking at their much nicer friend for help, but even (y/n) couldn't help. She just shrugged and looked apologetic, maybe even a little bashful, as her cheeks warmed up - highly suspicious if you ask them.

She couldn't even look them in the eye, although that could have had something to do with how Ray took her by the hand, tossing the board and putting his arm around her shoulders. Something about him seemed...smug.

"I got a date with my incredibly hot wife, so the four of you are gonna have to protect him for us!" Said the hero, grinning at the woman, who also couldn't contain her excitement.

Between running The Nest, fighting crime, and teaching four excitable kids, date nights had fizzled out. (y/n) knew it was bad when she looked forward to grocery shopping - the only alone time they got that wasn't in their bedroom.

"Aw, you're goin' on a date, (y/n/n)?" Mika smiled, finding it cute how her friend practically jumped up and down - even if it made Ray work-shy and nauseatingly affectionate.

"Yep! First one in nearly a month!" The heroine replied, clapping her hands together. She looked up at her husband happily, and her gri only grew wider when he stooped lower to give her another gentle kiss. "I'm so excited for it!"

"You and me both, pretty girl..." muttered Ray, a dangerous, dark glint in his eye as his hand slipped south from her lower back.

His wife could only roll her eyes at that - how his hand never moved from that spot until he spotted the fruit platter, still sitting between the kids. It looked entirely innocent to the doofus, and since it had been a while since breakfast, he supposed no one would mind...

"Hmmm, don't mind if I do!"

"Sir, you might not want to eat--" said Bose, trying to warn his teacher after he picked up the prank apple - the one that was like a grenade the moment he squeezed it between his fingers.

"Shhhh!" Chapa shushed him, interrupting the boy before he could warn Ray of the spicy-milky danger he was in. "If he wants to eat an apple, let him eat an apple."

"Thank you!" Ray nodded, even if he found their tense faces a little weird. He opened his mouth to bite into the fruit, with Chapa squirming from the building excitement in her seat.

"--Oh, as always, if you guys screw this up, I'll be furious! And if you do everything correctly, I will not praise you."

"He won't, but I will..." said (y/n), slapping her doofus on the arm for being so mean, but she couldn't help but eye the apple nervously. That thing made her tummy tingle go haywire. "Doofus, are you sure you want that apple?"

"Of course, sweet girl. Do you want some?" He offered her a bite, smiling innocently since he knew of her habit of stealing his food and drinks. Yet, he couldn't think about why she jumped back like that.

"No! You can have it, but you should really know--"

"Okay, darlin'. Oh, one last thing..." said Ray, turning to the giggling children as they tried to conceal their laughter. They leaned forward to catch the action, but they couldn't make it too obvious. "Don't make fun of his ponytail. Okay, that's it--byyyyyyyeeeeee!"

"Raymond, don't--" It was too late.

The moment Ray's pearly whites touched the delicate, dappled skin, the apple burst, spraying his face and chiselled torso. All (y/n) could do was try to avoid being splashed, scolding the kids for their loud, raucous laughter, but a giggle breached even her lips.

He looked ridiculous, with milk dripping down his shirt - one his beloved wife bought for his birthday, Christmas, or some other gift-giving occasion. And, that wasn't the worst part - that would be how it felt like lava on his tongue.

"Ah! Spicy milk!"

"Oh, doofus, you're soaked through..." His sweet girl comforted him, although the most she could do was dab at his chest with a napkin. At least she got to feel his muscles... "And will you stop laughing?!"

"This is why you should never eat fruit!" Ray grumbled, stomping toward the metal door as his precious wife followed him, throwing a few glares over her shoulder when Chapa kept giggling. He couldn't escape the hyenas quickly enough, pulling her down the corridor.

"It will wash out, Raymond..." said (y/n) as she guided her husband toward the showers, which he would need before the milk soured.

"True..." Ray shrugged, pulling his shirt over his head since he hated how the wet fabric clung to his skin. Well, there was a silver lining, namely the sight (y/n) got of his naked body.

"Hey, sweet girl, should we save water and shower together?" Make that two silver linings.

*LE SMUT STARTS NOW*

Date time. It was here, it was happening, and Ray was loving it.

He was like a child as he skipped and twirled around a parking lot, almost humming a dreamy tune under his breath, if it didn’t make him look weird. Grinning like an idiot, he circled his open-top car – the fancy one – and opened the door for his sweet girl, who only playfully rolled her eyes when she saw how happy he was.

(y/n) was buzzing, too, graciously accepting his hand as she climbed out of the car. She couldn’t wait to sit down and relax for a couple of hours; no one but her and her doofus would be at that table, and then, after a long, quiet dinner, they could go home and enjoy their night off. And judging by how he rubbed his hands together, the hero couldn’t wait to get to dessert.

“Would you join me, dear lady?” He asked in a silly, fancy voice as he offered her his arm, making (y/n) giggle.

“But of course, good sir.” She accepted, twisting their arms together as he led them toward the place he’d chosen – a restaurant neither of them had tried before, but Ray was always up for new things.

It was lovely that he’d booked, surprising her with the reservation when it became apparent that they desperately needed some time away from The Nest. But in hindsight, (y/n) wished she’d double-checked where they were going, her smile wobbling when she saw the place. With its neon lights and vintage vibe, the restaurant made for a hip and trendy burger bar, which wasn’t the best place for the woman to break out her best jewellery and heels.

“You could’ve told me we were getting burgers, doof,” she said, giving him a slightly disproving side-eye, discounted by the teasing warmth in her gaze. “I would’ve worn something different.”

Ray looked at her, gaze sweeping down the little, black dress she’d chosen for a fancier date. “What do you mean, sweet girl?”

He smirked, knowing withholding his plans from her was a little devious, but he couldn’t help it. Sure, she looked beautiful in everything she wore, but seeing her dressed up was something else. “You look hot.”

“More like overdressed, you big doofus,” replied (y/n), feeling a little silly in her sleek, sexy dress and expensive heels as they reached the door, and before they even stepped in, she already pictured the beer-guzzlers and teenagers inside.

“This looks more like a jeans and t-shirt kinda place.”

“I like this dress…” the hero muttered, his hand finding the small of her back after holding the door open for his sweet girl. “I like anything. Anything can be taken off.”

Her scandalised, wide-eyed expression met his grinning one, scolding him with a whack on the arm. “Raymond!”

Glancing around the doorway, she noticed how quiet the place was – not unusual for a midweek lunchtime. Still, their teasing exchange invited a few glances from the bar and booths, namely from some regulars. They eyed the couple up and down before returning to their drinks and food, too drunk or uninterested to care who’d just walked in.

“Behave.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Ray said, smiling as a young man approached them – a tall, thin guy of no more than twenty-five. With his dyed black hair, double earrings, and rings on his fingers, he was the sort of cool kid (y/n) expected to work in a restaurant like that, and she smiled as he asked for their reservation.

Her doofus’ hand tightened on her waist, ensuring to empathise the Mrs part of Mr and Mrs Manchester. Whatever his jealousy, the obliging boy – a mere child – showed them to their table, weaving through the small, cosy tables to an even cosier booth in a secluded corner.

She slipped in first, enjoying the cool leather and velveteen cushions, but mostly how she could stare dreamily at her husband as he sat across from her, brushing past the weedy kid with his immense bulk.

“Seriously, though, doofus,” (y/n) asked as she picked up her menu once the waiter walked away. “What made you choose The Unhappy Cow for our date?”

“The food here is meant to be insane, and nothing is too good for my wife,” he answered, barely looking at the menu as his eyes softened – just like they always did when looking upon his favourite girl. He held her hand across the table, stroking her wedding rings with his thumb as she sighed, propping her chin on her hand with the most lovestruck of gazes.

She sighed, wondering which jackpot she hit to get him. His hand felt impossibly warm on hers, with all thoughts about food gone when he gave her that beaming, pearly-white smile. “Ray…”

“And because of the low lighting, I can do this…” She watched as his other hand slipped into his trouser pocket, but he didn’t reach for his phone, car keys, or anything like that.

Not five seconds later, soft vibrations pulsed against her clit, making the woman jolt in her seat at the sudden sensation. Yet, to say it was unexpected didn’t mean it was unwelcome; her eyes fluttered at the gentle pleasure, her propped-up arm fell against the table, and a squeak left her lips, fingers trembling under his palm.

“Ray!”

He smirked at her reaction, circling the buttons under his fingertips as he enjoyed watching her buzz, too. “I’d keep your voice down if I were you. You’re wearing them, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Mr Manchester…” (y/n) replied, a brattish note in her voice when the vibrations disappointingly died down, leaving her feeling strangely hollow.

“You don’t fool me, Mrs Manchester,” said the man, leaning back in the booth and spreading his deliciously thick thighs. He looked immense in the cramped space but oh so good in his brightly patterned, open-collar shirt.

Retrieving his hand from his pocket, he stroked his chin thoughtfully, knowing his effect on her when he did that. “So, I’ll ask again…are you wearing them?”

“I…yes.” She couldn’t lie to him, not when her pussy had piqued its interest. Squirming in her seat, she was all too aware of how tight her dress felt after being teased like that, but she was even more conscious of what she wore underneath and how soaked they were already.

“Good girl,” Ray muttered, his stomach swooping low at the thought of his wife wearing specially boughtunderwear. And by specially bought, he meant the ones he’d surprised her with five minutes before they walked out of the door, begging her to slip them on since he’d paid a small fortune for the pleasure. Oh, and what a pleasure he hoped they’d be.

“I didn’t actually think you’d do it.”

(y/n) narrowed her eyes at him, feeling her cheeks warm as she recalled how easily she’d given in. In fairness, she’d brought it on herself, but his smug, sexy grin made the embarrassment even worse.

His eyes had watched her like a hawk as she stepped into the bathroom and pushed her lacy underwear to her ankles before exchanging it for what her doofus called vibrating panties. God, give her strength. “You’re the one who insisted!”

“You’re the one who suggested it.” He shrugged, acting nonchalantly despite the pure, childish exhilaration in his veins. “They’re your coupons, after all. I’m just cashing them in.”

She couldn’t argue with that, cursing the day she presented her newly wedded husband with that infernal box. As if their sex life ever needed spicing up – what was she thinking? But it made him happy – like a kid on Christmas when she emerged from the bathroom with no inkling of whether or not she actually swapped the underwear. Now, he had his answer, much to her embarrassment.

“But here? Really?”

He nodded, with that shit-eating grin again, as he laughed lightly. He was enjoying himself – perhaps a little too much. “Anywhere, any time, any place.”

“Shall we see if they work?”

“R—” Before the heroine could give him one of her stern warnings, his hand returned to his pocket, and within seconds, the vibrations returned. “Holy shit.”

She lurched forward on the table, tipping her head back to give the smouldering man before her a view of her long, flawless neck. Ray gulped at the sight, finding it simultaneously beautiful and torturous to see her like that; his wife in the throes of pleasure was exquisite, but he wondered if he’d be able to keep his hands off her.

“Huh…” he murmured, marvelling at her visceral reaction as her eyes cracked open. “That’s just the first setting, and you’re already squirmin’, sweetheart. There’s four more.”

“Doofus…” She moaned, biting her lip to keep quiet. It might have been midday, but they weren’t alone; she acutely remembered walking past several occupied tables not ten minutes earlier, each filled with people. They’d hear her whimpers if she got too loud, but it was so good…and yet not enough. “More…”

He shook his head, although he never left the secret remote control. Sitting facing the entrance, he saw a familiarly lanky figure approaching them, wearing that stupid band and charming smile that made Ray want to roll his eyes. He had a notepad and pen in hand, so the hero backed off, straightening his spine and smirking.

“Nuh-uh, pretty girl. The waiter’s coming, and I don’t want that scrawny-lookin’ kid seeing my wife like this.”

The buzzing died to nothing, leaving (y/n) bitterly disappointed as the warmth in her core disappeared, too. It was only enough to spark pleasure in her body, leaving her twitching and slightly frustrated; if only he’d upped it… “Jerk.”

But she couldn’t pout for long, jumping in her seat when a dark, looming body appeared beside her. “Have you decided what you’d like to eat and drink?”

With a polite smile and poised pen, the waiter waited patiently as she took a moment to process the question, standing on the politeness of his good manners. Another second later, she realised she’d never actually read the menu properly, so the heroine frantically scanned the jumble of letters, looking for anything safe enough to order practically blind.

“Erm…yes…” She said, clearly stalling the kid as she ran her finger down the list, swallowing her moans, only to choke on her own saliva when Ray’s thumb found button number two.

A stronger sensation hummed on her clit, giving her what she wanted at the exact wrong moment. Her cunt clenched around nothing, hijacking all notions of food and replacing them with laments of how achingly empty she felt, slick seeping against the vibrator. “I’ll have the—the—”

“Go on, sweet girl. What do you want?” Ray asked innocently, fighting a groan when she stammered and shook, looking so beautiful.

His sweet girl was usually the picture of calm and collection, but with the panties on setting two, she couldn’t help but clench her fists and quiver.

“I want…” (y/n) gulped, taking a deep breath as she powered through to ignore the vibrations. Although, she could do little more than point at the menu and stutter… “T-The classic cow burger with c-curly fries…”

The waiter dutifully noted down her order, having come across more than a few weirdos in his time – perhaps this woman was just shy? He never would have imagined how her husband teased her, flip-flopping between settings two and three to create pulses that only made her mind foggier. “And to drink?”

“Um…” Shit, she hadn’t thought about that. (y/n) glanced at glare at her cocksure husband, knowing how thoroughly he was enjoying her torture as he played with his new toy. A trickle of slick ran down her slit, undoubtedly pooling on the leather beneath her as she raised the menu to select a drink, her hands shaking slightly.

Turning the menu over, the heroine looked at the cocktail menu, choosing the first thing she saw as Ray maintained the deliciously intense buzzing. “A—a margarita, th—thanks.”

“…Sir?”

Ray didn’t even look at the menu or the waiter, too enraptured by his wife as she slumped against the booth. She looked like jelly, her half-lidded eyes blinking slowly as he mercifully allowed her to enjoy the high setting. “I’ll have the same but with a beer. Thanks.”

“Okay…” As the waiter gathered the menus, all (y/n) could do was sit there with hot cheeks, hanging her head to avoid his gaze. Every extra second he took by her side felt like a year, praying he’d just leave before she howled like she wanted. “I’ll get it sent to you ASAP.”

Finally, thank God, he left, obliviously leaving the couple alone as he returned to the kitchen or the foyer or the goddamn moon for all the woman cared. With their vague sense of privacy again, she sighed contently, rolling her hips to try and chase the vibrator, enjoying how it slipped and slid through her wetness, teasing her clit.

She looked at her husband through bleary eyes, wishing she could be madder at him, but all she saw was a ridiculously handsome man. His broad shoulders, strong arms, and thick torso only made her wetter, suddenly wishing his cock could fill her in tandem with the buzz. “You’re evil.”

“I’m Captain Man, sweet girl. I eat evil for breakfast,” Ray replied in a near-silent whisper, having no regrets as he shifted in his seat. His length rubbed against his zipper, painfully hard after watching her silent struggle, and he imagined how soft and silky her soaked walls would be around his fingers.

“Don’t say you didn’t enjoy it…”

“What happened to not showing the scrawny kid?” She asked dryly, yet there was no malice in it. She was too content and drunk on pleasure to give any real bite.

“Changed my mind…” He shrugged, licking his lips when she whined quietly. “You look so pretty when you’re trying not to cum.”

She frowned at him for that, wanting to give him a piece of her mind, but how could she? “Raymond…Fuck.”

Her pussy throbbed, soaking the seat and her thighs as she longed for a good, thorough fucking. Still, she chased her high, feeling it somewhere far off but slowly approaching, and the thrill made her shiver.

Her nipples hardened, slightly peeking through her dress, although you’d have to squint to notice. Ray, for one, stared, noticing everything about her, wondering if he pulled down the front, was she wearing a bra, or would he be able to suck and lick and tease them like he desperately craved?

“I can just sit here, mind my own business, relax, and watch my wife cream herself without ever laying a finger on her.”

Swallowing thickly, he growled as she twitched, bucking her hips into nothing – chasing his cock like the greedy girl she was. “Fuck, you give a good show, darlin’.”

“Do I?” She asked innocently, despite looking like absolute sin, as she bit her lower lip, removing another layer of lipstick until it faded.

“Yeah…” He nodded slightly, thumbing the remote and the final button – the one he knew would send her hurtling toward the edge. “You want it higher?”

She shook her head, already feeling dizzy from the powerful vibe, but at the same time, she longed for the extra push toward her orgasm. She could feel it, noting how her cunt throbbed and squeezed, secretly wanting her doofus to bend her over the table and fuck her long and hard. “No… Yes… I don’t know.”

“I say higher.” He didn’t give her a chance to debate it.

He pushed the final button, and the reaction was instantaneous. Her trembling hand nudged the cutlery as she let out an embarrassingly loud squeak, drawing strange looks from those only a few feet away. Luckily, the darkness and high backs of the booths shielded them, not that it stopped (y/n) from slapping a hand over her mouth.

“Look at you. You’re trying so hard not to let them hear you.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, a few tears escaping as she did. Her clit felt like it was burning – so good it was painful – and she jerked her hips like she could escape the torturous assault.

Her voice sounded croaky and muffled as she spoke from behind her hand, lightly slapping her hand on the table as the need to cum grew stronger. “Don’t want to get kicked out—o-or a-arrested.”

“Like I said, Captain Man,” her doofus said cockily, which would usually elicit an eye roll, but it just made her cunt quiver, watching as he stretched and slipped his free hand under the table.

His eyes fluttered, too, as he allowed himself a single touch of his clothed cock – taking himself in hand would be a step too far, unfortunately.

“Can still get arrested.”

“Don’t let them hear you, then,” he told her coolly, resting both his palms on the table as he steeled himself—resigned himself to watch the show.

He took a shaking hand in his, stroking it tender with the thought that it would soothe her. It made the fire within her burn brighter, wishing she could drag it across the table and ask him to finger her underneath. Would that be too much to ask?

“How close are you?”

“Close,” she replied quietly, only to nearly scream when the vibrations dipped to the lower second for a mere moment, leaving her in despair. “Leave it on hi—!”

“Like that?” Within another second, it was back, making her pussy twitch at the teasing.

She didn’t have the energy or focus to glower at him; instead, she gripped the edge of the table, finding that if she squeezed her thighs together, the sensations tripled.

“God, why haven’t we done this sooner?”

“‘Cause I—I—I would’ve had—a—a heart attack!” She exclaimed breathlessly, questioning if anyone would notice if she hiked up her skirt and slipped a hand down—they definitely would.

It was all his fault, and she stared at him with teary eyes – so close, yet it wasn’t enough without her handsome doofus on top of her. “Ray…fuck—-”

“‘Can tell you’re close, and m’not even touching you, sweet girl…” he muttered, drinking the sight of her in like a fine wine.

He’d loved and fucked her long enough to know when she was minutes away from cumming. Her hair was tousled from thrashing against the booth; her skin looked clammy; she couldn’t sit still, and she couldn’t stop the almost inaudible whine in the back of her throat. “Your legs shakin’ yet? Getting that sweet pussy all wet f’me?”

“Mm-hmm…” She nodded weakly, wishing she had the coherency to say in words how she was sitting in a puddle of her own slick – so ready for him.

“That’s it. Get her nice and ready for me ‘cause once we leave here…” He bit his lip, already picturing all the positions he’d twist her into once he had her in bed.

It felt like aeons since they’d had a day dedicated to purely fucking. It was difficult when four kids and a Schwoz begged for attention all the time, but now he had ample opportunity to reacquaint himself with her sweet, sweet cunt. Oh, how he’d drink her in after lunch. All afternoon if he could.

“What’s my record again? Eight in one night? How about we go for ten this time? Or more? We have all day, after all…”

“Shit, Ray—-C-close—” (y/n) moaned, fighting to keep quiet, but it was difficult when he planted more filth in her mind. Images of them fucking flashed before her eyes, encouraging her to shake and clench and drenchand— “I’mma—-I’mma—“

“Cum for me, sweet girl.” Ray gulped at a twitch of his cock, eyes fixed on how her face scrunched up and her body leaned over, giving him a view down the valley of her cleavage. “Just f’me…”

One word from him, and she let go, shrieking silently with a hoarse voice as her pussy gushed. “Doofus!”

The emptiness of it all struck her, even as the powerful humming stretched the pleasure for what seemed like years as she hunched over the table, shoulders trembling. Her thighs pressed together, reminding her of their stickiness while the white-hot pleasure ran through her blood, filling her every nerve.

Throughout the beautiful scene, Ray never touched the remote, smirking to himself when the vibrations clearly became too much, pulling another silent moan from his precious wife. She wrapped her knuckles against the table, hips jerking against the overstimulation, wishing for mercy when—

“Here are your drinks—sorry about the wait.” The pleasure turned to ice-cold dread, and the buzzing stopped.

As (y/n) swore her heart stopped, Ray pulled himself together, slipping his hand into his pocket and killing the vibrations. He also discreetly arranged himself, clearing his throat as if the sex goddess across from him didn’t achingly turn him on.

But he had to remain composed – one of them had to. The heroine had never felt so bashful, pretending to scratch her forehead as the lithe waiter appeared from nowhere, carrying a platter laden with food and drinks. “I’ve got you some halloumi sticks on the house—are you all right, ma’am?”

He frowned in concern upon seeing the flushed lady, who had to fan her cheeks or else she feared overheating. She smiled faintly, nodding but saying nothing, too scared to use her voice in case it was as scratchy as she feared.

“My wife is just hot. That’s all,” Ray told the boy calmly, waving off his concern because that was his job. His wife to worry about. And, much to his victorious smirk, only he could bask in her post-orgasm glow.

“Oh…” The waiter muttered, and Ray rolled his eyes at how fortunately oblivious he was. “Do you want some water?”

(y/n) shook her head, ignoring her gloating husband as she tried to appear normal despite her racing heartbeat. “I’m fine. Just hot…”

“Are you sure, sweetheart?” The hero asked, fluttering his eyelashes with that doofy smile of his, which was anything but innocent as he patted her hand. “You look pretty thirsty to me.”

Her reply came short and sharp, feeling the heat and embarrassment return as her husband stroked her knuckles with his thumb. “Actually, I think I will have some water.”

It was seemingly tender and affectionate, but she knew better. Plastering her brightest smile, she looked at the waiter, meeting his eye as he anxiously looked back and forth between them. “Thank you.”

The kid scuttled away, not knowing whether to be concerned or disturbed by the strange interaction. Puffing out her cheeks with a heavy sigh, (y/n) looked darkly at her husband, who couldn’t help but chuckle, no matter how much trouble it would land him in.

“Thirsty, Raymond? Really?”

“Just saying what I see, darlin’,” replied the man, grinning cheekily as he brought the back of her hand to his lips – feeding his desire with the feeling of her skin on his.

“As if I’d tell that punk that I’d just had the pleasure of watching my wife c—“

“Okay, okay! Don’t say it !” She hissed, glancing around nervously in case anyone heard.

Now that she was out of her horny-induced haze, she couldn’t remember how quiet she’d been – if she’d been quiet at all. She only hoped their rendezvous remained secret, glancing up at her doofus through her eyelashes as she tugged his hand. “Can’t we go home already? I know you want me, too…”

“Fuck…” Hoping to make a quick getaway – just in case – she raised a leg under the table, having slipped her foot out of her heel. There, she felt his bulge and how he instinctively spread his legs to give her more access, and it was her turn to smirk as she rolled her toes.

Still, as much as he longed to ravish her, Ray knew the wait would only make fucking her sweeter. Hell, he’d class it as dessert. He pushed her foot away, clearing his throat and leaning forward, giving her those Captain Man bedroom eyes that did nothing to stop (y/n)’s excitement, but it did pin her in place.

“We’re on a date, sweetheart. You know the rules, but if you get desperate, there’s always the bathroom over there, and you know I have no problem bending you over and—“

A ping interrupted him, and to his deep frown, the hero watched as his wife fished her PearPhone from her purse. She glanced at the screen and frowned herself, forgetting their flirtatious banter when she read a text. “Wait a minute.”

“Sweet girl!” Ray whined, losing all of his cool when he lost her to a slab of technology, and he bounced in place as he pawed at her arm. “Pay attention to me!”

The woman raised her hand, placing a delicate finger against his lips, which Ray immediately kissed. He worked his way down her wrist, hoping to entice her into taking him up on that bathroom offer, but his sweet girl stared at her phone.

“No, hang on, doofus. It’s from Mika.”

His lips froze against her skin, twisting into a scowl at the thought of those meddling kids scheming to cock-block him for the Nth time. “I told them not to call, text, or, hell, smoke signal us! What does a guy have to do to woo his wife in peace?!”

The grumpy frown on his handsome face seemed permanent as a sinking feeling settled in his gut. He hated to ask, but why did he feel it wasn’t just a one-time message? “What does she want?”

As her eyes scanned the words on the screen, (y/n) gulped, her gaze anxiously skirting to Ray when she opened a link to the KLVY newsfeed, sent by the girl. “Oh, fuck.”

“What?” Ray asked, his mouth set in a grim, straight line as his wife cringed, not knowing how to tell him. But she had to, swiping down to the story that Mika highlighted, admitting the truth with a goddamn sad-face emoji.

“Okay, doofus. So, don’t get mad, but…” She turned the phone so he could see, and the hero felt like screaming.

On the headlines of KLVY stood Danger Force alongside Archduke Fernando of Rivalton. They weren’t smiling or posing proudly – that would mean they did something right for once.

Oh, no. He gave them one job, and they fucked it up. Cancel those burgers - that was their date ruined.

*LE SMUT ENDS NOW*

Danger Force expected to get yelled at. They done goofed – they understood that, but honestly? Nothing could prepare them for Angry Ray, who marched himself and his sweet girl back to the Man's Nest quicker than they could escape to Cuba. Seriously, Miles wondered how long he could hide out there before his boss hunted him down.

But Ray would go to the ends of the Earth to find those interfering little miscreants. He gave them one job—one guy to protect for one afternoon, and they couldn't even manage that. He could forgive the humiliation they caused but interrupting a steamy date with Mrs Manchester? Hell hath no fury like a doofus left high and dry.

"Statistically, I haven't been on a date with my sweet girl since you guys showed up!" Exclaimed the furious hero, who (y/n) thought cut a dashing figure in his trademark, alarmingly bright shirt. Plus, Angry Ray was Hot Ray, although the kids would have argued otherwise, sitting on the couch with chins on their fists as he ranted.

"But I finally get a chance to go out with my absolutely stunning wife, who looks really hot in her dress—" They couldn't argue with that, glancing at the lady in her little, black dress. "—and you guys have to go ahead and—"

"Whoa, whoa, doof, hang on..." (y/n) interrupted, stepping forward and laying a hand on her husband's beefy arm. She didn't care about the yelling, knowing the kids needed a telling-off for slacking off, but she noticed something weird mid-rant.

"Oh, sure, pretty girl..."

Padding across the floor barefoot – having grown tired of her heels after stomping back home in a foul mood – she looked around the couch. She saw Bose, Mika, and Miles, but no sassy sourpuss, who also deserved to see her disappointed face after ruining what been a deliciously spicy date.

"Where's Chapa?"

"She suited up to answer a call," answered Miles awkwardly, sitting on the back of the half-moon couch with his sister. "Some dude was spittin' on people at BalMart."

"Alone?" The quirked a brow, not liking when one of her babies went off without backup — even if they were mood killers. Ray, however, was not so concerned, scoffing and puffing out his cheeks as he curled an arm around her waist to pull his sweet girl close; he deserved her precious attention, not them.

"Who cares, sweetheart? I'll yell at her when she gets back," he grumbled, placing his other hand on his hip, muttering curses under his breath—some of which were audible to the children's innocent ears.

"Look, I'm sorry Archduke Fernando got pranked on our watch..." said Mika, folding her arms in a manner that did not convey any remorse. "But honestly, that guy was kinda a jerk!"

"Yeah!" Bose agreed from his place on the floor. Why he chose to sit there rather than on the couch was anyone's guess. "He keeps calling the Man's Nest and demanding I give back Gideon."

"You probably should. You don't know where that's been," said (y/n), cringing with everyone else as the boy rubbed his face on the Archduke's severed ponytail – a fallen soldier of the prank. Watching him nuzzle it made her want to be sick, knowing Fernando loved it...a little too well.

"I would never do not! You're just so soft!" Bose cooed in a babyish voice, ignoring the haters and cradling Gideon like it was his firstborn child—or how Ray cradled his sweet girl.

"So, who cares if he got pranked, anyway?" Said Miles, swiftly moving on from that. Thankfully, his friend sat so low that he couldn't watch the lovefest; instead, he turned to Ray's grumpy scowl, acting like it and (y/n)'s disappointment didn't sting. "I mean, it's no big deal."

"No big deal?" The hero stuttered, glancing at his wife's pretty visage before facing the ignorant boy. "You really think war is no big deal?!"

Well, when he put it like that... All he got was confused giggles.

"What?"

"What are you talking about? War?" Asked the bemused Macklin Twins, although neither Ray nor (y/n) was laughing.

"So soft." Bose was just simping for some weirdo's hair, utterly unaware of the tense situation literally passing over his head.

"He's talking about The Thousand Pranks War," (y/n) told them, sounding serious and severe like anyone would when talking about horrific, bloody conflict. But honestly, neither kid knew what she was talking about; in fairness, it was pretty singular to Swellview.

"Really?" Ray scoffed, seeing their puzzled faces. "Don't they teach you kids anything in schools these days?!"

"Uh, doofus... We're their teachers," muttered (y/n), thinking her adorkable husband had kinda stepped on her point there. Still, she couldn't stay mad at him, not when he looked so pretty with his floofy hair and huge, squishy pecs.

"Yeah, and we usually have to teach you," added Miles dryly, eyes narrowly fixed on the moronic man, who glared when the sarcastic comment distracted him from the adoring gaze of his wife. Need Ray remind them that they were the ones in trouble here? Well, he was gonna.

"That's it!" He spat before shoving his fist in his pocket to search for his remote. "We're watching the Ken Burns documentary."

"Ugh, do we have to?" (y/n) grumbled, knowing precisely what her doofus was referring to, and it wasn't what Mika was thinking of. "It's so dumb and boring."

"Ken Burns made a documentary about The Thousand Pranks War?" She asked confusedly, wondering why her friend found that so dull. It wasn't like (y/n/n) to shun knowledge, but she'd soon find out.

"That man has made a documentary about everything. This, however, is one of the crappier ones," answered the heroine with a slight eye roll, but she soon perked up when Ray clicked on the video, perched his butt on the edge of the couch arm, and pulled her into his arms. Now, she could feel his hard muscles everywhere.

The documentary started with an oldy-worldy font and a background that looked like tea-stained paper – just to give enough to be watching an idea of how old the war was. A harmonica and banjo played in the background, matching the redneck accent of the bizarre narrator.

"The Thousand Pranks War between Swellview and Rivalton had raged for decades, and soldiers from both sides had left letters to tell the tale..." he said in that southern drawl, and the scene changed to show two men, both standing awkwardly in scruffy, old-west clothing.

"Dearest Martha, I write to you with my underwear stretched way above my head—" No one said it was a serious documentary; that was just how crazy The Thousand Pranks War was. "—A grievous injury I incurred at the Battle of Wedgie Hill."

"This prank war seems to stretch on with no end in sight...much like my tighty-whities," said the simpering narrator, making the kids frown and huff in disbelief. They'd never heard such drivel in all their lives, watching as the clip showed not the actors in various prancing positions but supposed historical pranking, too.

"But my resolve has not wavered. How can two towns end a prank war when no one knows who started it? Or whence it began?" It continued, showing a prehistoric cave drawing of some poor cave-stickman getting hilariously eaten by a bear.

"I do not know if you will even see this letter, for it appears I have unknowingly been writing with disappearing ink. My dearest Marta, please kiss the kids for me and tell Ruffles he is a good boy. XOXO, Unknown Soldier."

The end couldn't come soon enough, with (y/n) swearing her eyes would roll out of her skull when she saw that stupid photo of Elvis and the hand buzzer. Seriously, she wasn't a killjoy, but she found that whole war to be ridiculous – just the sort of thing that thrived in Swellview.

"Thank God, that's over..." said the heroine as her doofus turned off the holographic screen, even if it meant he had no excuse to snuggle her anymore. They should've been more like Bose, who, halfway through the documentary, had clambered onto the couch beside Mika to take a little nap, which sounded heavenly to (y/n) right now.

"It even put Bose to sleep!"

"Huh... What'd I miss?" Muttered the weary boy, who jolted awake with a little snort upon hearing his name.

"What you missed is historical footage of The Thousand Pranks War that's about to get started up all over again!" Ray exclaimed gravely, his glare only deepening when he saw how drowsy the kid was. He should have expected it from him as Bose smiled and yawned, looking as happy and go-lucky as ever after rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Hey, can we watch Jumanji?" He asked cutely with that dimpled grin of his, which only infuriated the doof more.

"No, we can't watch Jumanji!" The hero snapped, not caring for The Rock or Robin Williams – whichever one they wanted to watch. The twins were up for it, too, completely unaware of the chaos they'd caused. "You guys just reignited a war!"

"Really? Before yesterday, there hadn't been any pranking between Swellview and Rivalton for thirty years," said Mika, sounding like a know-it-all like usual. If she remembered what her history books said – and she almost always did – Ray was overreacting – like he always did.

"Maybe yesterday's prank will just blow over."

Those were her famous last words. On cue – as if she'd been listening – Chapa burst through the front door, gasping for breath and looking like she'd walked through hell. Facially, she looked fine – perhaps a little sweaty and windswept, but that wasn't an issue. The problem came with what she was wearing: a cute, bright purple, spangled, bedazzled, glittery, and glitzy cheerleader's costume that Volt would never be seen dead in.

And, on the front, a large, scarlet R was splashed across her chest. (y/n) could only guess, but she had a hunch...

"They pranked me..." Much to her friends' horror, the poor girl whimpered as she staggered through the door.

"Chapa! What happened?" (y/n) exclaimed, and she rushed over to take her wounded baby in her arms.

It wasn't like the girl to be so touchy-feely and needy, but the moment she fell into the woman's embrace, with a blanket curled around her shoulders, it all came pouring out. She really needed that warm, safe hug, snuggling into (y/n/n)'s body as they fell to the floor.

"Looks like they ran the Tallahassee Two-Step," said Mika, knowing the signature prank anywhere, being the prank nerd she was.

"The what?" Bose frowned as they all gathered around.

"It's a simple prank. Someone calls in a fake spit-mergency, second pranked spills grease on a first responder's uniform," explained Mika as she helped to check her friend over, who could only nod weakly, "third grifter offers to clean said uniform at no charge. They take your clothes and tell you to wait in a room. When you get your clothes back—it's the cheerleading costume from your town's hated rival."

"She's absolutely right!" Chapa replied, crying into the heroine's shoulder as she pulled the blanket tighter around herself. Gasps echoed around the room, shocked that she could have been so easily fooled, but that only made the failure hurt more.

"Avenge...me..." she whispered before slumping into (y/n)'s arms, utterly out for the count.

"You still think this is just gonna blow over?" Ray asked Mika thickly, secretly saddened by the sight of his beloved wife rocking the girl in her arms. He would've been jealous any other time, but if anyone deserved one of those warm, snuggly hugs, it was her.

"One, two, three, four..." muttered Miles, hunched over and looking at his sleeping friend with a dark expression.

"I declare a Prank War!" With those five words, the bitter rivalry between Swellview and Rivalton began again, and no one would be spared. All's fair in love and pranking.

It didn't take long for the commencement of the Prank War to reach everyone's ears, and no sooner than the first mischievous joke was played, KLVY News was all over it.

On the next day's broadcast, Ray, (y/n), and Danger Force gathered around the monitor to watch Trent and Mary, looking dashing and ditzy as they stared down the camera. They talked about nothing else, and the kids, who, along with (y/n/n), had nursed Chapa back to her fighting spirit, listened avidly to what they had to say. Ray was also interested...in his wife's butt in those jeans she changed into.

"Breaking news? More like pranking news!"

"That's right, Trent," replied Mary, who had no idea what was going on like usual, but she looked serious. That was all that mattered. "It's war! Again! Between Swellview and Rivalton!"

"Yuck!" The man grimaced, sneering into the camera because he knew where his loyalties lay.

"The latest victim? Danger Force's own Volt, whose superhero costume was stolen, is now on display in Rivalton's Country Music-themed knockoff store—Hee Haw Purée."

They just liked to add salt to Chapa's wounds, and she growled when they reminded her of possibly the worst moment of her life. The humiliation, the pain, the anguish... Now, all those filthy Rivaltons could gloat over her defeat, and somehow, KLVY knew all about it. Worse, they told the world, and all she got in return was vicious comments, cruel laughter, or piteous glances; it made her want to explode in a fit of vengeful fury.

"Volt was later seen walking home in shame, dressed like a Rivalton cheerleader," said Trent as the green screen behind him showed a pap photo of one very embarrassed sidekick; Chapa tried to block the camera's view, but everyone could see. Purple was not her colour. It was Rivalton's.

"Our sources indicate that Volt was shaken, but she is now in stable condition."

"Not for much longer, she's not," (y/n) muttered as she cringed at the photo she saw on the holographic monitor. Standing beside her adorkable doofus, she wondered how the news found out so quickly. Still, her thoughts were quickly interrupted by the screech released by the furious girl, who was, unfortunately, close enough to hurt her eardrums.

"AH, I HATE THAT PICTURE! GET IT OFF THE SCREEN!" Chapa yelled, her glare mainly focused on Ray since he had the remote, but he didn't turn it off. Bose and Miles also winced at her volume as Schwoz stood awkwardly behind his bosses; honestly, he didn't understand this pranking stuff.

"We're having some trouble getting this image off the screen, so we're just gonna have to leave it up for a while." Sparks flew from her fingertips when Trent said exactly what she didn't want to hear.

Miles and Bose could laugh, giggling quietly at her pain, but they wouldn't be if she caught them. Chapa was looking for someone to light up, and she could only zap Ray so many times for patting his wife's butt in public.

"In totally unrelated news, prank supply stores in both cities are selling out as people continue to line up around the block—" The news anchors didn't say another word, or at least Chapa didn't let them.

With a surge of scarlet lightning, she fried the screen until it fizzled out, burning that hideous picture of her from her eyes. The world would still see it, but she could pretend it was gone, gritting her teeth in frustration.

"God, I can't stand Rivalton!" She exclaimed, spitting out the name like it was venom.

"Yeah, the only thing worse than Rivalton is—oh, wait! Nothing!" Schwoz replied jokingly before doing a particularly cringe-worthy dab. He liked to think he was hip and down with the kids. "Get wrecked! Ha!"

"Why does Rivalton even exist? Asked Miles after they all giggled at the handyman's hilarious burn – anything that mocked that scummy, nasty town was worth it to them. And like all Swellviewians, the boy hated every inch of the hole just over the border.

"Rivalton used to be nothing until they struck grease underground and got rich," Ray answered. He didn't really understand the ins and outs of it, and his sweet girl would inevitably explain to him later that it wasn't precisely grease they found, but eh. Close enough. Like Miles, he knew just enough to hate that place.

"Here! There's a Ken Burns documentary about it..."

"No, no! No, thanks, doof. I can take it from here," said (y/n) before the hero could turn the screen on again. Her hands on his chest were enough to distract Ray from the grumbling kids; he'd forget all about the video if it meant he got to see her acting all intelligent and wise.

"They found vast grease deposits underground. Then, they started selling it to every restaurant in the Quint Cities, of which Swellview is, of course, one."

"You're so smart, sweet girl..." the hero muttered, hugging his wife from behind and resting his chin on her head. Still, as enamoured as Ray was, going all droopy and dopey at the slightest glance, they all couldn't help but sing the jingle – the one taught in all Swellview geography classes.

"Rivalton and Bordertown, Adjacent City, Neighbourville, and Swellview! The Quint City Towns! Quints! Quints means five!"

"Exactly! It's just like my incredibly hot wife said!" Ray said as Schwoz dabbed again. That guy had a problem. "And now? You want fried food? You gotta buy Rivalton grease, and you gotta pay Rivalton prices! While the citizens of Rivalton just sit around, getting rich and making Chapa look cheery!"

"Gah! I hate looking cheery!" The girl growled, knowing that tacky, girly cheer dress made her look all sweetand approachable. It made her stomach turn, and her frown deepen.

"Enough talk!" Miles suddenly yelled, slamming his hand on the table before standing up with his fists clenched. "Let's ride on them Rivaltons!"

His shout was like a battle cry, inspiring energy and ferocity in his friends, who agreed. Those grease-loving dirtbags needed to pay, and if it were up to them, they'd just march over the border and go all out. But, as usual, (y/n) was the voice of reason, shushing them and knowing things didn't work like that in Swellview. They didn't have everyday problems like every other place on earth.

"Okay, okay, let's all just calm down!" She shouted at her rowdy friends before they caused a stampede. "We can't just...ride on them, or whatever. If you want to fight with Rivalton, it has to be a prank!"

They couldn't argue with that. Suddenly, no one was feeling quite so pumped, lost in thought, as they scrambled to think of an idea good enough to pull off—one that would show everyone in the Quint Cities who was boss. After a few moments, Ray snapped his fingers, looking adorable with his bright, wide eyes as a stroke of genius hit him.

"Ooh, I got a prank! How about this?" He grinned, and the kids leaned closer to hear his brilliant idea. "We roll up on Rivalton with our lasers and blast every single Rivalton we see—like this!"

"Ayyyyyeeee! Ayyyyyyeeeee! Ayyyyeee!"

"Raymond!" (y/n) cried in outrage as her doofus pulled out his laser remote and blasted poor Schwoz. Thankfully, it was set to stun, but that didn't mean it was painless; the guy crumpled to the ground as the plasma rained down on him, which was hilarious to Chapa and disturbing to everyone else.

"Gimme that!" The heroine snatched the remote from him, giving her husband a glare that had him pouting. "That's not a prank, you big doofus! That's just violence!"

"Yeah, but it's funny violence, darlin'!" Ray replied, trying to use those big, puppy-dog eyes and that naughty grin to win her over. It would've worked...if he didn't do it again. "Watch!"

Another few shots hit Schwoz's ass, sending him to the floor when he'd only just managed to find his strength again. Talk about kicking a man when he was down; all Ray received from his sweet girl was an exasperated head shake, thinking he could look as devastatingly handsome as he wanted to. It would not affect her.

"See? That's hilarious!"

"Oh, doofus..." (y/n) sighed, facepalming as their handyman groaned and moaned on the ground. Her lover looked so happy with himself, practically wagging his imaginary tail like a Labrador as he slid his hand into her jean's back pocket. "Violence won't help here!"

"Okay, how about this?" Said Chapa as she quickly moved on, ignoring where her boss was touching. "We drag me behind the Man Copter, and I shock the entire city!"

"Ayyyyyyyee!"

It really wasn't Schwoz's day. After Ray's assault, he'd managed to get onto his knees, only for Chapa to hit him with a bolt of excruciating lightning. It fried every nerve in his body until he went cross-eyed, so there was no wonder that when he hit the floor this time, he played dead like a possum.

"Seriously? What did I just say?"

"Probably something real smart, sweet girl..." Ray cooed, embracing his beloved wife tightly as she rolled her eyes. He was too intoxicated by her perfume and beauty and soft voice to understand anything – except the hilarity of Schwoz getting hit – and she was helpless to escape the bear hug.

"That's also going to hurt people," said Miles, shaking his head once Chapa relented the vicious zapping. He didn't know what disgusted him more: the relentless violence or how Ray had hands like an octopus.

"It's going to hurt a lot of people!"

"Which is a bad idea!" They could have argued all day, with the young girl frowning grumpily at her friends as they told her to forget her plans to fry a whole city as Ray stood there like a lovesick idiot.

The bickering stopped when a sharp, loud whistle from across the room stole their attention. They looked over to the corner of the room, where the kids' lockers were, and strangely enough, it was Mika, leaning back in a chair with a book open on her lap – How to Do an Australian Accent. Well, that didn't make any sense.

"Two days ago..." She began, her usual shrill, girlish tone replaced by an Aussie one, which explained the book and why she looked so laidback. "I thought of a way to prank that town. You wanna prank Rivalton? You talk to me."

"What'd you have in mind?" Her brother asked, glossing over the Steve Irwin voice since she was their only shot at pulling off the perfect prank.

"Well..."

Mika smirked, snapping the book shut and standing up to explain her highly elaborate, detailed plan to her friends. She waltzed across the floor, leaving them in suspense for a minute as she sat down at the computer with that devious look on her sweet face. She cracked her knuckles and spilt the beans.

"We wait until the middle of the night. Then, Miles teleports us all to Hee Haw Purée."

They could see it now, staring off into space as they pictured themselves appearing in a huddle across the border in the knock-off shop. They'd be in uniform, except Schwoz, but he was so small and nifty that no one would notice him should they be stumbled upon. But Mika had planned against that, and nothing in her plan could go wrong – if everything went smoothly.

"Miles replaces all the regular chairs with prank chairs." Her brother cheered quietly at that, knowing he was great at assembling flatpack furniture – particularly those that fell apart at the slightest pressure.

"Schwoz replaces their water supply with his new concentrated water."

"Isn't that the stuff that has, like, ten times the amount of H-two-O molecules in it compared to regular water?" Asked (y/n), who remembered hearing Schwoz titter and squeal over his new invention after he spent a week in the lab messing around with solutions and test tubes. She didn't really understand why he felt the need to invent, but at least Mika had a purpose for it—a very diabolical purpose.

"Yep. One sip is like a gallon in your guts!"

"You're so bad! I love it!" The genius smirked, fisting, bumping the giggling irl as he imagined himself sneaking and swapping the water kegs in the café.

"Bose? You still know how to build a brick wall?" Mika asked, turning that mischievous grin to the clueless boy, but he had some redeeming features. Namely, he was an expert bricklayer, although no one knew exactly why.

"Sand-lime bricks or fly-ash clay?"

"Sand-lime, of course!" She said it like it was obvious, needing the absolute strength and security of the lime because they were gonna wall off the bathrooms, which, paired with the concentrated water, was a recipe for delicious revenge. Oh yeah, she was that evil.

"Ooh, the lady has expensive tastes!"

"And I fill the whole room with nitroblast boom sticks!" Ray exclaimed, rubbing his hands together and chuckling wheezily like some cartoon dog from the sixties.

"Again, that's just violence, doofus," his precious wife replied, lightly thwacking his arm and making a mental note to confiscate any illicit boom sticks smuggled into Hee Haw Purée. She just knew he'd try it, not realising it would blow them all to smithereens, and when she gave him that stern look, the hero just pouted and whined.

"Awwww, sweet girl..."

"Don't you awwwww, sweet girl me, Raymond."

"Anyway..." Mika interjected, feeling like they were getting slightly off-topic and closer to losing Ray's focus; once he looked into his wife's eyes, that was it. He was gone forever. And he was already pressing apologetic kisses to (y/n)'s forehead, making her giggle when they really should've been listening, the silly lovebirds.

"Chapa and (y/n/n), you install remote locks on all the entrance doors."

"These are all good pranks, but I wish we could see them happen," said Ray, peeling his attention away from his sweet girl for just a second. He was the type of man to enjoy seeing his success, so he frowned at the girl upon realising that all this would happen without them around. Because really...what idiot would go to Rivalton?

"You know that fourth wall of Hee Haw Purée that we never get close to?" Asked Mika, who was always two steps ahead.

"Of course I do. We got one in the Man's Nest right over there," the hero answered, gesturing to the far side of the room, which had nothing particularly interesting about it. Nothing weird. Nothing exciting at all. Why would they want to go near it?

"That's where I installed the hidden cameras."

"Ahh..." Ray nodded thoughtfully before smiling at his wife with a similarly evil smirk, an arm draped across her shoulders.

"Okay, so then what?"

"Then, we pop some popcorn, open some brightly coloured sodas, ask (y/n/n) to bake some of her amazingoatmeal-raisin cookies, and enjoy the swell view of Rivaltons getting pranked." She finished her speech with a victorious smile and crossed arms, nodding at her pleased friends.

They could get behind that. Anything to see Rivaltons getting pranked like they'd done to Volt. (y/n) was bemused to learn that she had to slave away over a hot stove for the plan, but for her babies, she did not mind. Her cookies were like an addiction to them, and it kept Ray entertained for a while since he liked to lick the spoon. Amongst other things.

So, ten hours later, they did as Mika said and slipped away to Hee Haw Purée at midnight. The traps were bated, the water was switched, and the doors were locked. Then, they slipped away like they were never there, leaving the cameras running for Schwoz to access in The Nest, meaning the next day at just past lunchtime, the fated hour had come.

Ray, (y/n), Schwoz, and Danger Force gathered on the couch, hip-to-hip and shoulder-to-shoulder because of the tight squeeze as they waited with bated breath for the first of their victims. The café was packed, and almost uncannily, the Archduke himself was frequenting that day.

"Okay, who wants cookies?" The heroine asked as she hurried into the main room, holding a steaming plate of baked goods. She was met with cheers from her husband and friends, who made grabby hands towards her like they were starving – unlikely given that they'd microwaved about an acre's worth of corn.

"Sweet cheese, have you guys got enough popcorn there?"

"We may have made too much..." Bose admitted sheepishly, eyeing the literal mountain of delicious, buttery goodness in front of him, not to mention the giant buckets in Chapa and Miles' arms. The woman couldn't even put the plate down, opting to offer her cookies to whoever wanted one – and that was everyone.

"Shhhhh! The show is starting!" Ray hissed, and he hooked a beefy arm around his wife's waist, tugging her into his lap. Despite the slight tumble, (y/n) quickly settled against him, taking a soda from Mika as she balanced it and the plate on her knee, also contending with Ray's wandering free hand.

"Is it, though, doofus?" The heroine asked as she looked at the screen, which showed the various live feeds of Hee Haw Purée. Nothing was happening, given that all the customers were still ordering at the counter, far away from the clandestine pranks. "They kinda look like they're just standing around to me."

"Trust me, sweetheart. Any minute now, they'll be wishing they never pranked us in the first place," Ray reassured her, taking a swig from his bottle as he patted her knee. His bright smile was satisfactory enough for (y/n), who returned the affectionate look and fed him some popcorn, giggling when his lips chased her fingertips.

"Technically, we started it—" Schwoz argued with a slight shrug, not realising he was interrupting the sweet moment between the couple just to be pedantic.

"Oh, my god, Schwoz! Shut up!" His boss sneered, taking a handful of popcorn and chucking it in his stupid face.

The genius shut his mouth but rolled his eyes, reaching for another sweet treat when (y/n) sorrowfully offered him the plate – a peace offering for her doofus' temper. Not that it helped. "And stop eating my wife's cookies!"

"I made them for everyone, Raymond," (y/n) scolded him, slapping his ridiculously chiselled pec as he huffed, swiping another cookie for himself before Schwoz could eat them all. How many had he had? Like, two?

"Yeah, but you mostly made them for me, right?" He asked innocently, looking almost confused with the crease between his brows because he deserved them the most. Right?

"Out of every man in the world, this is the one you chose to marry?" Chapa retorted cynically, glancing at the woman with her usual stink eye, but she just giggled. Whilst he looked grumpy at the offensive question, (y/n/n) just sighed dreamily, stroking his slightly stubbly cheek with the back of her hand.

"Yes." Her reply came instantly, staring at the handsome idiot and all his faults like he hung the stars in the sky. "He's adorable!"

"She's as crazy as he is," Miles said flatly, watching with a bit of repulsion as his teachers grinned at each other, leaning in and kissing like no one else was with them.

He was all for love and peace and all that hippie stuff, but seriously, seeing Captain Man acting so gooey never got any easier. Turning his attention back to the monitor, the boy sighed as he watched the customers wander back and forth, sipping smoothies and chatting, but not once did they venture near the pranks. It was infuriating.

"But (y/n/n) is right. They're not doing anything."

"Hang on... 'Scuse me, sweet girl... " muttered Ray, using his only good manners to carefully scooch out from underneath his beloved wife and get a better look at the camera feeds. Leaving her to sip his soda – because hers wasn't nearly as tasty or refreshing – he squinted at the screen, noting that despite Mika's promises, Hee Haw Purée wasn't delivering.

"Oh, come on! We've been watching this stuff for five whole minutes! When's the pranking gonna start?!"

"Yeah, they've been drinking Schwoz's heavy water in their purée, so why aren't they being, y'know...prankified?" Miles asked, looking at his sister for answers.

"The pranks should start right..." Mika replied calmly, never glancing up from her new book – Fifty Ways To Say I Told You So - as she sassily flicked to the next page, "about...now."

Ray couldn't plonk his butt back on the sofa quick enough, pulling a quiet, frustrated whine from (y/n) when she had to move out of the way so he could squeeze back in. She swiftly settled in his lap again, munching on half a cookie as everyone leaned in, stuffing their faces and eagerly awaiting the fireworks.

"To Gideon! My Little Pony!" Archduke Fernando whimpered as he and his fellow Rivaltons raised their purée jars in honour of his sliced hair.

They chinked their glasses together and took a nice, long sip; almost immediately, their bladders felt heavier, becoming full even with that tiny mouthful, but it wasn't an urgent need...yet.

"I could use a good sit 'cause my buns are barkin'—" said one guy as he yawned, pulling out a chair at one of the tables near the counter.

He plonked as anyone would, but the moment his butt hit the seat, the legs gave out under him, sending him crashing to the floor in a pile of matchsticks. In the Man's Nest, laughter filled the room as the group cackled and pointed at the screen, loving how the guy now looked like an idiot, and even those in Rivalton found it funny.

"You tried to sit, but you fell!" Said Fernando, playfully mocking his fallen friend as he lay there, rubbing his butt. "Let me show you how proper sitting is done, Clarence!"

"Oh, this is going to be good..." (y/n) rubbed her hands together, squirming in her doofus' lap as she anticipated the Archduke falling on his ass. It was only when Ray's large hand gripped her hip and squeezed that she had to control her excitement, feeling how his body tensed underneath her at her ministrations.

"The key is to bend at the knee while maintaining eye—"

Like Clarence, Fernando didn't stand a chance against Miles' fake chairs, which collapsed under his weight when he leaned against them. He, too, ended up on the floor, dusty and covered in pumpkin purée since he wasn't bright enough to put his drink down before sitting. The only ones laughing now were Captain Man, Miss Danger, Schwoz, and Co.

"Look at his stupid face!" Ray screeched, pointing at the screen as his wife took away his soda, concerned that he would spill it. Of course, she stole a sip of it first. "Look how stupid he looks—sweet girl, you have your own soda!"

"Yours tastes better, doof..." (y/n) answered innocently, tapping his nails against the bottle. When she fluttered her eyelashes and pecked his cheek, it was too easy to distract the hero from the theft. "Anyway, let's watch His Dukiness..."

"We've been pranked!" Fernando yelled as he scrambled to his feet, looking disgusting with the orange goop dripping down his chest. "Everyone, check your chairs!"

"You heard the man!" Clarence said as he sharply clapped his hands to make his friends jump to it. Rivaltons aren't known for their outstanding intelligence, and those in Hee Haw Purée certainly weren't clever by any means as they ran to all the other chairs in the room.

"Okay. Bend at the knee..." Those in The Nest couldn't believe it, chuckling from behind their palms as the customers sat on the chairs without thinking—before their Archduke could argue against it.

"Don't check them by sitting on them!"

The warning came too late, and it was like a beautiful symphony of crashes and thumps as half a dozen idiots fell on the floor, leaving the café in shambles. At least it was funny for the heroes, who giggled and threw fistfuls of popcorn at each other. Meanwhile, in Rivalton, they went from one disaster to the next as one girl in an exceptionally fetching, stripy shirt and denim skirt felt a sudden urge.

"I only took a tiny sip, but...I gotta go bad!"

"Yes, that's why we all call you Small Bladdie Maddie, and—oh!" The Archduke replied, rolling his eyes before the same sharp pain stabbed through his kidneys, feeling like he'd drank fifty smoothies instead of one mouthful.

"Oh, goodness, to grease! I've got to go, too! Out of my way!"

Cheers filled The Man's Nest as they ran to the bathrooms. The kids clinked their soda bottles as Ray happily pressed a short but sweet kiss to his wife's lips, sharing the victory with her, which only became more delicious when Fernando opened the bathroom door to see a solid brick wall.

"That's sand-lime brick!" Clarence exclaimed after hearing the man's high-pitched, girly scream, and then, they all screamed, knowing there was no way they'd break through before peeing their pants. Or skirt, in Maddie's case.

"Come on! We can all go outside and pee!" The girl said urgently, thinking it was gross and unladylike to squat in bushes, but desperation blinded her sense of shame, and they ran for the door.

"Yeah, but you can't, though!" Mika smirked and pressed a button on her remote control, activating the locks installed by Chapa with (y/n/n)'s guidance. No matter how hard they jiggled the doorknob, it wouldn't budge, creating a pileup of pee-filled Rivaltons clawing to get out.

"Open the door, you fool!" The Archduke cried, doing a childish dance like it would control his bladder.

"I can't! It's locked!"

"Ohhhhhh! My bladdie!" Maddie whined as she hunched over and crossed her legs, and her whimpering made Miles and Chapa laugh harder until their cheeks hurt and their faces warmed.

"Is there a urologist in the house?" Ray joked as (y/n) doubled over, fanning her flaming cheeks and trying to catch her breath as the laughter didn't stop.

"Oh, doofus—I can't breathe!" She wheezed, a few tears trailing down her pretty face as she leaned back against her husband. He was happy to brush the tears away with his thumbs, smooching her warm skin as his chest rumbled, steadily rising and falling.

"We're being pranked—with a capital P!"

"Oh, it's happening..." Clarence whimpered as his bladder opened like the heavens, resulting in the ultimate public humiliation as his friends tried to be stronger...and failed.

"Me too!" Slowly, standing in a line, the Rivaltons felt the first trickles run down their legs, wailing as they peed their pants, first, one by one, then all together.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Said Mika, shushing her friends' cheers as she quelled her own giggles. "I call that one...Ur-in-trouble!"

"I never thought I'd say this, but I'm afraid of you!" Chapa replied, giving the girl a proud look after finally seeing the darkness within her.

She wasn't just a goody-two-shoes nerd, but she was actually terrifyingly wicked when it came to pranking, and the others couldn't help but agree as they threw their heads back and howled.

Popcorn flew across the table as the children started a mini food fight, and for once, (y/n) didn't care about her pristine floors or the fact that she'd be finding pieces of it for the next six months. She allowed them to have fun, joining her doofus and Schwoz as they tipped out the buckets and threw that, too.

Of course, she still made them help her clean it up, but they could now enjoy themselves. Mika had earned it, but if only she knew what she'd begun...

~The next day~

Standing in the laundry room on the lower levels of the Man's Nest, (y/n) hummed to herself as she steamed and folded her husband's shirts.

There was something domestic about it that she liked, running the nozzle over the absurdly bright fabric to get out the worst creases before she returned them to their bedroom down the hallway. Her doofus seemed to cycle through shirts like it was going out of fashion, sometimes changing into a new one just for the afternoon, and the woman didn't really know why.

Ray would never tell her that he loved how her eyes lit up a little differently at each new outfit because each loud shirt had a different feeling, memory, or experience attached to it. Mostly, she just loved how hot he looked in all of them, picturing how his bulky upper body filled out the garments as she slipped them onto hangers before hooking them on a rail. Changing two or three times a day was worth it to feel her hands wander the patterns; the only cost was their excruciatingly high rates bill.

Still, if (y/n) had to pick a favourite, it was the shirt in her hands now, smiling softly at it as her gaze drank in the bold, Japanese print against fire-truck red. It was old now – he'd had it since before they started dating, and it had faded after one too many times in the washing machine, but she loved it.

She loved the scent of the fabric softener mixed with his cologne because, of course, Captain Man wore the strong stuff – it just didn't wash out. But she loved him in it the most, steaming the collar with the utmost care and attention since she was the one who'd get to drink him in like a fine wine. It would inevitably end up back on their bedroom floor at the end of the day after he unknowingly seduced her in it, but she kept going, smoothing everything out until it looked perfect.

Just like how he would look perfect in it.

'God, I'm sad...' she thought with an inner giggle, wondering when she fell so hard that shirts began to do stuff to her.

Hanging her favourite to air out, she reached for the next one – a dark, navy number that always struggled to squeeze in Ray's biceps. More thoughts conjured in her mind, remembering how he had worn it only a few days prior and stood in their long mirror as he buttoned it up. Honestly, it was a travesty to hide those abs, and—-

"Herghhhhhhhh!"

"What in God's name—?" Her whole body jumped as the serenity of her midmorning chores was shattered by an unholy scream.

Luckily, the steamer was off, preventing any unnecessary need for her super-regeneration, but she frowned at the doorway, wondering if Schwoz was torturing—experimenting—on cats again. The screams kept coming, sounding hoarse and panicked as she rushed out of the room, running toward wherever the shriek came from.

"Arrrrrregh!"

Following the horrific echoes, (y/n) sprinted to The Nest, running under the metal door just as Danger Force burst through the front one. What they saw as they met in the middle was unsettling.

"Eerrrrr! Ya-ahh! Come on!" Their equally disturbed expressions clashed as their eyes settled on Ray, who had been told to keep himself occupied whilst his sweet girl did all the boring stuff that he thought magical pixies sorted in the middle of the night.

Yet, when (y/n) told him to run along and play, she didn't mean this. Her mouth dropped open as she watched him yell and whine, hands clutching his head as he writhed near and on the couch like a worm in bleach.

"Ray?" Chapa asked tentatively, not wanting to know what was going on as he twisted his fingers in his hair, yanking it so hard that his cheeks and temples turned red. He didn't even look up at her, panting hard as hyperventilation began to set in, sending the usually composed hero into a meltdown.

"Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, doofus..." (y/n) said calmly as she dashed to his side, using her most soothing tone as if she were trying to corral a spooked animal.

Hearing her voice was enough to break through whatever panic had gripped her doofus, and he glanced up at her with petrified, red-rimmed eyes. Slowly, she held her hands out, not even questioning why his hands stayed on his head, as she gently touched his chest and smiled.

"It's okay, doofus—just breathe 'cause you're with me, and it's all gonna be okay..." she whispered, cupping his cheek. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, sweet girl..." Ray said through a whimper, his bottom lip wobbling as she soothed him. The cool metal of her wedding rings on his face was enough to ground him again, and he longed to return the loving touch, but he couldn't—he might never again. And that just made him want to wail harder.

"Y-you said you were going to be busy for a while, so I was doing my normal hair care routine, right?" She nodded, glad that she missed that for one day because there was washing hair and then there was Ray washing hair. It was like a military routine.

"Pre-soak, soak, free-trade, organic, low-carb shampoo, pre-rinse, rinse, conditioner, argon oil, mountain water, rinse, air dry, towel dry, mountain air dry—"

"Okay, okay, yeah, yeah, yeah, we get it!" Mika interjected, having stopped listening when he got to the third step. Three steps too many.

"And, then—and then, I went to apply a teaspoon of activated cashew butter to my scalp when I realised that someone had replaced it with fast-locking epoxy glue!" He whined, tugging on his hair again, but like with the last million times he'd tried it, there was no removing his hands.

"So, you can't get your hands out?" Bose asked in a rare moment of insight. Although he didn't need to be a genius to know that glue and hair didn't mix, neither did the rest of Danger Force need (y/n) to tell them that his hair was Ray's fourth favourite part of himself.

"No!" Ray sneered, glaring at the boy for asking the dumb question. Would he sit there looking like a Village People reject if he could lower his arms?

"Okay, hold still! Hold still!" Mika said as she circled her teacher and grabbed his arm, with Chapa stomping over the couch to get the other. (y/n) felt apprehensive, wincing when they held his wrists, ready to yank as hard as they could—even if it meant taking clumps of his beautiful floof with them.

"Not like this! Not like this!"

"Guys, I don't think that's going to work..." she told the girls carefully, cringing as her beloved idiot screeched in pain. They pulled and pulled, all their weight to try and prise his fingers from his scalp, but whoever replaced the butter knew what they were doing.

"Mika! Chapa! Stop, you're hurting him!" Waving her hands, she forced them to scatter, not liking all the shouting, how her doofus was near to tears, or how they hadn't loosened the glue. "Epoxy is stronger than normal glue—and permanent! Without a solvent, we'll never get his hands out!"

"I guess you're gonna have to shave your head, then," said Miles as he sipped on a soda, nonchalant even when his mentor looked up with a stern glare for suggesting the unthinkable.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," he replied darkly, pointing his foot at him as the girls let go.

He couldn't bear to lose his hair, knowing it made up for twenty per cent of his handsomeness, and it was one of his wife's favourite things about him. He liked it because she liked it, so he tried to pull his hands free again, also in vain.

"Doofus, it's not going to work..." (y/n) told him gently, rubbing his shoulders as she ignored his squeals of gibberish. Even if she found a chemical to dissolve the epoxy, she doubted his hair would be as luscious and floofy as before. She hated to think it, too, but, ultimately, there was only one thing for it.

"It has to, sweet girl! It has to! I'm not going bald!"

"Well..." She said slowly, gulping at the idea in her head. "There's only one other thing you can do."

"What's that?" He asked, blinking at her wide-eyed, hoping and praying she'd say something that meant he could keep his beautiful locks. Judging by her wobbly smile, that was wishful thinking, and he felt his stomach swoop low as she nervously played with her fingers.

"A wig?"

"I am not happy about this."

Ray glared at the children, deeming them the ringleaders for the monstrosity that now resided on his head. In fairness, the offending article effectively hid his now patchy quiff – an unfortunate result after his wife inspected his hair, finding the glue would never come out.

Looking at him, you wouldn't think anything was wrong, given that the wig they'd found was one of those super realistic, professional types that they wore on movie sets and stuff. (y/n), to her credit, applied it perfectly, offering him a mirror and a watery smile once it was in place, and she assured him that it wasn't half bad. Oh, how Ray begged to differ.

Schwoz and Danger Force found it hilarious, but it was no laughing matter in his eyes – more like an itchy, ill-fitting eyesore that did not compliment his skin tone. Mika said it was the best of a bad bunch – some leftovers she found in a jumble box in a dusty, old room. Yet, when he saw his reflection, the hero considered rocking his ruined haircut, even with all the missing clumps.

He loved his brown, floofy locks; it was why he was so meticulous in their upkeep. Maybe things would've been different in another life, but right then, in the Man's Nest, he knew he looked ridiculous. He knew choosing a Kid Danger-esque blond wig was a mistake.

"It's not that bad." Schwoz smiled kindly, trying to make a dire situation bearable, but Ray knew it was a lie. He could see how he smothered his laughter.

"Yes. Yes, it is," he replied with gritted teeth as he stood before his friends in the main room, feeling self-conscious. It was a miracle he wanted to be in daylight, thinking the damn thing looked worse when the sun hit it, no matter what they said.

"It's really not..." Mika said tentatively, twiddling her thumbs as she glanced at the only person whose opinion actually mattered. "Right, (y/n/n)?"

Ray listened to no one; he only cared about what his beloved wife had to say, and to the abject horror that settled in his stomach, she could barely look at him without grimacing.

"Eh..." She shrugged, raising her lips in a wobbly smile as her eyes roamed his body from toe to eye.

She loved everything she saw, sighing appreciatively at how his tracksuit top clung to his muscles, sculpting them perfectly. His face was still handsome and kissable, but her nose wrinkled when she saw the wig.

"See?!" The hero spluttered, sniffling a little at the rejection, and his eyes grew misty. "...My wife doesn't love me anymore!"

"I never said that!" (y/n) argued, clasping a hand over her clavicle at such a suggestion. Sure, she regretted agreeing to fix the wig in place, but it wasn't that bad.

"But you looked it, sweet girl!" He replied, whimpering and scrubbing the heel of his hairy palm into his eye to stem any tears. If he was going to cry – and if she really found him that hideous, he would – he'd do it alone, wherever the kids couldn't mock him. "Now, every time you look at me, you look like you're gonna hurl!"

"Well..." His sweet girl said, picking her words carefully as she rose from the couch. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again, you do not suit being blond."

"I think I just heard my heart break..." Ray clutched at his T-shirt as pain bloomed through his chest – just at the mere thought of his soulmate finding him...ugly.

But (y/n) quickly comforted him, flashing a warm smile as she curled her arms around his neck, her nails playing with the wig's edge on his nape. Instantly, his hands found her waist, still sniffing and pouting, but the man practically purred under her touch, more so when she stood on her tippiest toes and kissed his cheek.

"But don't be a doofus all your life, Raymond. I still love you!"

"You promise?" He muttered, blinking those big, round eyes as she giggled.

"Of course, my adorable idiot. I might even get used to it, eventually..." (y/n) grinned, silently thinking she'd need a few millennia to accept her husband as blond. She much preferred his usual chocolate floof, but she couldn't stand seeing him so sad, nor was she so shallow.

"Well, in that case, I still love you, too..." Ray grinned, slumping in her embrace as he leaned down and kissed her honeyed lips. He badly needed her sweetness, still unhappy with the temporary solution while his hair grew.

"Hey..." Bose's innocent voice sounded, flooding the hero's body with tension again when he realised theywere still all sitting there—the miscreants.

Without going for nearly as long as he wanted to, he pulled away from the kiss and frowned at the boy, lamenting how his pretty girl whined and pouted.

"Why do you have a Kid Danger wig?"

"Remember that time Captain Man, Miss Danger, and Kid Danger fought The Barber, and Henry lost all of his hair?" Schwoz asked, ignoring the smoochy-smoochy happening beside him when (y/n) chased her doofus' lips again.

"Um, no..." answered Mika awkwardly, and she was the nerd who studied all of the heroes' previous fights. She thought it would make her a better fighter, and, having memorised them all, she couldn't remember a single instance where the kid went bald.

"Exactly! Because I made this wig!" The genius grinned, gesturing to his handiwork as Ray pecked his wife's lips a final time before pulling away.

"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha—we fooled the whole town! Moving on..." he said flatly, rolling his eyes and squeezing his sweet girl's hip for dear life. "Bet you're all wondering why Schwoz, my incredibly hot wife, and I called you all here today."

"It's a school day."

"And we were already here," Miles and Chapa answered dryly since they'd not moved after the lady whisked her doofus away to sort out his sticky problem. But the last thing Ray wanted to hear was sass, standing straighter as his sweet girl leaned closer into his space.

"We called you here because we realised two things," (y/n) said, having discussed the whole thing with him and Schwoz whilst fitting the dumb wig, and it was safe to say that her husband wanted answers.

"One! This hair prank is clearly the work of Rivalton."

"Well, yeah, obviously!"

"Duh!" The kids agreed, knowing those idiots were out for metaphorical blood after the farce in Hee Haw Purée, with Archduke Fernando declaring war on Swellview much like they did with his stink town.

"But we also believe that since the only people who access to my hair products are here in this room..." Ray continued, pacing back and forth as his students frowned, wondering why he sounded like that... "That means that one of you is pranking to Rivalton."

Bose gasped loudly as the rest of Danger Force looked at each other and their boss in horror. They jumped apart, suddenly not knowing who to trust, but it was also hurtful, knowing Ray didn't trust them, either.

"For the record, I think this is dumb," (y/n) added, and she ignored her doofus' whine as she smiled at the kids. She never doubted any of them – maybe that was blindingly naïve – but it was dumb to attack your own team, and none of them, not even Chapa, would wound Ray so grievously.

"Doesn't matter, sweet girl. I know exactly who it is! Schwoz?" He never broke eye contact with the children, who sat on the edge of the couch in suspense as he reached for a file being held by Schwoz.

(y/n) cringed when she saw his outstretched hand, not needing a reminder that she still needed to find that solvent. Whilst most of his hair survived under the wig, the areas where his fingers bonded to his hair were unsalvageable, meaning the woman had no choice but to cut it away at the root. It left his hands hideously hairy, which was fine...as long as he didn't touch her bare skin or let her see it.

"Why would one of us be pranking for Rivalton?" Asked Chapa as her teacher took the file.

"Because..." Ray replied gravely, pointing an accusatory finger, "One of you was born there!"

"In Rivalton?" Bose spat, not for sure that it wasn't him. Or at least he didn't think it was, looking warily at his friends on either side of him.

"The same!"

"No way!" Said Chapa with a slight scoff, thinking she'd be able to tell if there was a traitor amongst them.

"I got the proof right here!" But Ray just flashed her the case file in all its yellowish glory. It had confidentialsplashed across the front in bold, black lettering, practically begging to spill its secrets as the hero waved it around.

"I know who the dirty Rivalton is, but I will give them a chance to come clean. And, if they don't...you're all fired!"

"Doofus!" (y/n) gasped – that was not what they'd discussed. She knew he was playing the bad right now, but just seeing her babies squirm was enough to make her nervous, and she didn't like pointing the finger, either.

Her wide-eyed gaze didn't deter him, but just when she was about to follow it up with a stern word, Miles butted in, forsaking all chivalry and camaraderie without missing a beat.

"Mika was born in Rivalton!"

"Miles!" The girl squealed, snapping to look at her brother after he ratted her out like that. She snarled at him, not that he cared, whilst the others stared at her in shock and disgust like they'd found a snake in the grass. And they had.

"Wow, Miles. I think we all just lost a little bit of respect for you there," said (y/n), who felt like she had whiplash from how brazenly he'd revealed the secret – about his own sister, no less.

"I'm sorry, but he said he was gonna fire everyone, and Bose really needs the health insurance for his foot thing!"

"Miles! Stop revealing people's secrets!" The boy shouted, suddenly feeling just as self-conscious when everyone glanced at his foot.

They didn't know precisely what he had going on down there, but the fact they knew was bad enough��nearly as bad as one of their own being from filthy Rivalton. There was no escaping that for Mika as all attention turned back to her.

"Wait a minute. I thought you two were twins..." said Schwoz, pointing at the siblings, who just glared at each other now.

"We are." Mika nodded sourly, although she severely wished otherwise.

"So, Miles was born in Rivalton, too?!"

"No, I was not!" The boy replied indignantly, giving Chapa a stern glare for even suggesting such a heinous thing.

"Okay!" Mika interrupted them, not liking how everyone was at each others' throats. It wasn't that big of a deal – a very simple story – and nowhere near as horrific as they thought it to be. "I'll tell you what happened—"

"Our mom was verrrrry pregnant!"

"Okay, you tell them what happened." She rolled her eyes as her brother began the tale, stealing her thunder. She sat there glumly as Miles smirked, confident that he wasn't the one in the wrong.

"And our dad was verrrrrrrry hungry!" He told them, and they had to imagine most of the details. It was the early two-thousands, back when fashion was terrible, but life was good, and Mrs Macklin was ready to pop. Seriously, carrying twins was no joke.

"Our mom was pregnant and sick of it."

"But why were they in Rivalton?" Asked (y/n), frowning at the thought of such a heavily pregnant woman wanting to travel so far, particularly there. God knows what diseases they had across the border.

"Well, Hee Haw Purée had this special smoothie that was supposed to make women go into labour," Miles replied, which didn't sound weird at all. The heroine shared a puzzled look with her doofus, internally cringing when she saw the wig again, but Ray was deep in thought, wondering when the story would get interesting.

"Did it work?" Bose asked, leaning closer to his friend beside him.

"Oh, yeah! She drank the smoothie, and then, the babies were coming!"

"Sweet cheese, what did they put in it?" (y/n) grimaced, wrinkling her nose at the thought, and she snuggled closer to her doofus. She only hoped she never had twins, particularly if she had to drink something from Rivalton.

"Anyway, my mom told our dad that they had to go, but he had to finish his Belly Buster smoothie first," Miles continued, still remembering the look of pride on his dad's face when he retold the story every so often. His mom didn't share the sentiment, recalling it with a frown that suggested they were lucky to be still married.

"See, if he finished the whole thing, they could eat for free."

"His wife was in labour, and he was worried about a free smoothie?" The heroine frowned, sharing a confused look with Chapa since she couldn't comprehend it, either. "Why didn't he just pay for it?"

"He left his wallet at home."

"What an idiot! Why not?" The girl laughed, suddenly understanding the moronic enigma that was Herman Macklin, but all the twins did was shrug. It was their dad to a tee; if anyone could finish a giant tank of purée, it was him.

"Confidence!" Miles grinned despite Chapa's signature scowl. "Anyway, my mom told him to drink as fast as he could 'cause she didn't want her babies to be born in a disgusting town like Rivalton."

"God, I love your mom!" Ray exclaimed, clapping his hands at the mutual hatred between him and the woman, only to earn a few disturbed glances from around the room.

The strongest came from his wife, whose glare pierced him as she harshly nudged his elbows. He smiled at her sheepishly, happiness turning awkward when his sweet girl pouted, and the hero rushed to smooth it over as he pulled her closer by the waist.

"Respectfully."

"So..." said Chapa, ignoring Ray's PDA as he kissed his beloved wife's temple."Did your dad finish the purée?"

"An hour later." The boy nodded, describing how his dad struggled to drink that much blended fruit and vegetables, forcing it down gulp by gulp as his mom waited in the corner.

As all the women rallied around her, the men in the café supported his dad, cheering him on until he tipped the last of that deep, purple juice down his throat. If they went to Hee Haw Purée again and looked around – not that any sane person wanted to – they'd find the Belly Buster Hall of Fame, and Herman's picture was still there. But at what cost?

"By the time they actually left, it was too late. My mom drove as fast as she could, but Mika was born in the car on the Rivalton side of the Jandy River."

"Where was your dad?" Schwoz asked with a frown, noting that usually, a good husband helps his wife when she's at her most vulnerable. Driving to the hospital was the easiest part, yet he wasn't there.

"He was in the back seat with a stomachache," said Mika dryly, still unimpressed twelve years later that her father's gluttony made her a social pariah.

"So, where were you born?" Bose asked Miles, who looked remarkably less tense than his sister.

"Also in the car—on the Swellview side of the Jandy River," he replied, making his friends sigh in relief because it all made sense now. Mostly. How their mom managed to drive while giving birth was still a mystery. "I'm a proud son of Swellview!"

"Yeah, unlike your sister," Ray sneered, air-quoting as he glared at Mika, who just rolled her eyes at his hostility.

"I'm still his sister!"

"Yeah, who was born in Rivalton!" The hero argued, spitting the word out as she stood up, leaving only (y/n) in the middle to act as a referee between them.

"Look, I didn't prank your stupid haircare products!" Mika said coldly, and Ray gasped, clasping his hand over his heart at the insult.

"What did you just call them?"

"If anything, I would've gone for your anti-ageing cream." She smirked at him as her friends gasped, chuckling at the sick burn and how it made the hero's ears turn red, particularly since he didn't want everyone to know how he fought for his youth. His face hardened, trying to side-step his sweet girl as she spread her arms to stop them from fighting.

"Okay, how about we all calm—"

"I cast thee out!"

"Down." (y/n) gulped when Ray pointed a stern finger over her head, suddenly becoming a Middle Ages peasant with his speech. She didn't believe he would do that, feeling her heart hurt when the girl's face fell a little, thinking they were just bantering and arguing; she didn't actually mean any harm.

"Come on, Ray..." She said softly and seriously, glancing at the woman for help, but she could barely get a word in before her husband ran toward the door.

"I—CAST—THEE—OUT!" He declared, pointing at the path down the mountain as Mika tried not to let everyone see how the tears sprang in her eyes.

She'd hit a nerve, clearly; it was one thing to openly mock the man in front of those he called his family, especially when she revealed to his wife that he may have invested in a night cream. Yet, he couldn't trust a traitor – he'd been there and done that, and it just ended with others getting hurt.

"Are you serious?" Mika asked, her body frozen yet trembling as the others stood open-mouthed and wide-eyed beside the couch.

"You are out of Danger Force!" Ray yelled, not wanting to hear another word or excuse from her lying mouth. "Until this prank war is over, you shall not step foot in the Man's Nest!"

"Doofus, let's talk about this before we do anything stupid!" (y/n) hissed, placing a hand on the girl's shoulder as she tried to make the hero see a little reason despite his fury. "You can't help where you're born!"

"You know what, (y/n/n)? It's fine," replied Mika, shaking the gentle touch from her shoulder before its tenderness made her cry. It wasn't fine, stomping over to the tube and ignoring the sting of his suspicions; they weren't even true.

"Ray, are you seriously kicking her out of Danger Force?" Bose asked tentatively, eyeing (y/n) too as she shook her head, reaching and wishing for Mika to come back.

"Yes," Ray answered firmly. He couldn't look anyone in the eye, preferring to glare at the ground like it had done something wrong, and it was only when the traitor called to him that he looked up, as menacing as ever.

"Hey! What's in the envelope? How did you know I was born in Rivalton?" Mika asked suspiciously, but Ray just shrugged.

"I didn't know..." he said quietly, peeling the envelope open as he plucked the document from inside, revealing a simple piece of paper with a large font, saying precisely the words he spoke. "You just told me."

All the girl could do was scoff and shake her head as he childishly dabbed, pleased with himself at the little trick. She should've taken Chapa's old advice: never admit to anything because she was innocent until they said otherwise. The tube fell around her, and she didn't hang around, not even saying goodbye to her friends or brother before she left. Forever, it seemed.

Silence hung in the air as no one knew what to say. Ray had his hands on his hips, swallowing thickly and licking his dry lips as the argument left him reeling, reminding him of another instance when his sidekick left. This didn't break his heart in the same way, but it still stung, particularly when he glanced to his right and saw the sharp gaze of his aghast wife.

"What?" He asked quietly, and (y/n) could only breathe out a quick, humourless laugh.

"What do you mean, what?" She asked, shaking her head because - not for the first time, but certainly, for the first time in a while – she couldn't work out what he was thinking. "What the hell was all that about?"

"You were there. You watched it." Ray shrugged, feeling like a million eyes were on him, but only hers mattered. He didn't need to look at her to know she was mad, or worse, disappointed, but he wasn't one to return on his word. He was too proud for that.

"I watched an utter shit-show," (y/n) replied harshly, sensing how Bose flinched behind her when she raised her voice, and she knew she'd apologise later. But right now, she was angry, wishing she could run after Mika and tell her it was all right, but it wasn't.

"We're a team, Ray. We stick together."

"Mika betrayed us. She's from Rivalton—it's obvious she pranked for them!" He said, gesturing to nothing as he repeated the mantra in his head. It was the only thing that made sense; she was their enemy in this war, and he sent her away. If anything, he'd done everyone a favour, or so he kept telling himself.

"I'm not talking about her," (y/n) said coldly, her face set in stone, but her body trembled, feeling the adrenaline and panic as she glared at him, and he glared at her – all the warmth and joy from earlier dying away. "You said you were gonna talk to the kids, not fire one of them!"

"Yeah, well, maybe I changed my mind!" He yelled back, squeezing his fists and digging his nails into his palms to try and control his temper. He hated how red her eyes looked, how she looked distraught, and it was all aimed at him. But he was right, brimming with frustration that no one else seemed to understand.

"You can't make that decision without talking about it with me first!"

"You always tell me no!" He snapped, realising he'd taken a step closer to her and she'd done the same.

They were nearly toe-to-toe, with the kids and Schwoz standing nervously in the background, wanting to run away, but they couldn't. It was like watching something unnatural, having never seen an argument between them, but Henry said they were explosive, like pouring gasoline on a fire. And no one could stop them but themselves.

"For good reason!" (y/n) shouted, hugging her body as she fought the urge to pound his stupid, muscly body – as if knocking some reason into him would work. "To stop you from making poor choices like this!"

"I'm in charge here, sweetheart." His voice dipped lower, and suddenly, she was very aware of who towered over her. Captain Man's hard, steely gaze could petrify anyone, but it just made her want to yell more, shaking her head in disbelief when large, warm hands settled on her shoulders. Only, the familiar touch didn't soothe her like it usually did.

"Stop treating me like an idiot 'cause I know what's best for all of us. Despite what you think, I have some sense."

"It's better to be without sense than misplace it the way you do," the heroine said quietly, roughly jerking her body away from his. She closed her eyes and released a shuddered breath, fighting back tears of sadness, frustration and anger as the room fell silent once more.

The tension was palpable, with all eyes on her as she gave him a final, bitter glance before turning away, breathing a defeated sigh. Perhaps it was her heart or his that she heard crack – maybe both – as her footsteps echoed on the tiles, walking away from her husband with cruel, venomous words sitting on the tip of her tongue. At least her sense was knowing when to give up, despite a lot of fight left in her.

"Where are you going?" Ray called out to her, sounding emotionless but also a little lost.

His longing eyes never left her as she walked away, itching to run after her because it was his job to make her feel better, but his pride said no. He doubted she wanted him anywhere near her, anyway.

"Anywhere but here, or I might punch you in your perfect teeth," she replied, not even looking at him as she numbly headed for the metal door.

The kids watched her go, too, calling out until she was gone, heading for the sanctuary of their shared bedroom. She only hoped Ray stayed away whilst she cooled down. They looked at their disgraced hero, shaking their heads in disappointment, but he remained stoic, not seeing why he should explain himself to them when the only person who mattered had already left.

"Not cool, dude," Miles said quietly, knowing he'd be the one to go home to his heartbroken sister.

"Yeah, Mika's a dirty Rivalton, but she was our best pranker," Chapa added, Bose nodding in agreement despite how the hero stared blankly out of the window.

"And she was our friend. Like (y/n), who I told about my foot thing, and it never got out!"

"Because of her, I had to shave my hair, and I argued with my wife!" Ray growled, gesturing to the stupid blond wig and kicking the ground like a petulant child. He felt lonely and weepy without his sweet girl to back him up, and part of him expected her to walk back through the door.

"We can't trust her! But now, thanks to me, she's completely out of the way, and we don't have to worry about her anymore at all."

"No..." Schwoz muttered as he sat dejectedly on the steps leading to the tube. He rubbed his forehead tiredly before meeting the hero's eye.

"But you need to worry about what you're gonna say to (y/n)." And for once, Ray didn't have an answer for the genius. He didn't even smack him or shoot him in the ass, merely standing there with a pale face and guilty look.

Unfortunately for Ray, Schwoz was right. He had no idea how he would fix it all, but he had to. He couldn't go on without his sweet girl.

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quaranmine · 9 months ago

Text

The Incandescence of a Dying Light (Chapter Eleven)

This is a story about grief and fire.

Chapter eleven: 13,460 words

<< Chapter Ten | Masterpost | Chapter Twelve >>

Hello everyone! I’m so sorry for the wait. But chapter 11 and 12 together add almost 20k words to this fic, and I actually ended up redrafting and restructuring parts of these chapters a lot. I wanted them to be as perfect as possible, because these chapters are it: the core of the plot paying off. The bad news is it’ll probably devastate you, the good news is that I will be releasing chapter 12 a few days after this so there won’t be a wait.

There's several content warnings that apply to this chapter. It's not obvious because this is the tumblr copy of this fic, but it's marked as CNTW on AO3. CWs: general mental health/breakdown, dissociation, vomiting, death, suicidal ideation (of the abstract kind), fires/burn/injury. I don't think it's too graphic but it is…unpleasant imo.

July 1989

Grian hangs up on Scar with a flick of a button. It’s a lot less dramatic than the satisfying clack of slamming a telephone receiver down into its base, but the effect is just as instant. With a press of a button, he silences the faint static of the radio and Scar’s worried voice forever, bathing him in nothing but the silence of the forest.

There’s him, the wind in the leaves above him, and the way his hands tremble as he sets the handheld radio down. Nothing else.

He’s unsteady. It’s a good thing he’s already sitting on the forest floor. He clamps a hand over his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut. He sits there for a moment, trying to regain control of his ragged breathing, as if he can by just breathing through his nose instead. It’s not working. His thoughts are racing. He breathes faster instead.

He feels—

Broken. Betrayed. Bitter. Burning himself over and over with the same mistakes, pitfalls, and dangerous hopes as always.

He feels like an idiot.

He feels like an idiot, because why should he assume someone was in his corner? Why did he ever say anything to Scar? Why didn’t he shut up? Why did he trust that when Scar helped him, it was because Scar believed him? Why did he fall for it?

He should have known better. He’s alone out here. It’s been like that since the beginning. It was kind of the point, actually. To come out here and be alone, because that’s the only way he’ll fix anything. He failed that goal by making friends with a stranger instead and now he’s suffering for it. It hurts too much.

But perhaps worse, perhaps the most insidious thought that keeps snaking around his mind is—

What if Scar is right?

The thought is like a giant, flashing billboard in his mind. He can turn away from it, but he knows it’s behind him. He can close his eyes against it, but the lights still blink against his eyelids. When he opens his eyes, he sees the stark truth of it all in each miserable outline of leaves against the sky. There’s some sort of wave crashing over him, and he isn’t sure which way is up anymore.

Everything is unavoidable, constantly present. Unpleasant.

He tries to find his logic again, but the bright, clear throughline he’s been following since day one is frayed. It shouldn’t matter what Scar thinks, in the same way it doesn’t matter what Pearl or Jimmy or any of his other friends think. It shouldn’t matter that Mumbo hasn’t been back to collect his things, because this is not proof that anything happened to him. This is only proof that Mumbo got lost, and that’s something Grian has known since day one. There is nothing new here, except proof that Mumbo was in this location at some point. That should be good news, a new puzzle piece for him to worry over.

It shouldn’t matter, but—

He feels very small in the forest suddenly. The trees around him have no stake in who lives and dies. They stand tall, a witness to the happenings of everything beneath them, but they cannot interfere. There are miles and miles of wilderness around Grian. There are mountain streams and creeks and gullies and canyons and caves that no human has seen for years. There is an almost infinite number of trees and flowers and grasses and shrubs and mammals and birds and bugs that populate this little world, and Grian is but one tiny speck in the midst of this. So is Mumbo.

He can’t find meaning in this. He can’t dig up some special exception, some reason that Mumbo is uniquely special in this ecosystem and it will all solve itself happily because the very ground itself will vow to keep him alive. This is a place filled with life and death and cutting wind and sharp stones. This is a place where fires raze down forests, mountain lions kill straggling deer, and people go missing.

These thoughts send him spiraling again.

So instead he tries to bury the feeling again, with desperate shaky hands. Like a zombie apocalypse, it just won’t stay dead. He’s dizzy. He stands up suddenly, leaving his own pack on the ground next to Mumbo’s, and takes a staggering step backwards to gain some distance from it all.

He has to find the rest of Mumbo’s camp before he moves on.

He tells himself not to dwell on it, but every other thought is punctuated by it. He tells himself to stop freaking out, to keep going, to just move forward, to keep his feet on the ground, but his laser focus is burnt out. These are all the things he’s told himself before, and it worked then. Why won’t it work now?

He finds Mumbo’s campsite easily through the trees, since it’s only a few hundred feet from where he left his food. The campsite is totally empty. Mumbo clearly packed everything up before he left to make sure he didn’t tempt any curious wildlife.

It’s rather anticlimactic, really, the way nothing is left here. There is an open space on the ground begging to have a tent set up on it, and a ring of stones encircling the ashes of an old campfire. Maybe Mumbo made that fire. When he went camping in early June of last year there wouldn’t have been any fire restrictions in place yet, at least not until the disastrous Yellowstone fires started shortly afterward. Or maybe it’s just as likely that someone else made it, since this campsite has clearly been used by other people in the past.

It’s a beautiful place, he realizes. For some reason the realization puts a lump in his throat. Mumbo chose this spot because it was beautiful, and it is beautiful. It is beautiful.

They’re in an aspen grove, surrounded by stark white trunks and bright green leaves. The aspens always have the brightest green leaves, compared to the darker green of the spruce trees. Grian has learned their colors well after spending so long examining the landscape from his tower. He loves how the different types of trees form a patchwork of different colors on the slopes. These trees will glow even brighter in autumn, when they paint the hillside in gorgeous golden yellow.

Scar told him once that aspen groves are actually all one tree. An aspen can reproduce by essentially cloning itself and sending up shoots to sprout as a new sapling. All of the clones share a root system, and their leaves will turn color at the same time. But to the person standing in the middle like Grian, it looks like an endless amount of trees instead of a single entity. It looks like eternity, just like the mountains and hills look like eternity from the high point of his lookout tower.

Aspens also like to grow in recently burned areas. This one, though, hasn’t seen fire for some time. The colony is mature, and from Grian’s perspective the trees are uncountable. He’s surrounded by them, and he’s alone, but the trees aren’t alone. They’ve got all their twins next to them. But there’s nobody to stand next to him. There’s nobody here but him.

He turns around, and stares at the pair of backpacks on the ground. He needs to figure out what to do with Mumbo’s pack. There isn’t any way he can carry it. He has his own weight to carry, and he has no room to add anything else. For the distances he needs to travel, he can’t afford to add more weight. He chokes a little on this realization. This is just another thing he’s going to have to leave behind.

There’s a hierarchy of things, and finding Mumbo himself is more important than keeping his belongings.

Finding Mumbo—

In any way.

Grian said that once earlier in the summer, about another missing person. He hoped they were found, in any way. For some reason, he remembers saying this now. He remembers finding the poster for that missing person, and thinking so fiercely how much it hurt that nobody was still in his corner after all these years. He remembers the ache that settles in around lost causes, and the deep sadness in Scar’s voice when he talked about how long that man’s case had been unsolved.

He’s becoming that person who gives up on lost causes.

No!

He shakes his head sharply, like it’s going to rattle the thoughts right out. He isn’t going to do that. He can’t do that. He isn’t like that. He isn’t giving up on Mumbo, because there is nothing to give up. This is just the test of faith at the eleventh hour. He needs to press further, because this is just the next step in his case. Nothing has changed. Nothing has changed.

What evidence is there, really, of Mumbo being dead? A missing persons report? The endless months on the calendar? The harsh winters? The abandoned survival equipment? None of that is physical, tangible proof. None of that is, is—

None of that is a body. That means he needs to keep going. That means he needs to keep going, even if he hikes until his feet bleed.

But…what evidence is there, really, of Mumbo still being alive?

This thought is a cliff, and Grian is stumbling over the edge into the abyss. At the last moment he turns back, flinging out a hand and grasping whatever he can find to keep himself from falling. Going over the edge means opening up a world of possibilities Grian doesn’t know how to deal with, or even begin to approach. It violently resets every facet of his life into something completely different. Something that can’t, and won’t, ever be the same. He doesn’t know how to live with that, and so before the yawning maw of these thoughts can eat him, he shoves them away.

He scrambles away from the edge into safety.

But once you know the edge is there, it never leaves.

He has to go somewhere else. He must go forward. The thing about life is that everyone must always go forward. When Grian couldn’t get out of bed last year, he still woke up the next day even if he didn’t remember falling asleep. When he skipped work, the bills still arrived. When Grian took this job, every mile he walked was another piece of the mystery shaved down into something slightly more manageable.

No matter if Grian is being dragged there or not, all he knows how to do is move forward. The only way to stop is to be dead. Did Mumbo stop? Did Mumbo stop going forward?

Where would Mumbo have gone? What would his goal have been?

He must have hiked further upward. The Pinnacles trail is named for its interesting rock formations, and this trail gets much more difficult the further one hikes. There is a pass at the top where it dips down the other side of the mountain and joins the old river trail that fur trappers used to use. Mumbo would have had to hike this trail instead of ride it. That's obviously why he left his bike. There’s too many steps and too many rocks to do anything else.

So, up he goes. Before he leaves, he places Mumbo’s pack against the tree it was strung up in, upright like a crude headstone. It’s a brightly colored, out of place marker in this natural setting—something crafted and sewn by human hands, carried by human bodies, and left behind consciously by a human mind.

Grian leaves.

He barely thinks about where he puts his feet, even when the trail starts to get fainter beyond the pinnacles it is named for. He barely thinks about anything grounded in reality at all with the way his thoughts circle relentlessly. He stumbles a few times, missing steps, but it doesn’t matter.

The Pinnacles trail is not actually just an out-and-back trail; it’s a spur trail that connects into a larger network of wilderness routes. It’s as well-traveled as a highway up until it reaches the main landmark, and after that it drops off to a route only marked by the occasional cairn. It is clear that most hikers turn around after reaching the stones. Grian knows Mumbo kept going, because Grian knows Mumbo.

The top of the mountain is not far from here. It seems like something that would have drawn Mumbo to keep going further. It’s some sort of tangible achievement, with a view to match. Since Mumbo was camped along the trail, it wouldn’t have taken him long to reach the pinnacles, unlike visitors who likely started much farther down by Jonesy Lake. Why stop and waste the rest of the day?

Mumbo had taken this time off last year to get a break from his job. He used to come home from it looking hunted—chased down with too many demands for too little reward. He used to talk about quitting. He had wondered if it had been worth it to even take the job. He moved to another country for it, after all.

Whether it was worth it or not wasn’t something Grian could answer for him. He’d just listen to Mumbo complain instead, and then maybe change the subject to something more fun, something distracting. It always bothered him to listen to Mumbo speak like that.

The answer to the problem was more complicated than just quitting, though. Grian could stay in the country as long as he wanted thanks to his dual citizenship. He was essentially there at a whim, following Mumbo so that he didn’t have to move to another country alone. Mumbo, however, was on a working visa that required him to keep a job in order to legally stay. His job was sponsoring him, allowing him to apply for the visa in the first place. As such, it wasn’t as simple as merely quitting.

Maybe he just wanted some sort of achievement to take back home, like climbing a mountain. Something he could think about when his boss tried to make him feel worthless.

Grian keeps going, and carries the pain and the pointlessness of it all as heavily as his bag that bites into his collarbones.

»»———-　　———-««

It isn’t until Grian is forced to stop, coughing and hacking so violently he feels like he may break his own ribs, that he even remembers Scar’s plaintive admonition.

Keep your radio on. Switch to the main frequency. Be aware. Come back, please. Be safe.

This message was lost to him in the noise his brain filled with as soon as he tried to think about Mumbo’s fate, but the more he coughs the more his mind is brought sharply back into physical reality. He coughs painfully and keeps coughing, unable to stop at all, until finally he is gasping for breath and fumbling with the water bottle he keeps in the side pocket of his backpack. He drinks half of it down in large, greedy gulps.

He’s above the treeline now. Somewhat alarmingly, he barely remembers getting here, but the pain in his throat has brought him squarely back into the unfortunate land of the living. He leans against a nearby rock, head spinning from the sudden clarity.

It’s the smoke that is the problem. It seems everywhere now, even though earlier it was just the faintest scent on the wind now and then. Now it clings everywhere in his nose and mouth and throat and lungs.

This also dawns on him with slow horror: He can’t see his tower from here.

Given the elevation he’s at now, there shouldn’t be any reason that he can’t look across the horizon and find the tiny man-made angles of his former home. He’s far enough away that it will be extremely small, but it should still be visible to the trained eye. The entire point of a lookout, of course, is its visibility. He cannot see it, however. Even more worryingly, he can’t even properly see the mountain it sits on.

Instead he sees nothing but haze. The air to the east is dense and orange. Before, the smoke was in a specific direction. Now, it seems like it’s everywhere.

The air itself seems to have an orange cast to it right now. It feels like a dusty sunset, where the light is intensely copper, and thus Grian’s mind keeps trying to tell him it’s later in the day than it actually is. It’s somewhere around 6 PM in reality. In the middle of summer like this, the sun won’t set for another three hours. And still, the light is so exceptionally orange.

Dread grows in the pit of his stomach as he tries to pick out where the fire is, and realizes he can’t. Alarm flares in him. This fire is not like the leisurely slow-burn of the Trout Fire last month. It is a behemoth of thick billowing smoke that seems like it has doubled since Grian first spotted it this morning. The intense smoke right now is what keeps Grian from seeing its edges.

How big is that thing, actually? And what direction is the wind blowing?

The answer settles over him like the particulate matter he’s already inhaling: the wind is most likely blowing towards him. He smells the smoke now. He couldn’t smell it earlier.

For good measure, he starts coughing again and hangs his head while he does, waiting for the fit to pass. When he finally stops, he digs a bandana from somewhere in the depths of his bag and ties it around his face. It’s a poor excuse for any sort of proper protection, but it limits the amount of smoke making its way into his lungs the best it can. At the absolute minimum, he has a placebo effect working for him.

He pulls out his radio again, and stares at it for a moment, before caving and turning it on. He dials it into the main Forest frequency, at least the one for the Wapiti District. For some reason, it’s full of static. Is it the distance? He isn’t sure. He knows his tower serves as a repeater, but he doesn’t understand how it all works. This only adds to the mounting dread and he fiddles around, trying to make it sound stronger. He can pick out about half of what is being said, and tries to fill in every few words by context clues alone. Dispatch is clear. The ground crew is garbled. He’s only really getting one side of the picture, and not the side he needs the most.

While he listens, he watches.

Jonesy Lake is part of the Two Forks district, his district, and it’s to the west of his tower. The Thorofare district, Scar’s lookout, is north of his tower. This fire had started somewhere on the other side of Jonesy Lake, a little southwest. Pinnacles is further northwest, out of Grian’s district and into someone else’s.

What is concerning is that this fire, the southwesterly fire, has grown. It is more of a northwesterly fire now. He can no longer see where his trail originated, and he should be able to see it given how high he is on the mountain. His view is unobstructed by trees or hills, and he still can’t see it. He started in a meadow far below, and now he’s at the top. He can’t see the meadow anymore.

Grian falls back onto habit, and begins to watch the fire like he was trained. His heart beats in his chest like a hammer though—it is far more exhilarating and terrifying than it is from the safety of his tower. He’s going through the motions in his head, listening to reports and checking the wind speed the best he can and tallying the daylight hours remaining and the cardinal directions and running the mental calculations. He’s—

He’s scared. He’s utterly terrified.

This is a new type of panic, distinct from the call of the abyss he felt earlier. That panic had been earth-shattering. This panic is primal, but it creeps over him slowly.

The man from dispatch is directing a fire crew on the ground that must have either been flown in or hiked in after Grian did. He says the fire is moving deeper into the backcountry, away from Jonesy Lake. This is both a blessing and curse. A blessing, as it protects the main tourist attraction of the area and historic structures such as Grian’s lookout. A curse, because the deeper a fire is in the backcountry the more difficult and expensive it is to fight.

It’s also a curse because Grian is on the wrong side of the fire. It’s between him and getting back out. It wasn’t like that earlier in the day, or maybe he wouldn’t have bothered to try to find Mumbo’s campsite after all. He’s not that crazy, he swears he isn’t. He would have waited another day, he would’ve figured something out. He wouldn’t have walked purposefully toward a wildfire.

The wind has changed direction.

“I can’t go back the way I came,” he realizes, and it’s this spoken-out-loud sentence that finally snaps him into action. It’s like a bucket of ice water was dumped over his head.

He snatches up his bag. He can’t stay here and wait to figure it out. He needs to go now.

Immediately, he turns his back on the fire, looking at the steep final pitch he needs to scramble up in order to cross the mountain pass. If he can make it to the other side, he’ll be deeper in the backcountry and away from the fire. Maybe Mumbo went over there too at one point—further into the beyond that Grian can’t save him from. Lost in the hills of a different set of valleys.

He takes one step forward, but this isn’t right. This isn’t right at all. He feels information come to him like an uneasy prickle on the back of his neck. It’s a barely uncovered thought, something he heard once while Scar was talking about the Trout Fire and filed away somewhere in his brain ever since.

Wildfires move faster uphill than they do downhill.

Like, insanely faster. Deadly faster.

Scar had told him this, and then he’d made some sort of joke about the irony of their lookouts being perched on the highest hills in the area. He told Grian that sometimes lookouts needed to be evacuated from wildfires via helicopter, and that if a fire reached the base of either of their mountains they would be in imminent danger. Grian, of course, reacted to this much in the same way he did when thinking about lightning striking his tower or meeting a grizzly bear on the trail: fear. Scar laughed in that infuriating way he did sometimes, where danger didn’t really exist and risk seemed to be something he played with ease.

The danger does exist. Grian’s run his allotment of risk-taking dry. Scar wasn’t laughing anymore about this on the radio earlier today. It’s not just his elevation at play, here. It’s also the wind blowing toward him.

His heart pounds.

He should go…down. That’s something people do in these situations. He should go down, and away, as far as he can and as fast as he can.

He nearly makes a move to switch his radio back to the frequency he and Scar share, just so he can ask. He doesn’t though, stopping himself at the last second. His finger hovers over the button, but he doesn’t press it. It stings more than it should. Right, he’s—

Failing at finding Mumbo. An idiot. In danger.

—going to have to go downhill.

His brain snaps onto a new plan immediately: valleys.

Water runs downhill. Every valley and canyon was carved by water. The snowmelt off these peaks form hundreds of ephemeral streams each spring, most of which flow downhill into a bigger stream. Those bigger streams often flow between the mountains and form the tributaries of the Yellowstone River. He’d crossed a stream earlier in the meadow, a nice little makeshift log bridge covering it.

Water and fire don’t mix. If he goes downhill, he’ll probably find that stream at some point—nearly a sure bet in this type of topography. He’ll be safe if he goes down. He’ll be safer if he’s next to water. He needs to find water.

Don’t they use streams as temporary fire lines? Could the fire cross that? He isn’t sure, but he’ll take the unknown over the certain danger he does know.

Grian picks a direction away from the fire as far away as he can possibly angle himself, gives it a long final look, and nearly flees downhill.

The route is, to put it lightly, rough. The trail was already steep, but at least it was cut into the mountainside and worn from many feet crossing it. At least it was marked, tried, and tested. The open slope of the mountain is more random under his feet, and every time he steps onto loose scree he nearly falls as it rolls under his boots. He does end up falling one or two times, and it’s more like his feet gently sliding out from under him. He doesn’t run, for fear of tripping, but he lightly hops down and over rocks and pushes past bushes. As he drops in elevation, the amount of vegetation surrounding him increases and the hiking gets more difficult.

Soon he’s back into the forest, disoriented again. He can’t really see the fire anymore—all he knows is that he was going this way, this way, so he keeps going that way. The air is thick and burnt, heavy with haze. He knows he’s still going the right direction by picking whichever way the air is the clearest. Still, every time he has to go around an obstacle, there’s a fear in his chest that he won’t find his chosen direction again.

The mountain is getting steeper the further he goes down. It is not leveling out like he expected it to. There was a meadow at the bottom, wasn’t there? Or was that—was that more to the southeast? After scrambling down a short drop he stops again to catch his breath, wheezing through the bandana. He pulls out the topo map he took out of Mumbo’s file, tries to look at the lines to find the safest way down, and—oh.

He doesn’t know where he is anymore.

He knows what direction he went when he left the trail, and what direction the fire was in, but there’s no way for him to tell which little ripple and bump in the topography has his current location. He doesn’t know how far he has gone, or where on the slope he is. This is concerning, but truthfully it barely registers in his mind. He’s still smelling smoke. He can sort his location out afterwards if necessary.

He puts the map back into his bag. Right, this isn’t good, but he just needs to keep going down. He needs to keep going down. He shouldn’t think about the smoke he can smell, or the lack of visibility, or his own stupidity. Does it feel hotter or is his mind playing tricks on him? Is he having a heart attack or is he just out of breath? Is he going to die?

Is he going to die?

The way this question takes over his brain is almost fascinating. He hasn’t—he hasn’t focused so much on himself in a long time. He’s focused every ounce of energy he has into finding Mumbo. And Mumbo—Mumbo isn’t here, but he is, and is he going to die?

Does he mind?

No, of course he minds. The fire might as well be lit beneath his feet instead of further down the mountain with the way he’s running.

Grian is so busy contemplating if he is going to die or not—and really, his brain shouldn’t be running these two scripts at once, he should be fully focused in the moment, but even now there’s that string of panicked thoughts—that he almost misses it when the ground goes from kind-of-steep to dangerously steep. He scrambles to a stop, disoriented, and finds himself looking over an edge.

Calling it a cliff is generous. It’s not really a cliff, not in the “hundred foot straight drop” sense. He looks to the side, but there isn’t a clear way to avoid the drop by going down the side. It’s rocky, and he can probably climb his way down if he’s careful about it.

He swings his legs out of over the drop with the intention of lowering himself a little slower to the next spot to put his feet. He lets the gravity take him, but the backpack he’s carrying is heavy and unwieldy enough to throw off his balance, so—

“Ah!” he shouts, and then lands sharply on his ankles. There’s a split-second of pain before he’s falling to the side, the weight on his back dragging him down when his feet don’t stick the landing.

And he’s going down again, much faster than intended.

He’s sliding now, taking dirt and gravel with him, because the rock he’d been intending to land on wasn’t really that stable of a spot to begin with, it was just one piece of a controlled descent, but he’s out of control now. And he can’t stop.

The rocks tear at his clothes, his limbs, his backpack.

He lands several feet down, stopped by the merciful branches of a prickly bush.

He’s okay. He’s actually okay. His heart beats wildly, and he takes a moment to tip his neck back, resting his head on the top of the pack that still sits on his shoulders. He doesn’t even extract himself from the branches immediately. He just sits, and pants for a minute.

There’s another drop just in front of him, a lot further than the one he just fell from. A little less “second story window” and a little more “probable severe injury.” He stares at it. He could’ve fallen down that. The more he starts to come down from the adrenaline rush, the more his ankle starts to throb. It doesn’t seem to be broken though, just sore. It’s just background noise to him at this point.

He balls his hands into fists, fingernails cutting into his palms. This is just—this is just adding insult to injury, at this point. This is all stupid. He’s making stupid decisions, stupid lapses in judgement, and he doesn’t know how to stop.

Can’t he do anything right? Can’t he just do this one, one thing? After all this time, all this effort?

Can’t he just find his best friend? Can’t he do this without damaging all his other relationships, with the people at home who care about his well being? Can’t he do this without upsetting Scar? Can’t he do this without hurting himself, or putting himself in danger, or hurting everyone else? Can’t it just stop?

He just wants it all to stop.

Something picks him up off the ground, anyway.

He dusts off his pants, a futile motion for a person who’s been hiking for a day and a half straight. He tests his weight on his ankle which, while definitely feeling weak, holds him. He takes stock of his new location: still somewhere on the side of this mountain, still lost. He dropped from a further height than planned, and the only thing that awaits him is more rock scrambling. Above him are rocks, and below him are…rocks, with maybe a tree or two.

He thinks he spies some sort of ledge, or at least something he can walk laterally down, so he heads for it. Hopefully he’ll find a spot that’s easier to go down than the one he landed in. He doesn’t really have a choice to figure something out.

There’s something off about this location though, and he doesn’t know what it is. He almost feels silly for noticing it, and writes it off as his head still spinning from the overwhelming amount of input he’s parsing. His heart still hasn’t calmed yet, and there’s no way he’s getting a good amount of oxygen for his exertion with all the smoke in the air.

He reaches the ledge, and realizes it is part of an overhang. At one point in time, this rock shelter weathered when the softer stone eroded faster than the harder layer of stone above it. Today, it’s just one more feature in the steep northeastern slope of the Pinnacles mountain.

He looks to the left, and then—

That’s when he spies it.

He’ll remember it, just like he remembers the day he told Mumbo it was a good idea to go on his trip alone. He’ll remember it, just like he remembers the day the ranger told him Mumbo never made it back to his car. He’ll remember it, just like he remembers when the search was finally suspended after three weeks. He’ll remember it, just like he remembers lying in bed in a daze, thinking about how deep the snow gets in Shoshone National Forest over the winter.

He’ll remember it, just like he remembers the first time someone told him Mumbo was probably dead.

There is a figure under the overhanging rock. It’s so random it almost seems comical, if it weren’t for the way Grian immediately feels sick. There’s a figure curled in this tiny spot of shelter on the mountainside, as far as one could possibly get away from the rain or sun or cold.

It is not another rock, or a tree branch, or an animal. It’s—it’s a person. Every contour and slightest variation in shape matches. Grian knows what a person is shaped like, he knows it deep in his DNA, where he’s programmed from the inside out into knowing what another human looks like. It’s instinctual. It’s something he was born with.

This isn’t an animal, this is something much more important. This is a human.

And just as instinctually, he also knows that this is no longer a human. It’s a corpse. What once was no longer is, and what lies before him on the stone is something he’s not meant to see. There is a primeval part of his brain, concerned with survival and avoiding danger—concerned with avoiding disease and all those other medieval problems—that tells him he should avoid this at all costs. It’s danger. It was human, but it’s not anymore. He should go, but he’s rooted to the ground.

It’s—

He’s—

Time stops. The thick scent of smoke still hangs in the air, just as it has all evening, but the wind doesn’t blow in the treetops. The flames in the forest don’t lick any higher. Time folds in on itself until it’s this one, small moment, incapable of folding any further and bursting with unreleased potential energy as everything else holds still. Nothing else matters. There is nothing else but this and this and this, and this and this and this.

This isn’t Mumbo.

Mumbo doesn’t exist anymore, and the person Mumbo was before doesn’t exist anymore, because the person in front of him was alive once but is no longer, and the person in front of him is a corpse. It’s a thing, it’s an object, it’s disgusting, it’s—it isn’t Mumbo. Mumbo isn’t like this. Mumbo has endless potential. He’s smart. He’s nervous. He’s kind. He’s silly.

And yet—he knows it’s Mumbo. It is him. It cannot be anyone else. He knows it better than anything he has known before, and he recognizes it immediately even when Mumbo is unrecognizable. He knows Mumbo well enough that he can recognize him even when he isn’t himself anymore, even when he’s something else.

Even when he’s dead.

That’s all. It’s a horrifying, horrifying, finality. He’s dead. Two words, one sentence, everything. It’s not real, because it can’t be. It cannot be true, because if it is, then nothing else is true either.

He’s dead and, and, this is it isn’t it? This is it. This is all there is and all there was this entire time. This is the breaking of everything he believes in, split down the middle, carving into his chest with a sharp knife, cracking open his ribs until there’s blood spattered on the floor. The world sort of spins in his purview, dizzying, and he drops to his knees without noticing or caring about it.

He wants to touch him, but he can’t. He wants to hug him one last time, or hold him, and tell him it’s alright, but he can’t. He recoils at the sight and stops just short, still kneeling on the ground. It’s been months. It’s been—a year, because Grian knows what he’s always known, what he’s always ignored, what other people have told him over and over again, which is that Mumbo never had much of a chance anyway. He was dead long ago. He didn’t hang in there for a few months and succumb to the winter. He didn’t survive the winter and then fail to find the resources to live through the spring.

He’s been dead this whole time.

He’s been—

Grian has been so stupid. And yet, he’d rather be stupid than look at this now. He’d rather not know what he knows now. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to do anything. He doesn’t want to be here at all.

Mumbo might have already been dead when Grian walked the trails by Cloud Lake last summer. He might have already been dead by the time the helicopters were sent out. He was likely already dead by the time the searches were suspended, just like the incident commander had regretfully informed him. He was probably still alive when Grian reported him missing, though.

He was dead this entire summer, and most of last summer. Grian’s stomach lurches.

It’s been months. It’s…obviously been months. The elements aren’t kind. The winters are harsh and the summer sun is cruel, even in the mild shelter this overhang offers. Rocks can’t protect from everything. The animals haven’t been kind, either. None of the elements know. The wilderness doesn’t know. They don’t know—they don’t know that this is Mumbo, Grian’s best friend, his everything. They just don’t see—

Grian sees.

Bones. Insects. Desiccated flesh. Eye sockets. No hair, no face, stained ripped clothes, broken and gnawed bones—

He turns to the side and vomits, barely yanking the bandana off his head in time. He nearly chokes on it, spitting miserable bile and unable to take a breath, and thinks, I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to be gone, like he is, so that I don’t have to see this, or feel this, anymore.

When he’s done he drops his head between his knees and screams. And with that, something breaks inside him, and he’s no longer kneeling but laying on his side, curled in the fetal position. It’s the same position Mumbo was in. His entire body trembles.

The air is thick with too many scents. There’s the ever-present smell of burning, and the smell of his vomit next to him, and the smell of other things he’s never wanted to put a name to. He gags again, and somewhere along the way that heave turns into a cry.

He sobs. He sobs so hard his whole body shakes with the effort. He sobs so hard that he can’t breathe, and he starts to feel a little dizzy, until that primeval part of his brain concerned with survival takes over once again and drags the breath from his lungs. He wants to, though. He wants to cry so hard he actually passes out. He doesn’t want his brain to force him to take a breath when he doesn’t think he can. He wants to be anywhere but here. He wants to be gone. He wants to be dead.

He can’t live with this.

He doesn’t want to live with this.

There’s no point to it, is there?

There’s no point to anything, is there?

His sobs turn into coughing after a while, his throat and lungs dry from the large gulps of air he’s been taking in. It’s painful deep in his chest, but it eventually subsides leaving him exhausted.

He lies still. His body still shakes. With every shallow inhale and exhale he trembles. His face feels waxy and foreign and his limbs like lead. He uncurls slightly. No part of his body feels like it’s attached to his mind anymore.

There is him, and there is his body, and there is Mumbo, and none of them are in the same place right now.

He watches the light move imperceptibly on the cave wall, as the sun slowly gets dragged back down the horizon and the shadows lengthen and bend. Darkness comes early to the mountain hollows, when the trees and the rocks and hills block the sun from view. It was late afternoon when he found Mumbo’s camp. It was early evening when he started back down the mountain for his own safety.

Does his safety matter anymore? Does he want it to matter? Does he even care? He doesn’t know what time it is anymore, but still the sun moves slowly along the walls.

He watches the light get dragged away from him.

Grian stays there for a period of time he can’t measure. The shadow drifts along the wall as the light fades more, but the light in the cave doesn't necessarily dim, it just grows more golden. He shuts his eyes against this. Orange might just be his least favorite color, the way it permeates everything from the setting sun to the hazy evening air.

But—it’s Scar’s favorite color, isn’t it?

He still has his radio. His pack might be discarded up top, but he has kept the radio in his pocket no matter what. Its yellow light was blinking earlier, back when he was at his towers this morning, hours ago, lifetimes ago. It’s still alive, however. It’s there, just a button press away. He could do it, but it’s like the radio doesn’t even belong to him anymore.

He fumbles in his pocket with a hand that’s not his. He brings the radio up to his face, dirty and scraped and resting on the rocky cave floor. It’s a foreign object. Slowly, with a thumb that’s not his own, he depresses the side button and hears a voice that’s not his own rasp a single name. His lifeline.

“Scar.”

The effect is immediate. “Grian!” the radio crackles, but Grian’s head is still funny and none of this is happening in the real world, so he loses most of the next sentence to the growing static in his mind. The connection is clear, but the words are not. “I was trying . . . ages ago, are . . . still . . . Do you . . .”

“Scar,” Grian says again, and this time the voice sounds more like his, and he says it because it’s all he can say.

“Are you okay?” Scar says. “Please tell me you’re okay, please, you stopped responding hours ago and I—I’m worried, I’ve been keeping an eye on the situation. What’s going on?”

Grian drifts again. He stares at the delineation between light and shadow on the wall, and contemplates the smell of smoke. It’s more acrid than the smell of a normal campfire. It smells like plastic, which is crazy, because shouldn’t the only thing that’s burning be wood and leaves? It’s so strong it threatens to suffocate him. He wishes it would.

Finally, he formulates something else. “He’s here,” he says, and his voice breaks.

“Who’s here?” Scar says.

“It’s Mumbo,” Grian says, with a strangled noise. “He’s here,” and the present tense sounds so wrong and right in his mouth, because he’s not really here but he should be. He’s not a person anymore and Grian is. He’s sitting right next to Grian, but Grian is here and he isn’t.

Nothing about this is fair. It shouldn’t have been like this. It shouldn’t have been like this.

“Oh, Grian,” Scar says, and his voice is infinitely gentle. Grian could lose himself in that voice, let it cover him and sweep him away to a place where he doesn’t have to think about this anymore. His voice is a facsimile of reality, though. The real world hurts more. It doesn’t mean Grian wants to listen to him any less.

Scar is still speaking. He somehow knows the things Grian doesn’t say. He knows the things that linger in the air and smoke between them. All he says is, “Oh no.”

Scar’s voice is—Scar’s voice is familiar in a way that breaks Grian all over again. It’s this little bit of sympathy, this person who might come even the slightest bit to understanding, that makes him feel like he can’t handle it anymore. What little he’s doing to compose himself in this situation needs to be handed over to Scar completely, because Scar knows. He can understand.

Grian breaks at the sound of Scar’s voice. He starts crying again, as hard as before, and he depresses the button on his radio again, nearly delirious and unintelligible, and starts talking to Scar.

“It’s not supposed to be like this, Scar,” he cries. “I was su-supposed to be here too. He asked me to go with him, and I said no, so he came out here alone, and it’s—it’s my fault. And I never found him in time, and it’s my fault, he’s dead now, and he’s been dead for months, and, and, this wasn’t supposed to happen!”

He doesn’t say You were right. He doesn’t say The search and rescue team was right. He doesn’t say Jimmy and Pearl were right. He doesn’t say any of that at all. He just cries.

“Shh,” Scar says. “It’s okay, it’s okay. No, it isn’t. I would never lie to you, G. Nothing is okay. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t take this, I can’t take this, I can’t take this,” Grian babbles. “I need to—I can’t—I can’t take this. This isn’t real.”

“Grian—” he doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. He lets go of his radio’s button, turning control of the tragedy back over to Grian.

“He was everything, Scar!”

Grian feels like his chest is a black hole, sucking his body into itself and rending it apart into shattered pieces. There is nothing left. There is nothing left but this, and there is nothing more important than this.

He’s silent for a long time, with tears slipping down his face and a body too tired to sob any longer. He’s silent for probably too long, because his radio incessantly crackles and warbles, but the words Scar is speaking don’t make sense any longer. It might as well be white noise, like logs burning in a fire on a cozy evening. Grian’s checked out.

He hears nothing but the distant rush in his ears.

He’s too tired to engage, so he turns the radio off and stares at the light moving across the wall again. In the time he’s spoken to Scar, the shadow has made it to the next crack in the stone. For a while there is nothing but him and the fading light, and the corpse just outside his peripheral.

There’s him, his best friend, that thick artificially golden light, and the smell of vomit-inducing failure.

He deserves to die here next to Mumbo. It’s how it should have been, if he’d just gone with Mumbo like he was supposed to have, instead of working instead. Whatever issue Mumbo experienced, Grian should have experienced it alongside him. This is all his fault. It’s all his fault, and he deserves nothing more than to spend the rest of his days right here.

How could he be so selfish? How could he let his best friend in the world go? How could he know his best friend so little that he couldn’t even find him when he was in trouble? How could he do anything right now except stay?

The air in the overhang is stuffy, and Grian wraps a hand around his nose and mouth like it will help. He expected there to be more of a smell—but that implies he suspected Mumbo’s death at all. Maybe the smoke has wrapped itself around the smell and overpowered it. Or maybe he’s always smelled this, the pungent odor of his failure. The scent of a future he refused to acknowledge. It’s hard work having to breathe when the air is hot and acrid.

He wants to vomit again, but he doesn’t. Instead his mouth runs wet with extra saliva, a mild comfort to his raw throat, if he ignores the way his stomach twists.

Eventually that silence rings in his pounding head just a little too loudly, and Grian flicks the radio on again, because he selfishly needs more. He needs that voice again with its promises of something being okay in the end. After all this time, he still can’t accept that this is completely his fault and that he deserves whatever punishment happens. He needs more, like he needs air to breathe.

“Scar,” he says again, and it's a plea. It is a life preserver thrown into the dark, inhospitable waters.

Scar is miles away. He’s always been miles away. He has never been, and will never be, a comforting presence to wrap his arms around Grian. But his voice is familiar and warm. His voice is a constant Grian hasn’t had for months until he took this job. His voice is a constant that might save Grian right now, if he’s lucky enough.

“Thank god, Grian, when I saw you turned off your radio—are you okay—” the rest of Scar’s sentence dissolves into static once more.

“No,” he whispers.

“I know,” Scar says kindly. “That was a silly question, huh? Grian, I’m going to help you. Do you know where you are? I can send someone out. They’ll come help you, and, and—Mumbo.”

“Okay,” he says. Help sounds good. He’s so tired of being alone.

“Are you hurt?” Scar asks.

Grian’s ankle smarts from where he fell on it earlier, right before finding Mumbo. It’s the first time he’s even noticed the pain, because the moment he saw Mumbo everything else on his mind was wiped clean. He doesn’t think it’s important, though, so he responds, “No.”

“Where are you?” Scar asks.

“I don’t know.”

Scar prods gently. “You found Mumbo’s bag and campsite up on Pinnacles.” He says the sentence precisely, and doesn’t mention the way Grian fought with him. He also does not say I told you so, or criticize Grian’s decision. “Are you still on Pinnacles?”

“No,” he says. “No, I left the trail. I went—”

Grian tries to think, but his brain is sieve, leaking information out onto the floor. It’s as dense and unrelenting as the tan smoke blanketing the sky. He remembers being told he lost his job, but that seems so pointless now. He remembers finding Mumbo’s campsite, but he doesn’t remember how high he hiked on the trail beyond it. He remembers the searing jolt of fear he felt when he saw the wildfire’s new positions, but he doesn’t remember a single step he took off trail.

It’s all a blur of rushing and blankness until he’s here. He can’t think of anything else, because there isn’t anything else. There is nothing else to define about the day, except for the presence lying on the cold stone next to him. This is the only thing Grian will remember about today, and he wishes it was all blank too. There is nothing and there will be nothing else for the end of time.

Grian can’t think.

The radio crackles again. “Grian, are you still with me?”

“Mm,” he says, because full words are hard.

“Do you remember the way you came?”

“I was running,” he says. “I went…away. I went down. It’s really steep.”

Scar’s voice is suddenly much more serious. “Grian, what made you leave the trail? Why were you running?”

“The fire,” he responds. “I saw the fire. I went downhill. I wanted to get to the water.”

The Nitwit fire, named for the idiots who started it, is rapidly growing in area and risk. The memory of it trickles eerily back into Grian’s brain. When he’d been closer to the top of the mountain and realized the danger he was in, he’d been absolutely terrified. He knew he needed to move or it would kill him. Depending on the environmental factors, outrunning a fire is impossible.

He doesn’t think he can move anymore, though. Fleeing doesn’t sound so appealing, not when there’s nothing left to run towards. He turns over this thought with detachedness. It’s over now, so what’s the point?

“The fire? Are you in a safe spot right now?” Scar demands. “How close was it when you saw it?”

Grian doesn’t really process this question. Scar is being insistent, urgent, but nothing seems that way to him anymore. He didn’t see the fire at all, just its smoke. He doesn’t care about a safe spot. This is the only spot he needs to be in. He doesn’t respond.

At his silence, Scar continues. “I’m guessing you went northwest,” he says. “That’s the opposite direction of the fire and there’s a creek in the valley on that side.” There is a rustle of paper on the other end, like he’s pulled out a map. “Does that sound right? I need to figure out exactly where you are.”

Scar asks a lot of questions.

“Grian,” he says sharply, almost rudely. “Grian, come on. Talk to me.”

Where is he? That doesn’t matter.

The internal compass in his brain isn’t working particularly hard right now, since every time he tries to stretch his consciousness beyond this overhang he gets snapped right back. Mumbo is just lying there, slightly out of his peripheral vision. He can’t even turn his head without catching a glimpse of it, and it feels like dying every time. How could he think of anything else?

Mumbo is just lying there.

“Scar,” he says, ignoring everything he was just asked. “Scar, I don’t get it. What is he doing here? Why did he come here? Why is he here? Why isn’t it me? Why wasn’t I here? I think he fell Scar, I think he fell just like I did. I think he hurt himself and couldn’t get back to his camp. And I wasn’t even there to help him.”

“You fell?” Scar urges, like all his attention is zapped on that word. “You didn’t say that, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says automatically. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Kind of hard not to, G.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats. “I’m just—Scar, I can’t go anywhere! I can’t leave him. What if I never find it again? What if this is it? I don’t want to go anywhere else, I’m staying here! Next to him!”

“But you need to go,” Scar says. “Come on, I need to know where you are. Help me figure it out.”

“No, no, no, no,” Grian says. “I can’t leave. I—if I go, what if I can’t come back? What if I can’t find it? What if I lose this place, and he’s really gone forever?”

“I won’t let that happen! Hey, if I figure out where you are, then I’ll know where he is too. We can tell the rangers, and, and the search and rescue people or whatever. They’ll find him again. It’s okay. You did your part. You found him. I wanna do mine.”

“I can’t leave him again,” Grian says. “I never should have in the first place.”

“I don’t think you ever left him,” Scar says softly. “He always had someone who believed in him this whole time. Some people don’t have that.”

“I can’t leave.”

“I need you to.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I do.”

And it’s difficult to keep arguing the matter when there’s someone in his ear who won’t take no for an answer. Someone who is desperately pleading with him over his own life and his safety. Maybe Grian is to Scar what Mumbo is to Grian. Maybe Grian can’t inflict that type of pain on someone else, even if he’s perfectly willing to inflict it on himself. Maybe if he does this he’ll be guilty of hurting one less person.

Grian screws his eyes shut. “It hurts,” he says finally. “It feels like everything hurts.”

“I know,” Scar says and—

Grian knows that he does know.

Somehow, at that point he makes a decision. His brain still feels slightly untethered and foggy. He isn’t himself anymore, not really. He doesn’t care about that person, the one who was a best friend and an architect and then a fire lookout, anymore. He doesn’t care about that person’s outcome. But he does care about not causing any more harm than he already has, even if it means keeping that person alive.

For once more, and the beginning many more once mores in his life, he rallies himself to go forward again.

“I don’t know where I am,” he says to Scar. “Or how close the fire is. I think I was going northwest, but…I got lost. I don’t know if I always went that direction, because I had to move around things sometimes. I just went down.”

He sits up. It’s a monumental effort, and his head spins again like the world is tipping instead of becoming right-side up. He has his back to Mumbo and it sends prickles down his neck.

“It’s really steep here,” he continues. “Like a cliff below me, maybe. If I fall I would get really hurt. It’s rocky above me too but not as bad. I’m sort of in the middle of it. I was—I was looking for a safer way to get down when I…” He trails off. He can’t finish that sentence.

“Okay,” Scar says. “That’s helpful. I can—I can probably find that a little easier, it’ll show up on the topo map that there is a big change in elevation. Can you see any other landmarks?”

“No,” he murmurs. “Too smoky.”

“How smoky?” Scar asks, and that edge is back in his voice. It’s worry.

He swallows. “Worse than earlier.”

Scar doesn’t respond for a long time. Grian regards his radio while he waits. Its light is red now. It blinks. That’s not good. He has no idea how long it’ll last before it dies. This reality still seems sort of distant though, like he can’t quite muster up the energy to care about it. Oh look, there’s a little blinking light. Oh look, there’s a fire. Oh look, his best friend is dead. Oh look, he might die too. It’s all just…pointless. There is so much potential danger in his situation and he’s numb to all of it.

He just watches the little light blink over and over again. He feels like a statue.

Grian doesn’t really like the silence Scar has left him, nor does he really understand why. Except it’s not really silence right now, is it? He tilts his head. There’s been sound this entire time. What he assumed was just the blood rushing in his ears is actually a very real roar.

He pieces together what it is the moment Scar gets back.

“I found it!” Scar cries suddenly, the radio exploding into noise again. “I found you, on the map I mean, which I guess means I also found…him. But I know where you’re at! I think!”

And Grian simply says, “I think I hear the fire.”

“What?”

“They’re loud, aren’t they?” he says. “Wildfires.”

“What—yes, they are, they’re super loud,” Scar says something that gets a little lost in interference, “you need to go now.”

Despite making the decision to go, Grian somehow feels rushed about it, like he said he was ready but he wasn’t actually ready. He stands up, and nearly stumbles back down again. When he goes to put a hand out to support him, it’s shaking. “Which way?” he whispers into the radio.

“Anywhere,” Scar says. “Um, down. I’m gonna—” he sounds distant like he’s leaning away from the radio’s mic again, and it occurs to Grian that this is what has been happening with his voice the whole time now. “—gonna try to see if I can relay your information to the hot shot crew. Like, uh, a nava—navi—whatever they’re called.”

Grian realizes, abruptly, that he has to leave his pack as well. There isn’t any way he can move quickly while carrying it, it’s far too heavy. He holds his radio, and looks out into the smoky air and trees. Then, pulled back by forces unseen, he looks back behind him. This place they’re located, it isn’t even a cave. It’s hardly an overhang, too. It wouldn’t have been a comfortable place to shelter.

He wants to say that he can’t leave again, because his boots might as well be filled with lead. But they’ve already had that argument, haven’t they? He made his decision to leave without even looking at Mumbo. It’s the least he could do to spare him the courtesy of looking at him now.

He lays his bag down closer to him. Then he pulls out his jacket and, carefully, gently, reverently, the closest he’s gotten to Mumbo so far, lays it over his head.

With tears slipping down his face, he steps back into the harsh warm light.

»»———-　　———-««

Grian fights his way down the hillside, and fight really does feel like the applicable word.

The first thing he has to do is a fair bit of boulder scrambling, since there was not, in fact, a good way down the cliff. It’s a maneuver that would have been greatly impeded by his backpack, so it’s a good thing he left it behind. Grian’s apathy actually does him favors for speed: he hops onto a rock he isn’t sure will hold him before testing it. He uses worse handholds in favor of spending more time finding safe ones. He doesn’t falter even when he slips; he leans into it instead. He’s down after only a few minutes, leaning on a tree, wheezing in the smoke, wishing he hadn’t abandoned his water bottle along with everything else.

The noise continues to rage around him.

Scar tells him to keep going down. Scar tells him that there is a temporary fire line at Sulphur Creek and that the hot shot crew is focused on manually digging a line on the other side of the valley. Scar tells him that they’re aware he’s trying to evacuate. Scar tells him it will be okay, because a lot of people are working on this now. Grian isn’t even sure where Sulphur Creek is. It’s not like he can see anything, after all.

“Run,” he says, “I’ll tell you where to go.”

Grian looks back up to where Mumbo is, and realizes he can’t see him either. It all blends into the rocks and bushes and trees. How was anyone supposed to have ever spotted him? His heart clenches at this, stuttering for just a moment. None of those helicopters would have been able to see him. People on the ground could barely see him. He’s being swallowed into nature again, a final resting place to entomb him.

Then, he glances up to the left and realizes that for the first time all day, and in fact all summer, he can see actual flames.

They’re weirdly beautiful. He watches them lick up around the trees, greedily eating up the brush. He fell down there earlier, and now everything he touched is being steadily converted to ash. He sees the flames in the tops of the trees forming bright halos. There’s little, if any, separation from the fire on the ground and the fire in the sky. Active crown fires are the most dangerous, he remembers. No wonder it’s so loud. How much combustion energy is happening right now, as these trees ignite?

He tells Scar.

Scar tells him in no uncertain terms that he needs to be going the opposite direction as fast as he can right about now. He urges him to run.

Grian obeys, but the heat and sound licks at his heels anyway.

How fast do wildfires run? How many miles can they cover in an hour? How many meters high can the flames go? The units mix in his head as he tries to work it out, but the calculations are mostly a background narration to the sound of his boots crunching gravel. Scar wants him to run, so he will.

He stays ahead of the fire, or at least he thinks he does, until suddenly a spark is thrown onto a tree in front of him. The needles, dry from weeks without rain, catch instantly. And Grian just…stops in his tracks, and watches it ignite. He watches the baby flame grow, greedily sucking in oxygen and new found fuel.

He thought he’d been going opposite the wind.

He can’t help but wonder if Mumbo felt like this. If he felt this same sudden door slamming shut in front of him, trapping him somewhere he had no hope of escaping by himself. If he had, when he’d found himself stuck and lost, had this realization that he wasn’t going to be able to make it out. The thought resonates through his body, aching in every part. It’s the fear. It’s the hopelessness.

Grian can’t outrun this anymore.

He goes to call Scar on the radio, to ask him for any advice or even to just talk to him again, but when he presses the button on the radio it does nothing. He presses it, again and again and again, but there’s nothing. No lights. No transmissions.

It’s dead, because he didn’t bother to charge it since before he left for the District Ranger’s Station, three days ago.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself, “idiot, idiot, idiot!” He hits the button again and again and again, as if that’ll somehow work. Then, he hits the entire radio hard into his other hand, hard, as if he’ll shake and abuse the thing into submission, but it still doesn’t work. The screen is black. The lights don’t turn on.

The fire is even louder now, and even hotter. It’s howling. He’s losing his sense of direction. The trees and rocks around him are only shadowy figures in the smoke.

And maybe, in his deepest thoughts and miseries, Grian doesn’t want to live. Maybe, if you asked him, he’d say that he was fine with this, because there was nothing left for him here. There is no Mumbo, so there is no point. He’s okay with that—at least, he’d say he was okay with it if there were anyone around in the world to ask. But there’s Scar listening in on a dead radio miles away, who can’t even know if he’s safe right now, or why he isn’t responding anymore. And there’s something deep within Grian that isn’t his dark thoughts, something written into his very cells, that pushes him to look for shelter anyway.

Because he’s scared. Because this is a truly terrible way to die.

The only things around him are rocks and more trees. He goes for the rocks. Instinctively, they feel like a more solid option: surely something that’s already millions of years old can survive another million years.

He finds a spot beneath a boulder, and wedges himself as close as possible between it and the ground. It lies between the fire and him, but his eyes already burn so badly it might as well already be here. He pulls his shirt up so that it covers his nose and mouth, but that does little, so he tucks his head in near the ground, near the rock, like it’ll be protected in this tiny space he’s carved out of nothing. He inhales dirt anyway.

He screws his eyes shut, as if it’ll help, and waits.

It isn’t hard to tell when it’s here.

Everything feels like eternity. When he tries to breathe, there’s nothing there—no air at all to fill his lungs. Instead, everything is hot and stuffy, suffocating, astringent, wringing all the oxygen from the air. His chest burns like he’s being squeezed. It makes his head feel funny, his thoughts slipping right out before he can register them. The heat is overwhelming. It’s like being baked in an oven. It’s like the first time he got a sunburn as a child, his mother wringing her hands in dismay and guilt over his face. It’s like he’s being strangled and peeled and stripped and decimated at once.

He wonders if maybe the concept of hell was just written up by someone who’d walked through fire themselves.

It feels like it’s been hours, but eventually the white-hot heat fades into something warm and passive. It can’t have been hours, because he’s still here and feeling all of it. Grian twitches his foot, and then tries to curl in on himself afterward. The movement seems to trigger something in his body, something that says I’m not dead yet so now it’s your problem, and he begins to cough again, violent motions that shake every part of his being. He coughs for a while, choking on the ash and lack of air, before finally controlling it enough to breathe. His nose and throat feel raw.

He opens an eye. It immediately waters in the presence of thick smoke and heat, so he closes it again, the feeling burning hot beneath his lid. His cheeks are sticky with the feeling of tears from his watering eyes that dried just as quickly as they were produced. His teeth are gritty, even though he never even remembers opening his mouth. He runs a tongue over them, tasting the char. Every minute change of facial expression causes the grit to rub against his teeth.

A few minutes later, he stirs again, this time pushing himself up off the ground in one motion until he is sitting up—he’s not a quitter like that.

The world spins for a moment, and then swings back into place.

He opens his eyes again, looks at his hands. They’re red, but not badly burned. Of course, how would he know that? How would he be able to tell? He clenches them once, twice, three times, and his fingers stiffly and painfully move to obey him. The rock next to him is singed and blackened. The vegetation immediately next to him is sparse, but burned completely through. The pine needles are gone. The area is thick with dark smoke. Somewhere ahead of him, the air glows orange still, a beaming, glowing beacon in the gathering darkness of evening.

He’s…

Still here.

On the other side of the fire.

Alive.

Alone.

His brain works sluggishly, taking several moments to take in the information around him before it computes. Then, without any ceremony, he bursts into ugly tears. Or, there would be tears, if tears were falling from his eyes. He’s so dehydrated now that nothing is being produced anymore. Instead he just sits there, sobs wracking his body, taking deep gulping breaths of dry, dry air that keep his already sore throat rubbed raw. He cries until he’s too tired to do it anymore, and everything is just rough and painful.

Some people would rather be brave. They’d rather face each challenge head on, and not let it get to them. They’d rather never cry in order to save face.

But Grian? Grian just wants it all to stop. Who does he have to be brave for? He wants to not have to deal with this anymore. He wants to be safe. He wants his best friend to be safe. He wants his best friend to be alive. He wants someone, a real person, to place a hand on his shoulder and tell him he’s okay, it’ll be alright. It won’t be alright, of course, but he wants to be told that. It’ll make things, at least, a little easier.

He’s tired of it being hard. He’s so, so, tired of it being hard.

Grian stands finally. It takes a lot of energy to do so, and there’s a faint feeling of pain that radiates through his body like a high fever, coming in waves every time he moves. His fingers smart as they brush the fabric of his pants, the barest hint of a touch sending needles along his nerves. At least he’s got nerves.

The forest is gray.

The greenness is gone, and what has settled in its wake is white and gray ash. There’s a still, grim curtain that hangs over everything. There is no sound except the fire’s roar—not even a single bird. Grian pushes the dirt with his boot a little, and everything crumbles and flakes apart into fine dust. A glowing ember is uncovered beneath it. It looks vibrant against the pale death of all his other surroundings.

The bottom of his feet feel hot. These boots will be trashed by the time he gets back. He’s sure their rubber soles are all messed up now. He’ll have to buy a new pair.

The real meaning of the thought hits him just a moment after. When he gets back. Like he’s already accepted that it’s part of his plan, that he’s going to leave here. And then what? He doesn’t really know but…he’s going to have to get back. He will.

He heads toward the fire line.

He isn’t sure where it is, but the fire being in front of him now affords him the time to make mistakes. Down is still the best direction to head, so he goes that way, kicking up fine ash and dust as he goes. The trees are blackened husks, rising into the sky. Some of them still have leaves at the top, but some were less fortunate. All the ground brush has been burned away.

The forest looks like a wasteland. He knows it’ll be green again in a year.

It doesn’t actually take that long for him to walk into an unburned area. He wonders if this is a mosaic, like Scar taught him all those weeks ago, but he doesn’t find another burned area just beyond this. It’s full of green trees. He can hear the distant roar of the fire, but now he can hear birds again, too.

It’s twilight when he sees movement in the forest ahead of him, and he squints to identify it. He steps a little closer and—yeah, it’s a person. It’s another person. It’s actually another person out here, dressed in eye-shocking yellow.

He raises a hand, and starts to call out to them, but he doesn’t make any sound. His throat is completely hoarse. He’s not sure he could make a sound if he tried.

The person spots him anyway. The next few events sort of blur in his memory. The other man shouts something to his colleagues, whom Grian hadn’t seen in the trees around him. They call someone over to him. They say something to Grian. He doesn’t respond. They ask if he’s Grian, and he nods. They tell him that someone on the radio had said to be on the lookout for him. They give him water. They assess his injuries.

Grian thinks he’s fine, but they seem to think otherwise.

He’s still standing. His heart is still beating. That’s more than he can say of Mumbo. The thought of it makes him want to crumple and curl into a tiny ball, but he stays standing still. As long he’s upright, he’s okay.

“Martinez is going to walk you out,” one of them says and Grian nods. Martinez is a guy with a kind-looking face and broad shoulders. He doesn’t even seem phased by the idea of saving a stupid civilian who got caught out in all this mess. He looks like it’d be his pleasure to help Grian out.

This plan does not, for some reason, happen. Maybe it’s because Grian stumbles when they try to make him walk again, his ankle that he fell on hours earlier finally deciding to revolt. Maybe it’s his utter exhaustion. Maybe it’s because one of the wildland firefighters is especially concerned about Grian’s breathing, and the way his chest sounds funny. Maybe it’s his cough. Maybe it’s because he can barely speak to them, only hoarsely answering their simple questions.

Night falls fully while they talk it over. The sky is dark, no stars, all blocked out from smoke, but a glow still sits on the horizon. Most of the other members of the hotshot crew have moved on, continuing their jobs in the noble quest to keep the fire from spreading to this side of the valley.

Grian hears the radio crackle at various intervals, but none of the voices talking are Scar’s. At first he strains to try to hear him, trying to listen with his entire body. He hears nothing but strangers. His own radio is heavy in his pocket. It’s just a paperweight right now.

The firefighters are probably giving information about him to someone else back at the dispatch office. They’re probably asking for some outside evaluation on what his condition is, or an order on what to do next. He zones out while they speak. He finds it difficult to care about anything else that happens to him now, least of all to him.

Instead, two of them—Martinez included—walk him to a meadow, and tell him that one of the helicopters is going to pick him up and take him back to town.

“It’s the fastest way to get you back, that’s all,” Martinez says brightly. He keeps trying to cheer Grian up, which is sweet of him, but failing. “Don’t worry about it, it’ll be fun!”

“I think we have different definitions of fun,” Grian rasps.

He doesn’t tell them about Mumbo. Right now it feels like his own little burden to carry, an anchor suspended around his neck for him and him alone to drag. He’ll have to tell someone, as soon as he’s back in town. He’s sure that Scar has already told someone. But right now, at this moment, he carries the weight by himself. Alone. One last private moment with it all, waiting in the dark meadow with two strangers.

He closes his eyes.

He thinks about the first time he and Mumbo met, when they were not even preteens yet. Grian was a new kid in a new school and a new town, and mad at everything in his life. Mumbo was the partner his teacher assigned for him to work on a project with. But more importantly, Mumbo was kind.

He thinks about evenings spent at Mumbo’s house, or the times they spent roaming around the town doing errands for Grian’s mom. He thinks about the time they both got detention because Mumbo—not Grian!—had a terrible plan to prank one of their teachers. He thinks about the miserable two years that they went to different colleges that led into a purposeful coordination of which university they would study at. He thinks about the emptiness of their apartment the week they arrived in Colorado, and how they ate takeout together while sitting on the boxes.

The helicopter arrives some indeterminate time later, and Grian blinks his eyes back open to rushing wind chapping his face and lips. The noise is loud, but it’s not as loud as the fire was. Nothing will ever be greater than that sound. He’ll never forget that sound.

The firefighters bid him farewell. He only knows one of their names, but he waves back. He’s taken into the helicopter.

As it takes off, he looks through the window straight past a woman who is talking to him, but he isn’t able to see the forest like he anticipated. This forest, this wilderness he’s spent half a summer living in, isn’t visible. Instead the total darkness of night wipes it into a blank slate of inky blackness, punctuated only by the Nitwit Fire in the distance. No other lights.

Miles and miles of nothing, and Mumbo.

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#grian #goodtimeswithscar #hermitcraft fanfic #hermitcraft #hermitcraft au #quara fanfic #hc_firewatch_au #ummmmm. 0.0 dont kill me

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