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definitlynotdumb · 2 months ago

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transcription of the rolling stone article featuring car seat headrest that came out a few days ago (since it's paywalled and barely legible on archive.org), continues under the cut for length

Car Seat Headrest come back from the brink

After a serious health scare for Will Toledo, he and his bandmates reconnected with the joy of playing music together

By Simon Vozick-Levinson

March 4th, 2025

Car Seat Headrest: Dalby, Ives, Katz and Toledo (from left) Image credits: CARLOS CRUZ

Will Toledo has taken fans of his band, Car Seat Headrest, on some epic adventures over the years, leading them through concept albums full of lengthy songs and countless thrilling concerts. But he’s never spun a story quite as dramatic as the one he’s revealing this spring.

The Scholars, out May 2 on Matador Records, features at least a dozen distinct characters, in settings that include a mysterious university and a clown school. There are references to a 16th-century Venetian playwright, an old American folk song, and Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. At a private performance of the album at New York’s Bitter End club last month, guests were handed a printed libretto explaining all of this, with lyrics cheekily credited to “my great-great-great-great-grandfather, the Archbishop Guillermo Guadalupe del Toledo.”

There's a lot more mythology where that came from, including an enigmatic online game. If you don't have time to race down the rabbit hole, though, here's the most important thing to know about The Scholars: it's the most directly pleasurable Car Seat Headrest album in a while, packed with anthemic choruses and satisfying live-band crunch. Songs like "The Catastrophe (Good Luck With That, Man)" and "Devereux" are bright, catchy, and instantly accessible. The lead single, "Gethsemane", stretches out for nearly 11 minutes of proggy rise and fall.

“It came from jams, mostly,” says Andrew Katz, 34, the band’s wry, energetic drummer. “We hadn’t really played together in a while. Let’s just rip, record it, and see how it sounds.”

A couple of days after the Bitter End performance, Toledo and his bandmates are gathered in the basement of Matador Records’ downtown Manhattan office. Katz sits next to guitarist Ethan Ives, 31, and across from bass player Seth Dalby, 34. In the middle is Toledo, 32, lanky and thoughtful as always, with an N95 mask and long hair hiding much of his face.

Car Seat Headrest began 15 years ago as a solo project for Toledo, who built a devoted fanbase on Bandcamp before moving to Seattle, assembling the musicians who now make up the band, and signing with Matador. Though this lineup has now been together for nearly a decade, they’d never fully brought their live dynamic into the studio before.

“We found that we had a sound as a four-piece that had not really emerged on any of our previous records, because those were more like me coming up with solo demos and then giving that to the band,” Toledo says. This time, he adds, “I was more of an organizer than the composer.”

The Scholars is a hard swerve away from Car Seat Headrest’s last album, Making a Door Less Open, whose glossy pop surfaces and occasional satirical edge were the result of a long, fraught recording process. Almost as soon as they’d released that album into a pandemic-stunned world in May 2020, Toledo says, he started thinking about doing things differently next time. He recalls listening to Mozart’s Magic Flute and forming the beginnings of an idea for an album structured like an opera, with songs in the voices of multiple characters — an “exercise in empathy,” he says.

Before he could develop that idea any further, though, he was sidelined for months with an unexpected medical crisis that put the band’s future in question.

Car Seat Headrest previewed their new album, The Scholars, with a private show at the Bitter End in New York. Image credits: GRIFFIN LOTZ FOR ROLLING STONE

IT STARTED IN the spring of 2022, when Car Seat Headrest mounted their first tour since before the pandemic. “When we came back, we found we had a lot of younger fans,” Toledo says. “Fans who had never seen Car Seat before. A lot of them, I think, hadn’t seen rock shows before at all.”

Those audiences made for some memorable nights, as documented on the live album Faces from the Masquerade. At one March 2022 show in Brooklyn, Toledo wore a fursuit onstage for the first time, drawing rapturous cheers from the furries in the crowd. “That was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing that went with the energy that we were riding at the time,” he says. “And the audience loved it… The best shows were, I think, the best shows that we’d played up to that point.”

“We were like, ‘Finally, we’ve hit the peak. We’re having fun now,'” Katz says.

“And then just a couple shows after that, I got Covid,” Toledo adds.

They canceled their next few shows, and the rest of the band flew home to Seattle. Toledo spent a few days isolated in a Washington, D.C.-area hotel room, resting up and “scrolling through Twitter, looking at all the very nice responses” to the fursuit he’d debuted in Brooklyn. After a week or so, feeling recovered, he flew back west to join the rest of the band.

Once he was home, it became clear that Toledo was still dealing with a serious health issue. “I started feeling worse and worse again, and I didn’t know why,” he says. “I would wake up in the morning, feel OK, and then as soon as I started eating, it seemed like my tongue was burning.”

Toledo got through the next few months with difficulty, canceling some shows and doing his best to tough it out at others. “We played Seattle, and that was by far the worst I’ve ever felt during a show,” he says. “I’m still not sure how I got through it.” Many of his problems were digestive in nature, leading to a mistaken diagnosis of stomach flu. But no matter how many times his symptoms seemed to improve, they always came back.

Finally, in October 2022, he made the decision to scratch all of Car Seat Headrest’s upcoming dates. Toledo broke the news to fans with a grim message posted on social media: “After another month of struggling to regain my health, I am currently forced to face the fact that my body lacks the basic levels of functionality necessary to leave the house most days, let alone embark on a tour.”

During that long period of uncertainty about his health, Toledo’s bandmates let him know they were OK with Car Seat Headrest ending if that’s what it took for him to get better. “I think we had a phone call,” Katz says. “I was like, ‘Dude, if you got to quit, just quit. It’s not the end of the world. We are all capable people. We’ll figure something else out.’”

“Hey, maybe another album’s not in the cards,” Dalby recalls thinking.

Eventually, Toledo was diagnosed with histamine intolerance, a chronic condition that he was able to manage by going on an extremely limited diet. “I remember I did a grocery run,” Katz says, turning to Toledo. “All you could eat was what, carrots and one other thing? It was really scary.”

By the spring of 2023, with Toledo’s health under control at last, they were ready to start work on their next album. The mood was open and collaborative, from those liberating full-band jams to the newly prominent songwriting contributions made by Ives.

“One of the first things we did was just me and him sitting down on one of our friends’ lawns with acoustic guitars and going back and forth,” Toledo says. “Just listening and seeing, ‘Where can it go from here?’ It felt good to step back from the role of having to provide the material.”

The guitarist — a big-time Neil Young fan who’s wearing a Steve Albini T-shirt when we meet — ended up taking a turn on lead vocals at several key points on the album, including on a majestic power ballad he co-wrote called “Reality.” (In the libretto, he’s credited as “Artemis.”) “I had wanted to contribute more writing to the band, and I had already been sort of vocal about that,” Ives says. “It ended up being fortuitous.”

“I thought of our practice space as a workshop,” Toledo adds. “And days when we were working on Ethan’s songs were easier for me.” He liked how it all fit into the storyline he was sketching out, comparing it to the way dancers come on and off the stage in Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker: “I really feel like my strong point is less coming up with the original content and more prodding something that’s already there into a direction that I see it going.”

Ives (left) with Toledo at the Bitter End show. Image credits: GRIFFIN LOTZ FOR ROLLING STONE

TODAY, TOLEDO SAYS, his medical ordeal is in the past, for the most part. “I feel better now than I ever have in my life, in terms of the vigor and energy of my body,” he says. “That still varies from day to day, and there is still fragility there. Sometimes I still do have a day where, for no discernable reason, I have a downturn.”

He’s been able to limit his symptoms most effectively by sticking to a strict diet: “In case any readers out there think they might have this, try a diet of oats, pumpkin seeds, rice, potatoes, carrots, broccoli, and, if you eat meat, chicken and turkey.” He also feels he’s benefited in other ways from the clarity that can accompany a health scare.

“Being very sick puts you in touch with what’s real in life and what isn’t,” he says. “As I started getting better, I tried to keep having that time for stillness in my life, and I started meditating more. And I’ve kept that up as a daily practice.”

At both the Bitter End performance and our interview, he’s wearing a tight-fitting N95 mask, which he tells me he does both to protect himself and out of consideration for a close friend who has been battling post-Covid symptoms for five years. “I wear it pretty much whenever I go out in public now,” he says. “It’s more worth it to me to stick on a mask when I’m in public and then have people in safe spaces that I can unmask around.”

He’ll be wearing the same mask when Car Seat Headrest return to U.S. stages this year for a series of carefully limited engagements. “We’re not going to tour in the sense of getting on the road and doing a different city every night,” he says. “Every couple weeks, we’re going to fly out and do a show. And that was a very practical decision based on estimates about my health.”

He and his bandmates are currently working out a new setlist that will have room for some of the more sprawling songs on The Scholars — the longest of which, “Planet Desperation,” rages on for almost 19 minutes on the record — along with at least a few older fan favorites.

“I love how simple they are and how big a reaction we can get,” Katz says of the more concise songs from albums like 2016’s Teens of Denial and 2018’s Twin Fantasy (Face to Face). “I love it. But obviously, you have to fucking move on at some point. You can’t just keep playing ‘Drunk Drivers’ for 25 years.”

Toledo agrees. “I get so excited playing these new songs that I would rather spend less time on the old songs,” he says, and though I can’t see his expression, I get the sense he is smiling slightly. “If they hate the record, we’ll go back to Twin Fantasy. But we’re hoping that they like it.”

here's all, thanks for reading! consider reblogging to support my efforts (no pressure)

tagging @cosmicanchorite and @thoseareyougotsomeniceshoulders since you said you were interested on my other post!

have a good one :)

#car seat headrest #csh #the scholars #will toledo #andrew katz #ethan ives #seth dalby #there’s a lot of info about the album but also about their break for will’s health #and their creative process and how it evolved #also there’s pictures!! (unpublished so far as far as i know!)

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violetrainbow412-blog · 6 months ago

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Day 29: time capsule

Masterlist flufftober 🎃

Reblog if you liked it!

You couldn't believe what was on the table in front of you. The silver metal box was filled with dirt, but you could still read a label, which had once been white, with a couple of names written on it and a year beneath them. Fifteen years ago, to be exact.

Although you still received some news about Spencer Reid (from his mother, in particular), the truth was that after he left Las Vegas, your friendship was not the same. Distance was a determining factor, and also, the means of communication were not the most accessible.

Years ago, you had asked for his phone number at the hospital where his mother was staying (something unethical, but it was a favor for a friend), but you had never dared to call him. It would have been strange, for sure, so you simply decided to leave things as they were.

But now the opportunity was right there, and to be honest, you were a little curious about what your friend had hidden in that time capsule. You barely even remembered it, a sign that five more years had passed since the date you were supposed to open it, and you had only found it thanks to the gardening work you had paid for your backyard.

You thought for a long time about what you should do. Should you call him? Just leave it as it was? Open it without him? The point of those kinds of boxes was to see them with the person you had filled them with; it wouldn’t make sense.

In the end, you decided and pressed the call button for that number you had gotten so many years ago, hoping it would still be the same today. If you knew Spencer well enough, you knew he preferred to keep things the same.

“Hello?”

“Uh, hi… Am I speaking with Spencer Reid?”

“This is he, who is this?”

You stayed silent for a second, smiling unconsciously at the fact that it was your friend on the other end of the line. You didn’t even know how to start.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes! I don’t know if you remember me…” you murmured, giving a hint of your identity. You almost imagined his face lighting up on the other side.

“Of course I remember you! It’s been a long time, sorry I don’t have your number saved.”

“No problem,” you lied. You preferred to let him think you had exchanged numbers. “Are you busy? I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

“I can talk. Go ahead.”

You explained the situation you were in, how while digging in your yard, the shovel had hit a metallic object with your names written on it. Spencer expressed the same nostalgia you felt about it, and that’s when you asked about the most appropriate destination for the capsule.

“I know traveling from Washington for something like that is a waste of money and time; I’m not asking you to do that, but…”

“No! I’m going to visit my mother in two weeks, so it’s perfect. If you want, we can meet during those days.”

The date was set, and the box remained on one of the shelves, waiting. You had cleaned it as much as possible to reveal its original shine, with only the slightly brown label as a remnant of having been buried for three decades.

You tried not to think too much about the dates, sure that this way time would pass more easily. So it was, because when you least expected it, the day had arrived. You tried to have everything ready to host your guest and waited for the hour of his arrival, watching television to kill time. It was already close to dusk when someone knocked on your door, making you jump up like a spring due to the anxiety you felt about seeing him.

You were not disappointed in the least when the sight before you was of a boy, a man, dressed in a formal shirt, a tie around his neck, khaki pants, and a pair of black-rimmed glasses.

“Hi,” you exhaled, more surprised than you would have liked.

He was so different that if you had seen him under other circumstances, you wouldn’t have recognized him.

He greeted you the same way, and you gestured to hug him, waiting for him to reciprocate. Spencer did, and then you let him into your house, which was still the same as he remembered. You were friends in school, which meant that more than once your mother had realized that no one had come to pick him up and had offered to drive him to your house.

First, you asked him about Diana, wanting to know what her current state was, and he offered his condolences for what had happened with your parents. You talked for a while about how their lives had been during the time you were apart, drank, and ate what you had prepared until finally the much-anticipated moment arrived.

“I’m embarrassed I didn’t remember this when I’m supposed to have eidetic memory.”

“Even you can forget something sometimes,” you justified, shrugging and sitting down beside him on the couch.

You thanked the heavens that the box didn’t have a key; otherwise, you would never have discovered its contents, and you let him take the honor of opening it.

With the time capsule completely open, the air seemed to be filled with nostalgia. The first thing that appeared was a bunch of letters, some carefully folded and others hurriedly, as if they had been left at the last minute before burying the box.

You took one of the letters that had his name written in youthful, somewhat shaky handwriting. You laughed as you remembered the time when both of you had decided to write letters to the future, convinced that, in a few years, you would become completely different people.

“‘Dear future me’…” you read aloud, and Spencer covered his face, blushing.

“Please don’t read that,” he said, laughing, trying to reach for it, but you slipped away with the letter in hand.

“It’s adorable. Here you say that by this time you would already be a famous scientist.”

Spencer let out a shy laugh.

“I guess I dreamed big… although, in a way, I’ve fulfilled some of those dreams.”

After setting the letters aside, you found a small notebook full of notes and scribbles. You opened it and, to your surprise, discovered a plethora of small illustrations of everyday things you shared in those days. Drawings of the school cafeteria, the park you went to after classes, and even a cartoonish drawing of Spencer trying to solve a Rubik’s cube.

“Who drew this?” you asked, looking at an animated version of yourself with a concentrated face while studying.

“That… was me,” Spencer admitted, scratching the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I remember I was trying to draw you without you noticing in science class. It’s not my best work, clearly.”

You burst out laughing.

“It’s great! I didn’t know you had artistic talent.”

“It was easier to remember things by drawing them. Besides, you always seemed so focused, and that inspired me. Drawing you helped pass the time.”

Just below, you found a folded and somewhat worn photo. The image showed both of you at a birthday party when you were kids. You, with a funny smile and a party hat, and he, with his typical serious expression, as if he was wondering how he had ended up in the middle of a celebration.

“How did you always end up at my parties, even though you said you didn’t like them?”

Spencer shrugged, blushing a bit.

“Your mom insisted on inviting me, and well… I didn’t mind spending time with you.”

You fell silent for a second, surprised by the honesty of his words. Then you decided to leave the topic and continued checking the box.

At the bottom of the capsule, two books remained intact, covered in a fine layer of dust. One of them was Great Stories of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, which Spencer had chosen years ago, and the other was And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie, your favorite back then. You picked up Spencer's book, flipping through it carefully so as not to damage the pages.

“Why did you choose Sherlock Holmes?” you asked, not taking your eyes off the book.

Spencer smiled, somewhat nostalgically.

“For me, it represented what I wanted to be as an adult. Someone who could solve any mystery. Although I think in the end, real life is much more complicated than I thought back then.”

You nodded, and while stroking the cover of his book, you shared your reason. “I chose Agatha Christie because… I wanted my life to be exciting, like the mysteries in her stories. Something that, over time, I realized was not so realistic.”

You shared a knowing smile, as if those books told not only stories of detectives and murders but also of your own youthful aspirations.

Then you found a small plush figurine, a worn teddy bear that both of you had called Bobby. You used to take turns caring for him when one of you was sick or sad.

“This poor Bobby survived all these years,” you said, holding it between your fingers.

Spencer took the bear gently, remembering a time when he had spent difficult days at home due to his mother's health problems.

“I gave it to you when my mom was in the hospital… I didn’t know how to tell you what was happening, so I left it in your locker so you would know I needed support without saying it out loud.”

You felt a lump in your throat, remembering how you had kept Bobby beside your pillow every night until Spencer told you that his mom was better.

“I never told you, but I always understood what Bobby meant. It was as if we were talking without words.”

You continued exploring, and suddenly, you found a small box with golden edges and a rusty latch. You opened it carefully and discovered a couple of old braided string friendship bracelets, each with a small crystal charm. They were the friendship bracelets you had made together one summer, a symbol of the promise that you would always be friends, no matter the distance. You took one of the bracelets and slipped it onto your wrist.

“I remember spending hours picking the colors. Green was your favorite, right?”

“It was,” he replied, taking the other bracelet. “And you chose blue because, according to you, it matched the sky, and you always dreamed of traveling and seeing the world.”

You looked at the bracelet on your wrist, feeling a strange mix of nostalgia and joy.

“It’s funny… I feel like, by putting this on, I’m ten years old again.”

Then, beneath the bracelets, you found a small disposable camera wrapped in a plastic cover. Spencer held it in his hands, reminiscing about the times when you both tried to capture your “adventures” with the few photos you could take. You took the camera and, without thinking, aimed it at him and pressed the button, emitting a soft click, only to have a strip of photo paper eject from the slot a moment later.

“I knew you would do that,” he said, laughing. “Do you remember when we tried to take a picture of the shooting star and ended up capturing a picture of our feet by mistake?”

“That photo was a disaster! But I think I still have it somewhere,” you replied. “We always tried to take photos as if we were explorers on some important expedition.”

As you continued unpacking, you found another small book, somewhat worn with hard covers, titled “Survival Guide for School” written in marker on the cover. When you opened it, you saw a series of notes and tips you both had written, from how to “survive a history presentation” to “how to avoid the math teacher in the hallway.”

Spencer read one of the tips out loud: “Tip number five: if you sit next to the window, you have a better view to imagine you’re anywhere else.” You both looked at each other and laughed, recalling the times you sat together at the back of the classroom.

Finally, you reached the last items in the box: two lists of goals for the future. You took yours, noticing how you had listed objectives like: learning another language, traveling the world, and writing a book someday. Spencer, on his part, had listed goals that included: becoming a genius in at least three fields, finding a real mystery to solve, and marrying the most incredible girl in the world.

You frowned, looking at Spencer with curiosity.

“And who is that incredible girl you mentioned?” you asked with a playful smile.

Spencer blushed slightly, trying to maintain his composure.

“Oh, you know, someone who is a real challenge,” he replied, shrugging as if to downplay it.

“A challenge?” she retorted, leaning towards him. “Sounds exciting. Do you have her number?”

He burst out laughing, enjoying the joke. “No, I don’t have her number. But I’m sure she’s someone who laughs at my bad jokes.”

“Then that means she’s not so hard to find,” you said, smiling back. “Maybe you should talk to her more often.”

“Yeah, maybe I should. Perhaps I’ll even invite her for coffee or something,” he replied, pretending to be thoughtful.

“That sounds like a plan,” you joked. “But how can you dare to do that without knowing if she likes coffee?”

Spencer raised his hands in surrender.

“Okay! Maybe I should just stick to my goals and let the universe handle the surprises.”

“That’s the attitude,” you said, smiling conspiratorially. “But if you need advice on how to win over that incredible girl, just ask me.”

You both laughed, feeling the atmosphere fill with fun and complicity over the secret that, though unspoken, had come to light.

Spencer fell silent as he looked at the notes and memories you had unearthed. For a moment, both of you got lost in time, feeling those fifteen years of distance fade away, leaving you once again as the inseparable friends you had been in the past.

When everything was laid out on the table, you looked at each other with a smile and dared to lean towards him, causing the man to hug you gently. You both knew that, although life had taken different paths for each of you, those small objects connected you to a shared past that would always be present, a reminder of the friendship and dreams you had shared.

With a deep sigh, you began to put each object back into the box, one by one, and closed the lid carefully, as if preserving a priceless treasure. You both knew you had unearthed much more than a simple time capsule; you had unearthed a piece of yourselves, and at that moment, your paths, though temporary, had found each other again.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #dr spencer reid #matthew gray gubler #spencer reid x you #flufftober 2024 #prompt list #writing challenge #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid drabble

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bullet-prooflove · 1 month ago

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Masochist: Dom Pascal x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @buckysteveloki-me @emma-dawson @noxytopy @toasted-stiletto

Companion piece to:

Slutty - You remind Dom that he has a wife to come home to.

You’re messing with him. Dom knows it the moment he plunges his hand into the pocket of his work trousers and discovers the hot pink pair of panties bundled up inside, still damp from your pussy. He’s at the start of the shift discussing the agenda and trying his best not to get a hard on as his fingers skim over the fabric.

It isn’t until he gets back to his office, the door closed and locked, that he takes them out of his pocket and spreads them out on the desk. You were wearing these this morning before he left, bent over the kitchen island in one of his shirts trying to entice him to stay. He’d left you pouting because he’d promised you the day off together in bed but he’d been called in to cover someone else’s shift. It’s the nature of the job, you’re no stranger to it. You have to do the same as a police captain with the CPD but it doesn’t stop you torturing him, especially since you’re about to be absent from his life for the next couple of days because of a law enforcement conference in LA.

He takes a picture of the underwear sending it to you with the message. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

Don’t care, you respond, it’s the only thing you’ll be fucking over the next few days so have fun with them.

Yea, you’re still pretty pissed he picked up that phone. He could have let it go to voicemail but that sense of duty it’s ingrained into him, it always has been.

It’s not about the sex, he gets that. It’s about the intimacy, about spending time together where the focus is squarely on each other instead of the chaos of your professional lives. Instead he gets to spend the next 24 hours fighting fires when he should be fucking his wife senseless before seeing her off at the airport.

What the fuck is wrong with me? He asks himself before slipping the panties into the top drawer of his desk. It’s like he’s some sort of masochist.

You don’t communicate with him much over the next few days. Just a couple of texts to let him know you landed safely, that you got to your hotel. He knows those law enforcement conferences have a work hard, play hard mentality. You’ll be attending seminars by day, networking over drinks by night, he tries not to focus too much it otherwise he’ll get himself all twisted up. Instead he works on his game plan, how he’s going to make this whole thing up to you.

He's supposed to be on a shift when you get back into Chicago instead you find him waiting for you at the airport with a fully loaded sign that reads Ms Pascal. There’s rainbow bubble writing with glitter, and heart stickers, the full nine yards and the perfect contrast to your no-nonsense husband who still has marker staining his fingertips and gold smeared across his cheek.

“I’m an asshole.” He tells you as you step towards him, your rolling suitcase bouncing on the tiles behind you. “A hopeless workaholic who doesn’t deserve a wife as sexy as you.”

“You are saying all the right things to get back in my good graces.” You tell him as your lace your fingers around his neck and press your mouth to his. He tastes like peppermint from the mints he always keeps in his jacket, the ones he crunches between his teeth because he quit smoking two decades ago but still needs something to take off the edge. His arms wrap around your body, drawing you close, his mouth firm and unrelenting as it claims yours. You moan at the sensation, raising up on tip toes so you can press closer.

“I swear to God, if you tell me you have a shift tonight you will be sleeping on the couch for the rest of your life.” You whisper as his forehead comes to rest upon yours.

“No not tonight, tonight I’m all yours” He rumbles, his thumb trailing over your cheek. “I haven’t touched myself since you left, I wanted to save it for you.”

It’s an act of penance for ruining that perfect day the two of you were planning, you don’t get off, he doesn’t get off. Dom, he’s good like that.

“Oh baby.” You tease, linking your fingers through his as the two of you head towards the parking garage. “I’m not gonna make it easy on you, you know that right? I have a lot of frustration to work out, the handcuffs might even come out to play…”

“Do your worst honey.” He murmurs against your temple, thinking about the silver bracelets he’s already left on the nightstand. “I’m at your mercy tonight.”

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#dom pascal #dom pascal x reader #Dominic Pascal #Dominic Pascal x reader #chicago fire

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trickphotography2 · 8 months ago

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'tis the damn season | Epilogue

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Julie/Cece (OC, no physical description)

Word count: 4.9k

Synopsis: After six years away from home, Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin was finally going to make his parents happy and surprise his family by spending Christmas in Magnolia, Texas. Introducing his pregnant fiancee to his family is a culture clash, with rural Texas meeting California influencer. Though unhappy in his relationship, Jake knows he has to buckle down and do the right thing with a baby on the way.

The last person he expected to run into was his high school sweetheart and the one that got away, Julie.

The holidays are already going to be hard enough for Julie. Her home baking business, which had started as a fun side project, exploded after a few TikToks went viral. Just when she was getting the hang of juggling her job and business, tragedy struck. Facing her first Christmas as an orphan, the last thing Julie expected was to hear that once familiar nickname - Cece.

After almost a decade apart, Jake and Julie can't help but feel that old familiar spark. Even with the realities of their lives pressing in, they can't help but wonder what might have happened if just one of them had fought for their relationship all those years ago.

Chapter 10 | Master List | Ao3

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Epilogue

Jake rolled over and quickly silenced the alarm. The house was quiet, and he half expected Cece to be sleeping. She’d been exhausted over the last few weeks and took every opportunity to nap. But she was awake, thumbnail caught between her teeth as she stared at the ceiling. “C’mere, honey,” he rasped, tugging her so she rolled and rested her head on his chest.

His parents had finally upgraded the bed in his room to a full-sized one, and Jake was surprised he missed the twin. There was a certain nostalgia for coming home and crawling into a small bed, limbs twining together to ensure no one fell off.

Of course, back then, his parents hadn’t known that he was sneaking Cece into the room.

Pressing his lips to the crown of her head, Jake gently pulled her nail from her mouth and rested her hand on his chest. “You sleep at all?” he asked.

“Maybe an hour. Your snoring kept me up.” Her gentle teasing made him feel slightly better.

“Shoulda kicked me.”

“I did.” Her head bounced on his chest when he chuckled, her cold fingers twirling in his chest hair. “We should get moving before your parents get up.”

“Alright,” he grunted, glancing at the time and seeing they’d have to get up soon for chores. “First thing first, though.” He brushed the hair from her face when she hummed, turning so her chin rested on his pec. “Merry Christmas, Cupcake.”

“Merry Christmas, Farm Boy.” Jake smiled tiredly when she moved closer and kissed him. Curling his hand around her cheek, he kissed the tip of her nose before pecking her lips again.

“No matter what,” he said when she started to pull away. “Everything’s gonna be okay.” In the dim light, he could see tears welling in her eyes and kissed her again.

“Promise?”

“Promise.” With a nod, she climbed over him and stepped onto the cold floor, her arms wrapping tightly around herself. The temperature had been dropping steadily overnight, and when he tugged back the curtains, Jake wasn’t surprised to see that a couple of inches of snow had fallen with no sign of stopping. The rustling of a plastic bag had him flicking back the covers. “What me to come with you?”

“No, not for this part. I’ll… I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Alright. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” The floorboards creaked as Cece tiptoed out of the room, and Jake collapsed onto the bed. Sleep tugged at him, but he refused to let his eyes close.

A few minutes later, Cece crept back into the room and pushed the door shut, leaning back against it. “All good?”

“Pretty hard to screw up peeing on a stick,” she replied, tapping the capped white sticks against her thigh. They’d had to drive two towns over to buy them, using the guise of last-minute Christmas shopping.

Even after being gone from Magnolia for two years, they knew the gossip mill would love nothing more than to talk about Jake and Julie Seresin buying pregnancy tests.

While Cece was slightly panicking about possibly having a baby, Jake secretly hoped they had a little one on the way. They had been moving slowly, carefully rebuilding their relationship, and now that they were married, he was ready for the next steps.

After deciding to move to San Diego, it took Cece another two months to get everything wrapped up. Reluctant to sell the house, she’d decided to rent it out and make the decision later. Many of their marathon video calls involved her cleaning the house. It hurt to watch her cry while sorting through her parents' things, trying to decide what to keep and what to donate. Complicating things was her decision to rent a room with someone rather than have her own space, further limiting what she could keep. As much as Jake assured her that they would have plenty of room between the farm and his own place, she wanted to make sure she did things on her own terms. She’d even turned down his offer to rent her a storage locker but later decided to get one and pay for it herself.

From the night she’d told him about the move, Cece was determined to do everything on her terms. Including them getting back together. “We’re gonna date,” she’d told him. “I know my Farm Boy, but I need to find out who Hangman is.”

So they’d taken it slow. His offer to fly out and drive back with her had been kindly declined, as Cece wanted to do the two-day drive solo. Instead, Jake was at her apartment when she drove in from Magnolia, pulling a trailer behind her SUV. He met her roommate, someone Cece had met while working at the hotel, and helped her unpack. While waiting for her business to grow, she returned to working at the hotel as an assistant pastry chef.

But Jake made sure she knew his intentions. Not a day went by when Cece didn’t hear “I can’t wait to marry you” or “When we’re married…”

Between their work schedules, it was hard to find time together. It was torture, knowing that she was so close - in the same damn city - without being able to spend every minute together and waking up without her in his arms every morning. The first time he’d grumbled about it, Cece had kissed him before reminding him that she was trying to establish herself in a new place, and that took time. So he tried to be patient. He kept an overnight bag in his truck to stay at her place and invited her to stay at his whenever she wanted. His spare apartment key was quickly handed over. And when she started baking again, he offered to go with her on deliveries.

Throughout it all, Cece kept posting. She was careful not to catch him on camera, scouring her videos for glimpses of him before posting. Her followers peppered her with questions about their relationship, but she didn’t respond. But one of her fans commented on her video, outing them when they spotted him behind the wheel when Cece dropped off an order.

It wasn’t all work, though. While Cece wanted to explore her new home and find her own spots with the help of friends she made at work, Jake introduced her to some of his. He brought her to some of his favorite restaurants and haunts. And, instead of sitting at home on those nights alone, he forced himself to go out with the Daggers, repairing the friendships he’d neglected while with his ex. He still battled moments of jealousy when they left him in the office to fly. When he was forced to stay at his desk or listen to the cocky new recruits in his lectures without being a part of the team to humble them in the air. Slowly, he was allowed to join them in the gym, and their teasing of how weak he was after taking months off was all the encouragement he needed to push harder.

When the flight surgeon finally cleared him to fly, Cece was his first call. It took all of his willpower not to drop to his knees and propose again when he came home to find her there, having let herself in with the key he’d given her. Leaning against the wall, he watched her dance around his kitchen, headphones in as she cooked his favorite meal. Sneaking up behind her, he glanced at a plate of cookies decorated to look like his jet and his gold wings on the island. She jumped when he wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her from the stove and removing one of her headphones. He ducked his head to press his lips to his favorite spot on the curve of her neck. Felt her relax against him when he murmured against her skin, “Hey, baby.”

“Hey, Hangman,” she replied, resting her hand on his arm and letting her head fall back onto his shoulder. Jake chuckled, running the tip of his tongue over her pulse point and enjoying her shaky inhale.

“It’s Farm Boy to you, Cupcake.” The music started again when he put her headphones on, and he chuckled at hearing a twangy song about a woman approaching a cowboy in a bar. After glancing at the stove to ensure nothing would burn, Jake took another step back and turned her, guiding one arm over his shoulder and holding the other, hips pressing together as he led her in a quick two-step. Cece laughed, eyes sparkling as she sang along.

“Excuse me, you look like you love me. You look like you want me to want you to come on home. And baby, I don't blame you for lookin' me up and down across this room. I'm drunk and I'm ready to leave, and you look like you love me.”

After dinner, Cece met the Daggers for a celebratory drink at the Hard Deck. She was nervous, and Jake fought against her taking his cookies to the bar, but her kiss and promise to make him more somewhat made up for it.

Unsurprisingly, the Daggers loved Cece. They especially loved when he’d snapped back at something Rooster had said, and she’d smacked his chest and scowled, “Be nice, Farm Boy.”

“‘Farm Boy’?” Nat echoed.

“Nope, no one calls me that but her,” Jake said quickly, wrapping an arm around Cece’s waist and pulling her into his chest to kiss her temple. It was worth the teasing about being soft for his girl the next day because it was absolutely true.

“How long is it supposed to take?” Jake murmured as they sat on the floor beside the bed, backs against the mattress.

“Five minutes.” His groan made her chuckle nervously.

“That’s forever.” Cece moved the tests from where they rested on her thigh to the floor, crawling into his lap and burying her face in his neck. His hands slipped under the back of her shirt, holding her tightly. “Talk to me, baby.”

“I’m just nervous. The store opens in a few months, and what if I can’t fill the orders because I’m huge and feel sick all the time?”

“Then we’ll deal with it. You’ve got staff that’ll help.” And she did. Along with a friend from the hotel, Cece was finally taking the plunge and opening her bakery, with her friend also using the space as a coffee shop. Her home bakery company grew quickly - especially after word got around that she offered a discount for first responders, military, and veterans - so much so that Cece had to become more selective with her orders.

The last year had been a whirlwind. With both of their rental leases ending, Jake and Cece had agreed to move in together and had started looking at houses to buy rather than rent. Keeping her business in mind, they’d tried to find a big kitchen before deciding to find a fixer-upper and renovate.

And, after a long, tearful discussion, Cece decided to sell her house in Magnolia. The couple renting it had let her know they were interested in buying, especially with their growing family. So they went home for a week to sign the papers, and Jake felt helpless when Cece sobbed after driving away from the house for the last time.

But that evening, when they’d gone out for a horse ride after dinner and ended up under his favorite tree to watch the sunset, she’d told him it was the right thing to do - her daddy had encouraged her to sell it, and, as much as she wanted to hold onto her childhood home, she knew that she couldn’t move back into that house again. The likelihood of her ever moving back to Magnolia became slimmer with every day she spent in California.

Jake had been absentmindedly playing with her fingers as she talked, his thumb grazing her ring finger. “Hey, Farm Boy?” she sighed, lifting her head from his shoulder. He hummed, turning to brush his lips to her temple. “Wanna get married while we’re home?”

Few things surprised him, but her proposal was one of them. Jake just stared at her for a long moment, mouth opening and closing without uttering a word. Finally, he choked out, “I don’t have your ring.” Smiling, Cece reached into the neck of her shirt and pulled out the chain, revealing her old engagement ring.

“I have it. And yours is in my suitcase.”

“Honey…I… I…” Shaking his head, Jake scrambled to his feet and pulled Cece up. She laughed when he spun her, fingers quickly undoing the necklace clasp and lifting the chain over her head. Sliding the ring into his palm, he spun her back around and sank to one knee, holding her left hand in his. “I thought I’d have more time to figure out what I wanted to say - ”

“We can wait,” Cece grinned, gently pulling her hand away. Jake tightened his grip, not allowing her to move an inch.

“Not a chance, Cupcake. Just gimme…gimme one second.” Staring up at her, he swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, blinking away tears. Her smile softened, and she lifted her free hand to run her fingers through his hair. His eyes fluttered closed as he leaned into her touch. “I love you, Julie Louise,” he rasped.

Movement forced his eyes open, and Jake watched as Cece knelt before him, cupping his cheek and drawing him closer. Her lips brushed his before curving into a smile. “Yes.” Tears clung to her lashes, her chin wobbling before she cleared her throat. “I don’t need a fancy speech or promises. We did that before. Just promise me I’ll have you forever.”

“I promise,” he breathed. After slipping the ring back onto her finger, Jake tugged her into his lap and kissed her hard, slowly lowering her onto the ground.

Plans came together quickly. Given that he was in the military, they were able to waive the 72-hour waiting period. But what they imagined as a trip to the county clerk's office was derailed when word of their engagement spread across Magnolia like wildfire. Jake and Cece couldn’t go into town without someone stopping and congratulating them on finally working things out. Even Betty Roberts offered them her blessing, saying that Julie’s parents were surely working some magic upstairs to get them back together again.

Cece had only smiled graciously at that, her fingers squeezing Jake’s hard enough that he had to keep himself from flinching.

Mama and Lucy spearheaded throwing the wedding together in three days. Determined to make sure that they were celebrated appropriately, the two women quickly promised Cece that the only thing she needed to worry about was finding her dress and baking the cake when she tried to stop the fuss. Jake, meanwhile, was roped into renting a hall in town for a small reception after he was stopped a few too many times by firefighters who had worked with Cece’s daddy, none too subtly implying that he needed to do right by Cece and it’s what her daddy would have wanted.

But the biggest surprise was when Ally and Will missed family dinner the Friday night before the wedding. Mama and Pops had gone upstairs to try and get Tyler down for bed, leaving Jake and Cece alone to finish their wedding cake. Jake was more of a hindrance than a help as he crowded into her space and continuously snuck tastes of the frosting and cake shavings. It was just past eleven when lights flashed in the yard, followed by loud voices. Distracted by licking the frosting from Cece’s neck as she piped thin strands of frosting and figured out where she’d put flowers in the morning, he didn’t hear it until she pushed him away and went to investigate. “Jake,” she breathed, eyes wide when she turned away from the window to look back at him. “Go get the door.”

His parents stood on the stairs, barely suppressed smiles on their faces. Flicking on the porch light, Jake opened the door and felt his jaw drop when he saw the Dagger squad piling out of a fleet of cars. “Didn’t think you were gonna get married without us, did you?” Coyote laughed, pulling him into a hug.

Which was why, after a morning of watching the idiots struggle with basic chores and almost getting kicked by the cows, Jake drove the truck out to his tree with his buddies in the bed. They set up chairs while Cece and the women worked on the hall. Once everything was set up, Jake retreated to Will’s house to shower and change while Cece got ready at the main house. Rather than wear his uniform, Jake pressed his button-up shirt and jeans before cleaning his boots. The casual clothes earned him some teasing from his friends as they put on their dress whites, but he didn’t care. They would die in the Texas heat in all that Navy Twill while he married the girl of his dreams.

The ceremony was short, and Jake would be hard-pressed to remember their vows. But the image of Cece walking up the makeshift aisle on Pop’s arm, a bouquet of grocery-store flowers in her hand, and wearing a simple white sundress with her own pair of boots was something he’d never forget. The judge, a friend of her daddy’s, was happy to give up his Saturday afternoon to officiate. Other than a goodnatured jab - “I now - finally - pronounce you man and wife” - there was no comment on how long it had taken them to get to this moment.

While everyone else picked up the chairs, Jake and Cece escaped. They had a stop to make on their way to the reception - they needed to pay their respects to her parents. The cemetery was just outside town, and after laying flowers on their grave, Jake sat and pulled Cece into his lap. “I wish they were here today,” she said softly.

“Me too. Your mama would have been gloating along with mine.”

“Daddy would’ve asked me if I wanted to make a quick getaway.” When he squeezed her sides, she giggled before kissing him. “I woulda turned him down.”

“Good. Cause I woulda come after you, Mrs. Seresin.” Cece scrunched her nose.

“I’m gonna have to get used to that. Makes me think your Mama’s around.”

“That right, Mrs. Seresin?” Jake smirked, pressing his lips to the curve of her neck. “I can work with that.”

After another few minutes, Cece pushed to her feet and reached down to help him up. “We should get going. They can’t start the party without us.” Jake let her lead him to the rental car, turning and making a silent promise to her parents that he’d take care of her.

“That’s gotta be five minutes,” Jake murmured. Cece tensed, refusing to lift her head from his shoulder. “Want me to look?” At her continued silence, he sighed. “Honey.”

“I know.” Slowly, she lifted her head, tears glistening on her cheeks. Cupping her face, he ran his thumbs under her eyes and guided her forehead to rest against his.

“We’re gonna be okay, no matter what.”

“I know. I just... I wish my Mama and Daddy were here.” His arms wrapped around her waist, crushing her to his chest. “It feels… different this time.”

His heart swooped as his stomach dropped. Jake hated that Cece had gone through two pregnancy scares without him and knew that she missed her parents at significant moments. But the idea that this time was different made him feel a little hope that their family of two might grow in a few months. “I know, baby. I wish they were here, too.” And as much as he was itching to pick up those tests, he was happy to wait until his wife was ready.

Eventually, she pulled away and wiped at her face. “Alright.” Crawling off his lap, Cece flicked on the bedside lamp and settled beside Jake. Reaching over him, she grabbed both pregnancy tests and handed him one with the results face down. “On the count of three?” At his nod, she took a deep breath. “One… two… three.”

Pregnant

Jake grinned. He turned and looked at the test in her hand, showing she was pregnant. Tears streamed down her face, and she brought a hand up to stifle a sob. “Julie, we’re gonna have a baby.” Nodding, she flung herself into his arms and cried. “Hey,” he cooed, rubbing her back. “We’re gonna be okay, honey. I promise.”

“I-I’m happy, I s-wear,” she gasped. Pulling away, Cece smiled down at his blinding grin. “We’re g-gonna be p-parents.”

“You’re gonna be a mama.” The words made her gasp, and Jake managed to get them back into bed, holding her tightly as she sobbed. “It’s alright, honey.” And as much as he wanted to touch her stomach, to feel where their little one was growing, Jake didn’t want to push it. So he held his wife - the mother of his child - until her tears turned into hiccups. When the alarm went off the second time, he reluctantly let her go and tapped the phone to silence it. Cece sniffled, tucking herself closer to him. “How’re you feeling, sweetheart?”

“‘M okay… tired.” Nodding, he brushed a kiss to her forehead and squeezed her tightly.

“Why don’t you take it easy this morning? Sleep in for a bit.”

“Gotta make breakfast.” Even as she said it, her eyes remained closed.

“Mama can put the casserole in, and you made the scones last night. Relax. Take care of yourself and our little one.” A hint of a smile tugged at her mouth, and Jake felt himself relax at the sight. When her hand drifted down to rest on her stomach lightly, he took that as permission to do the same.

“‘M scared but ‘m happy,” she whispered again.

“Me too.” Slowly, her eyes opened and met his, and he couldn’t help but grin. “Best Christmas present ever.” A tired smile graced her lips, and she shook her head.

“Can we keep it just between us for now?”

“Yeah,” he agreed quickly, as much as he wanted to shout the news from the rooftop.

Getting Cece to stay in bed only took a little more convincing. Jake felt her eyes on him as he dressed, and he climbed back in to kiss her, one hand resting on her stomach. Only the sound of his parents' footsteps in the hall and the call to “get a move on, son” forced him out of the room.

Even the bite of the cold and the sting of snowflakes pelting his face couldn’t dampen Jake’s happiness. And as soon as the last cow was put back into the barn to shelter from the snow, he was hurrying back inside to check on Cece. He found her in the living room, Tyler sleeping curled on her chest as she dozed on the couch. The sight of the toddler in his wife’s arms, his towhead tucked under her chin and his thumb in his mouth, made him ache. “Ally said she’d help Mama if I watched him,” she said softly.

“I’m surprised he’s still sleeping and didn’t check to see if S-A-N-T-A came,” he chuckled, glancing over at the presents stacked under the tree. But she pushed against his chest and wrinkled her nose when he leaned down to kiss her.

“Would you…uh… mind showering first?” Laughing, he kissed his fingertips before pressing them to her forehead.

“Gonna get you under the mistletoe for a do-over, Cupcake.”

“Count on it, Farm Boy,” she smirked. “Once you don’t smell like a cow.”

Less than an hour later, they stood in the kitchen, Cece leaning back against Jake as he leaned against the counter. She held their shared plate of French toast casserole and the orange cranberry scones while his arm wrapped around her waist, thumb tucked into her sweatpants and lightly pressing against her stomach. Jake watched Will and Ally at the table, trying to get Ty to eat breakfast now that he’d spotted the presents. Every time the kid looked toward the living room, his brother cupped his cheek and blew a raspberry, turning his head back to his mother. Tyler shrieked with laughter, face a mess of syrup and half-eaten bread, while Ally huffed and tried not to smile.

Jake thought that could be them in a year, pulling his wife closer.

As soon as Pops came downstairs from his shower, he clapped his hands. “Whose ready for presents?” he boomed. Tyler squealed, throwing up his dirty hands toward his grandpop, who scooped him out of his chair. Mama quickly cleaned Tyler’s hands and face, wiping some syrup from Pops’ face as well.

Jake and Cece sat on the couch, watching Tyler open his gifts as they sipped their coffee. They made the appropriate noises with each gift as the adults unwrapped theirs.

When it came time for them, Jake was surprised when Mama handed them each a light package and told them to open them at the same time. At first, he was confused about why she would have knitted him a light blue sweater until he realized it was a little blanket. Cece had a pink one, her wide eyes flitting to meet his. The blankets were pretty and clearly took a lot of time to make. “Getting a bit ahead of yourself, aren’t you?” Jake asked, forcing a laugh.

Mama just shrugged and gave them a knowing smile. “Had a dream a couple of months ago. Pops and I were visiting you in California with Julie’s folks, and her mama and I were getting ready for a first birthday party.”

“Got somethin’ to share with the family?” Will asked, his eyes darting between the two. He and Ally had been gifted a blanket a couple of months before letting the family know Tyler was on the way - and, unbeknownst to them, another baby blanket was sitting under the tree, waiting to be unwrapped.

“Nope,” Cece croaked before clearing her throat and blinking back tears. The idea of her Mama and Daddy being at a party for their baby made it hard to speak. “Nothing yet. And besides, as pretty as this one is, you know we’d end up using this one.” Reaching out, she lightly stroked the blue blanket - after all, everyone knew the Seresins had boys. There hadn’t been a girl in generations.

“You never know - the odds are 50/50,” Ally quipped. “Maybe Mama’s hedging her bets.”

“Maybe,” Mama smirked.

Seven short months later, Jake smiled down at his son while walking around the hospital room. Just a few hours old, he looked like a grumpy little man, nose scrunched like his mama’s. He looked so tiny in his arms, and Jake swallowed hard.

A grunting noise made him turn in time to see Cece reaching into the bassinet. She grimaced slightly at the movement, and he quickly strode over. “Here, take him. I’ll get her.”

“I can do it,” she huffed.

“Lemme take care of my girls.” Shaking her head, Cece relaxed back against the pillows and held her son, sighing when he started to root against her breast. “Looks like he’s hungry.”

“I’m sure she will be in a second.”

“Well, Daddy’ll distract her while you take care of brother,” Jake grinned, lifting his daughter from the bassinet. She’d gotten her pink hat off while sleeping, revealing wispy hair that looked just like her mama’s. Unable to stop himself, he pulled his phone from his back pocket and snapped a picture of his little girl - it probably looked just like the other fifty he’d taken of her in the last couple of hours, but it didn’t matter.

Despite his best attempts, she started crying and wouldn’t be soothed by her daddy cooing at her. Jake carried her back to Cece. “He’s not done yet,” she said, glancing between the babies. Her free breast ached at the sound of her daughter’s screeching, and milk beaded on her nipple. Too tired to figure out the logistics of feeding the twins alone, they called for a nurse who helped Cece get the babies situated on a nursing pillow. Once both babies were latched, she quietly slipped out of the room.

“Damn,” Jake breathed, carefully sitting on the bed next to her, afraid to jostle anyone.

“Make one joke about cows, I dare you,” Cece said, dropping her head back onto the pillows and fighting the urge to shift away from the uncomfortable tugging sensation in her breasts.

“Never crossed my mind,” he assured her. Dropping his arm across her shoulders, Jake leaned over to kiss his wife. “I love you so damn much, Cupcake,” he murmured against her lips.

“Love you too, Farm Boy.”

For just this moment, Jake was able to ignore his buzzing phone demanding updates. He didn’t hear the voices in the hallway or worry that they’d left the house a mess when Cece had woken him in the middle of the night when her water broke. That he needed to make sure his paternity leave was submitted. That they needed to make sure her business partner knew her maternity leave was officially started.

All that mattered to Jake was that his whole world was safe in his arms.

His perfect family of four.

And that was enough.

---------------------------------------

Author's Note: This chapter was very bittersweet to write. I didn't expect for this fic to take so long to write, but I've loved every moment of it - from the brainstorming with May after seeing set picks from Twisters, to actually writing, to seeing your reactions to it.

There are parts that I didn't get to include, like Pops giving Jake and Cece the part of the property with his tree, so they'd always have roots in Magnolia. And Jake and Cece coming home with the twins over the summer to help paint the house when they're a bit older, and four Seresin kiddos chasing fireflies in the field (Ally and Will had another boy). I didn't include the names for the twins, but their middle names are Cece's parents.

As always, thank you so much for taking the time to read my story. I appreciate you so much. And I'm always happy to revisit these two if you ever want to see more of them.

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queenmelodis · 4 months ago

Text

Animal HRT - Two articles that changed the world.

(before I begin, content warning for a fictionalised bigoted newspaper article, and disclaimer that this is all fiction)

The following is a newspaper article in a lesser-known local broadsheet. It was not particularly widely-read, except for by other journalists for big newspapers looking for a scoop of their own. Little did the author know, this was the very first article about therian HRT to release in general news, and would indirectly cause the beginning of a period of fear and trepidation for those undergoing these treatments. Which is a shame, because the original journalist seemed very progressive and accepting for the most part.

New Horizons - A deep dive into those undergoing a radical new medical procedure.

By Vanessa M.

Part 1 - The Sighting

“Vanessa”, the portly gentleman I call ‘boss’ asked to me, globules of spittle flinging themselves in my general direction, “Why is it that I saw a bleedin’ werewolf on my way to work?”

“Um? A werewolf? I don’t know, sir, why do you ask?” I balked, unsure whether this was supposed to be a test or not.

“Gah,” he sighed, putting a palm to his creased, sweaty forehead, “Me eyes don’t work like they used to, but I know it was there. I was close to ‘em. But you, you’re young and spry, so I want you to be our… investigative journalist for this one.”

I gaped for just a moment before composing myself.

“You’re putting me on a case? Thank you, sir, I’ll get right to it and get you a story!” I couldn’t hide the smile on my face.

“Ah, grand,” he said gruffly, shaking my hand, “make it a good one too. Readership isn’t great at the moment.”

“Right…” As I slinked out of the office door, I heard the flick of a lighter and a mutter.

The high street wasn’t exactly bustling this time of day as I headed down… nor was it really bustling any time of day.

Where once proud department stores stood, shuttered shops stretched far, interspersed with the odd betting shop, kebab joint, and Turkish barbers’.

I walked briskly past the few groups of drunks that were dotted along the pavements, ignoring the hollers and cat calls made not to me but to a passing car most likely - I keep my head firmly down walking through here, not wanting to attract any unsavoury attention or associate myself with it in case of patrolling police officers.

I kept my pace, slowing only to let a stray plastic bag slowly amble its way across my path, until I reached the outskirts of the town, where this so-called ‘werewolf’ was last seen.

And so, I waited. The sun continued to slowly wheel its way around the sky as I accosted random passersby with the question “excuse me, have you seen… a werewolf, or any form of furry humanoid, pass by here recently?” The most common responses were either a confused glance, a handwave and a ‘sorry’, or an attempt to pretend they hadn’t seen or heard me.

A couple of hours in, however, as I was starting to lose hope, I received a peculiar answer: a narrowing of the eyes, a pull to one side, and a low ask of, “why?... Are you a cop?”

“H-huh?” Flabbergasted, I could not speak for a moment. I had to quickly try and regain my composure. “No?” That was probably a failure.

A spark of recognition, however, flashed across the person’s eyes, and I could see he was a small but stockily built man with a slightly unkempt face, and clothing that reminded me of a scene kid from a decade ago. “Oh. Ohhhh… Are you, uh…” He proceeded to wave his hands around in what looked like a type of… gang sign? It was a bisected circle and a triangle - which I recognised from my old Classics course as a theta and delta.

I didn’t know what the modern meaning was, but… this could be my only chance to find out what’s going on. I knew I didn’t have time or the possibility to question or falter at this moment. This could be a breakthrough, and after hours of nothing I was getting desperate. So, in what was perhaps not the best idea ethically in retrospect, I just said “yes.”

And that, dear readers, is how I ended up unintentionally infiltrating the Therian Community.

Part 2 - A Community

We established a bit of a rapport after that. For the sake of privacy, I will refer to him by a fake name - Keith.

“Sorry about the intimidation earlier - she’s kind of vulnerable at the moment, and I…” Keith looked somberly to the ground, clearly an empathetic man, “I don’t want her suffering any more than she already is…”

That was the point where I started to think ‘what have I gotten myself into?’ There were a lot of questions I wanted to ask in that moment. Her? This werewolf is a person? And, suffering any more? What’s going wrong?

I asked if it would be possible to see her one day - see if I could help, perhaps. He said he’d consider it. Naturally, I gave out a fake name and my journalistic burner number. I then asked if there was a way to keep in contact outside of that, and apparently there’s a small online community which he invited me to! Jackpot.

Before I decided to go any further, I wanted to do a little research.

In brief, this ‘theta-delta’ sign is not, in fact, a gang sign, but one for ‘therians’, a community of people that identify with animals, to some extent, and would rather be an animal than a human. The kind of animal you are is known as your ‘theriotype’ or ‘kintype’. Some of them wear costumes, some role-play, and some enjoy it sexually.

I did my research, and created a fake little profile - I picked my favourite animal, the skunk, and joined. Let me tell you, I’ve never had a more friendly welcome to any group ever than I did at this one. They accepted my fake persona entirely and treated her with absolute kindness.

And there were all sorts of people here. Cats, dogs, reptiles, cows… dragons? I was surprised by how diverse this phenomenon was - a lot of them were in the LGBTQ+ community, many were from minority or disabled communities, and many were neurodiverse or even something called ‘plural’ which seemed to be similar to Dissociative Identity Disorder?

I wanted to make sure I didn’t come across as suspicious or journalist-y, and while I did record all conversations, I won’t be revealing any names or identities, as it would obviously put these people at risk. Asking questions in a more friendly banter sense, I did get some answers.

“I suppose it’s a spiritual thing for me” said one of them, a friendly fox-man, “I feel a sense of kinship with foxes. I behave like one, and I dream of them. Sometimes it feels like I’m in the wrong body - I get phantom limb in my tail, too.”

“It’s my ideal form!” Said another, a goat person, “Who’d want to be human anyway? Sounds boring!”

I later learnt that this so-called ‘werewolf’ was actually a lemur girl. But here’s the kicker. She is on a treatment program to actually turn herself into a lemur. And I’m not talking about plastic surgery that breaks your bones and transplants butt hair and makes you look like Johnny Rotten at 200% punk. I’m talking about a real treatment program that transforms her on a genetic level. There’s a clinic on the ‘dark web’ that lets you start that procedure, which is officially listed as a clinical trial of various types of skin cream. That’s where this story, this journalistic opportunity, went from a piece about a strange community of people, to perhaps the scoop of my lifetime. How has this not been reported on before?

Apparently, this clinic, run by a ‘Dr. Erian’, running semi-legally, can prescribe you a treatment plan with only a few hoops needing to be jumped through. This worried me. I’d heard horror stories about people travelling to other countries to take on cheap cosmetic surgeries with fewer hoops to jump through and things being completely botched before. And the people taking this treatment are of so many different ages, from school-children to older adults. Are they being scammed? Are they in danger?

And thus, with this line of questioning, I decided to book an appointment with this ‘Dr. Erian’. I don’t think that’s his real name, however, as the profile gathered for him doesn’t line up with any birth records I could dig up. I got an appointment surprisingly quickly, only having to wait a few days. And those days were some of the most stressful of my career, and I’ve been at crime scenes and war zones.

I had to ask myself ‘how do I get answers out of this guy?’ I got the feeling that he wouldn’t have been particularly receptive to an interview if I told him I was a journalist. Getting the information I needed but not having him kick me out, or stop talking, or worse, turn me into some kind of animal, was going to be a huge challenge, but it was what I had to do.

Before the appointment itself, Keith recontacted me to say I could meet with the lemur girl. I prepared myself for another tricky interview.

Part 3 - Face to face

A few days passed, and it was time to meet with this lemur girl, ‘Kayla’ (not her real name). The day was bright, and I brought along some pastries and snacks from the local bakery to break the ice a bit.

I walked slowly, nervously across the town to a small apartment block in an average area. Normal human people walked around; I felt their presence drilling into me like they knew I was hiding something. I stood, finger hovering by the doorbell, for what felt like hours. I was about to step foot into a whole different world, and I froze.

And then she opened the door, and I could do nought but stare. She was almost like out of a fantasy novel. Fur covered huge patches of her body, rich whites, blacks, and greys. A furred tail hung behind her, swishing left and right. No socks on, her feet were like long hands, fidgeting with the carpet fibres. I describe the bottom first, because, well, she was shorter than me by quite some margin. Hoer slightly oversized head craned up to mine, giving an expectant gaze.

“Yes?” A slightly squeaky voice asked. I stammered out a quick apology, and said Keith had told me to see her, and she softened, asking if I was the one interested in ‘the treatment’, and that she know “that wishful gaze you gave me” well. On the inside, I was confused, but I just chalked it up to nerves.

She offered me tea, and set about making it. Her face was mostly furred except for patches without on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose - now more of a short snout, ending in a wet dark point. Almost glowing, her yellow irises searched the kitchenette. Fluffy, white, round ears poked up out of her grey head-hair which was tied into a high ponytail.

Using her hands and feet, both with opposable thumbs, she climbed onto the kitchen counter, filling up the kettle with two hands and grabbing mugs dexterously with her left foot, while her tail wrapped around a cupboard handle. Her whole kitchen routine was so elegant and awe-inspiring, and she shone so brightly while doing it. You can tell when someone is so happy it radiates out into the world filling it with colour for everyone else. Her tail uncoiled as she moved and waved, coiling again to another cupboard handle to keep balance. It was breathtaking.

After the tea was done, we started to talk. I explained that I was still new to the community, that I wanted to know more about Therians, how she knew what was right for her, and about Dr. Erian and the process. I tried to come across as someone who was innocently asking these questions, and I guess either my acting skills were great, or there was more to myself than I knew.

She asked whether a skunk ‘felt right’ to me. I said I wasn’t sure, and she asked whether it was because I could be a hybrid of some sort. I wasn’t aware that was even a possibility - apparently yes! It’s not just animals and dragons; there are also hybrids, slimes, fictional species, eldritch beings, and more. Even though the numbers of people undergoing this treatment is in two digits, the variety is more than I could even imagine. I stammered out ‘maybe kangaroo?’ and we carried on.

How did you find out about yourself? I asked. And the answer she gave was very enlightening. She said, tail almost wagging, that she first saw lemurs at a zoo when she was five. She stayed with them for the whole day, something feeling right. Like she belonged with them.

The pure authenticity and emotion in her voice and body language cannot be understated. And while it took her a long time after that to understand her feelings and that she wanted to be one, I could tell that with every fibre of her being, she really did feel like, maybe even was, a lemur.

“Of course, yes, they’re cute and sweet,” she told me, “but to me… it’s more than that. It’s a form of being.”

I said - “I’m guessing, then, that as soon as you heard of this Dr. Erian bloke, you were right on it.”

“That’s right!” she chirped, “I’m not the first, but I am an ‘early adopter’, to use that term. Half a year later, here I am! Finally the real me. Yeah, primate HRT is quicker than other mammals, and other animals too.”

She remained still for a moment, and I knew not to interrupt.

“The interview’s pretty simple. Convince him this is what you’ve always wanted. He’ll ask you if you’ve lived as your preferred species for a year or two. Fabricate some evidence for that, he doesn’t look too deeply. Stay strong, my friend.”

The process is apparently very strange. A mix of surgeries, hormone therapy, and gene editing over the course of months if not years. Watching your own skin change colour and grow thick fur or scales, or something else. Feeling your bones and limbs shift around, grow new ones, or have them wither away. Experiencing your whole body grow or shrink. It all sounds terrifying. You can’t deny the dedication of these people, and their bravery.

But she seemed so happy about it, saying that the pain and hassle was all worth it.

Our meeting did eventually have to end, and we bid farewell on good terms. It was at this point I began to feel pretty bad about the whole thing. I’m fine with talking to Dr. Erian, but… lying to these people leaves a sour taste in my mouth. These are marginalised outcasts for whom the one bit of hope they were looking for has finally arrived. What if my reporting contributes to something bad? But, I suppose my job does hang in the balance. Whatever happens, it was now time for me to meet with the infamous Dr. Erian.

Part 4 - Man of New Medicine

The infamous Doctor himself is located in [REDACTED]. Turning off the M25, I drive [REDACTED] and, realising that I’d held my breath for about fifteen minutes, I turned left into the clinic. It’s not a particularly fancy place - there’s no signage or anything, and the front just looks like someone’s house. But I knocked, sweatily, not knowing whether this would be my last knock or the beginning of a new journey. A few nerve-wracking seconds follow. And then, I hear it. A shuffle, then a cough, a sigh, and the door opening. And there he was. Wrinkles on his face beneath his glasses, a bushy moustache emulating that of Nigel Mansell at the front, and wispy strands on top the only stars in the void of hair between the graying sides behind his ears. A white doctor’s coat over tweed framed a beerbelly, situated in the center of his short, chubby body. Not the look I expected from a scientist and doctor in charge of a revolutionary new therapy. Holding a mug of lukewarm coffee designed with the familiar theta-delta sign, he gestured for me to come in.

Having sat down, I stared awkwardly at my own mug of coffee that he’d given me. It seems he wanted to give me the floor. But, for all of my journalistic training, for all of the advice I’d been given, for the script I’d made which I tried to memorise, I just froze at that moment. Was it his piercing gaze? The elderly-style room filled with decor that seems to have eyes that follow you around the room, judging you? The wallpaper, intricately detailed and patterned with - eyes? Who is this guy? Or, wait, is it just me seeing things?

“So, skunk, huh?”

I was dropped out of my stupor by that casual comment from the man. “Oh, um, yes. That’s what I was… hoping for.” Some of my confidence had been restored, but I just wasn’t in the groove yet.

“Look. It takes a lot of effort for someone to find my services - a lot of effort,” he repeated, “to go through, to seek it out, to search for someone who can recommend you, to fill in the form, even to come here. So, if you’re serious about this, which you have to be to go through all of those steps, I’d like you to open up a little more. We can do this more casually. This isn’t a job interview where I’m analyzing your handshake and posture, but I do need to find out what route is best for you.” Leaning back, he pushed up his glasses with his index finger, them reflecting the light from his weak sepia-toned incandescent bulb, concealing his eyes in the light.

I recentred myself with a few breathing exercises, slipped back into the persona I had crafted, and began. I told him about the desire to be a skunk my whole life, that I felt a strange kinship with them, everything that I’d been told before repeated through my mouth. We went on, me telling him exactly what my friends had said to, him asking me simple questions, easy peasy. I didn’t even make any jokes about skunks being smelly or farting. Then came the first obstacle.

Have you spent time living as your preferred species? Yes, I said. He asked for proof, but this is where I decided to go into journalism mode, and ask him something. Why is that required? He gave a sigh, and provided what I wanted.

“Technically, you don’t need it. And I’m well aware that not only is it impossible to really do so - given that in order to even make an appointment with me, you’d have to participate in society: something that you can’t really do if you’re properly living as an animal. The question’s more like a test. I know that most people lie, but it’s how they lie that’s interesting. Do they dress up? Act like an animal in public? Private? And so on. It’s just… interesting.”

We carried on after that for a little longer, until I reached the second of my journalistic questions. Are these procedures safe? Where did you get them from?

“There is a risk to any procedure. Anyone who has experience with transgender hormone replacement treatment, for example, knows it increases the risk of certain cancers. Therian hormone replacement therapy is much the same, except radically different in almost every way. And the process is elementary, my dear, um.” The man let out a light cough. “Simply take the essence of what that person feels on the inside, and let the medications do the trick for the outside! With certain species, surgeries are needed, especially when it comes to vertebrae - and the physical therapy is part of it too, but for the most part, it isn’t ridiculously complicated!”

I noticed he didn’t answer me on where the research from this came from, but I wasn’t sure how to tell him that without arousing suspicion. If he was dodging questions already then that might be a bad sign. Or was it that he just didn’t remember I’d asked? I tried a slightly alternative angle. “So what, is it like CRISPR or something?”

“I’m afraid it’s classified information, but you’ll feel it once you’ve…” He seemed to be lost in thought for a few moments, “started the treatment.”

A wall pushed down on my head. I righted myself and pushed further against it. “How many people are in your care?”

“Oh, many. A hundred, officially? Maybe a few more.” He lowered his head, the light reflecting off his glasses obscuring his eyes from me. “But who’s counting?”

I felt the wall’s pressure even more. Was I starting to buckle? Beads of sweat formed at my forehead. “Are they all animals or are some of them, um… fictional… creatures?”

“Oh, it’s ever so varied. Perhaps you’ve seen the results of some of my work, but there are others; others so beautifully different to everything we thought we knew about nature.” He let out a hearty chuckle. “We don’t need to constrain ourselves to what’s real any more. People can be whoever, or whatever, they want to be.”

“A-anything?”

“Anything.”

I stayed silent for a long time after that, eyes wide and unfocused, mouth hanging somewhat limply open. The wall pressed upon my hunched back.

“I’ve heard,” the Doctor broke the silence with a hoarse, crackly voice, “many peoples’ worries and trepidations over the years. People worry about the danger the treatment poses to them, and the danger they might pose to others. But I trust that my patients will do the right thing. Now all that’s left is for me to trust you. Are you sure you want to be a skunk? That you want to go on this journey? And that you can keep yourself safe and sane until you have finished?” Upon saying this, he leaned forward, eyes drilling into mine.

The wall pushed and pushed, my back creaking under the pressure, until it all let go at once. I had decided my next plan of action. Of course, it’s all fairly straightforward. I was just here as an information-gatherer, and I’d found out quite a lot. The idea intrigued me, and perhaps in the ultimate journalistic sacrifice I should go through with it - though I’d certainly demand a higher salary to do so. But I needed time to think. To process everything.

“No.”

In retrospect, it was a simple answer, but perhaps the most difficult no I’ve had to make in my life.

—

And that was the end of the article. But not the end of the story. After this got published, a few days later another article was found in a national tabloid. It had poached items from this story without the consent of the author, and was eventually taken down, but the damage was done. Because instead of a deep and emotional look into one author’s journey down the rabbit hole of knowledge, it was merely a bigoted hit-piece against a newly forming marginalized community. Little did either of the authors know, that these two articles would be the first dominoes that brought about something much greater.

This is an extract from the tabloid article in question.

The new woke claiming to be ANIMALS, DRAGONS and FICTIONAL CREATURES, and worse, taking risky surgeries to become more DANGEROUS predators.

In a bizarre and disturbing twist of fate, there are people taking dangerous medical procedures on taxpayer money to turn themselves into disgusting animals.

“The woke left are finally showing their true colours”, a disgruntled co-worker of one of these so-called ‘therians’ said to our reporter. “My employee enters my fast food establishment and she’s covered in fur. Probably flea-ridden too.”

A story in the local news of the town of [REDACTED] was brought to our attention by our reporter. He contacted the author of this article but she declined to comment.

This reporter’s boss was almost brought to his knees by the sighting of a savage beast roaming the streets. But instead of a bigfoot rumour, this was once a human whom the author calls ‘Kayla’ - but as an exclusive, we managed to find her real name, which will be revealed at the end of this article.

The reporter meets with Kayla, while pretending to be one of them, and is directed to the literal Frankenstein that conducted all of these procedures. It is revealed that not only do they ‘fabricate evidence’ of what seems to be a case of ‘species dysmorphia’ in order to get the surgeries they want, the doctor knows that and still goes ahead with these dangerous procedures anyway.

“You don’t need [proof of species dysmorphia]... I know that most people lie.” He told the reporter.

“There is a risk” he later says, regarding the procedure itself, which often takes months if not years and can be incredibly painful and debilitating, meaning patients often have to get themselves classified as disabled and live off the benefits our taxpayer money is spent on. Similarly to “transgender hormone replacement treatment… it increases the risk of…cancers.”

The doctor himself even confesses that he and patients are worried about “the danger that [those very patients] pose to others”, but that he simply “trusts them to do the right thing”. He says that people can, and should, be “whoever, or whatever, they want to be.”

This man is not only creating dangerous creatures that are then let loose into society, he is trusting them to make their own decisions. How long will it be before one of these ‘therians’ murders or preys upon an innocent child? How can we protect our own families from those that seek to turn themselves into the very predators that used to lurk in the shadows of our ancestors, waiting to pounce and eat them? We at this newspaper urge the government to stop this madness before it is too late.

The real names of the people involved are as follows:

—

This was the second article written about therians. And things only got worse from there. While Dr. Erian’s real name was not found out or spilled, Vanessa and Kayla were targeted. Therians were outraged that Vanessa’s article would find its way into the national news as a hit piece. While some directed their anger at Vanessa herself, some were supportive of her. Kayla fled her home, and is now reported as being on the local missing person’s registrar. Keith was sentenced to minor community service after finding this out and assaulting Vanessa, who later moved away from her hometown after losing her job. Erian still works at his practice. The world is in a slightly more unstable place now, with public knowledge of therians pretty much guaranteed.

The first government debate about the existence and classification of therians is just around the corner. This could be a pivotal moment in the history of mankind, and I for one am not sure which way the pendulum will swing.

#animal hrt #writing #creative writing #therian hrt #furry hrt #journalism #lemur

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boy-comics · 2 months ago

Text

HOME SICK

── .✦ pairing; jungsu x gn!reader

── .✦ summary; home is a complicated word.

── .✦ word count; ~6.0k

── .✦ tags; alcohol use, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, fluff, small town romance, childhood best friends to lovers, not actually unrequited love, seungmom™, momsu™, the mortifying idea of being known

── .✦ a/n; still alive!!! happy valentine's day everyone n just know that i am sending you all a big heart <3

Stifled and sweaty inside your layers of winter wear, the heat in the car turned up to the max, you sit boneless in the passenger seat and wish for the summer.

"We missed you, you know," Seungmin says behind the wheel. He seems unfazed by the temperature, not a drop of sweat on his brow. "Now we'll get to hang out again like we used to."

You hum.

The reason the heat is still blasting is because you had told Seungmin earlier that the plane was freezing. Telling him that it's too hot now feels like an inconvenience, and you don't feel like removing your coat.

"I visited in September," you say.

Your cousin sniffs loudly, the telltale sign that he's about to start nagging. "That was three months ago," he says, "and you've called maybe twice since then." You lean against the window, closing your eyes when the cold glass sticks to the side of your head. "And you mostly slept the whole time. Plus, you completely avoided Jungsu, who didn't even know you were visiting home—"

You keep your eyes firmly closed when his name comes up. "Does he know what happened?"

"I didn't tell him …" He trails off, and your heart sinks before he even continues. "But … Auntie must've, because he confronted me about it last week. I'm sorry. You know how your mom is." His tone is softly apologetic as you exhale. "He was pretty hurt you didn't tell him yourself."

You know.

That had been your plan, telling Jungsu. But the shame hasn't eased like you had hoped, and before you knew it, two weeks had passed and it currently roils in your stomach along with guilt when you think about seeing Jungsu in person now.

You just didn't want him to know you're a failure.

"Maybe this is for the best." Seungmin turns into the exit, calm despite the flurries of snow flying into the windshield. The roads have long since been salted and you think you can feel each chunk being ground to dust underneath the tires. "Think of it as a time to finally rest? All you did for the past two years was work."

"I got laid off right before the holidays, Seungmin. This isn't really a vacation."

His eyes dart over to meet yours for a split second before you look out at the snow-covered fields blurring by.

Seungmin sighs a little. His hand finds your shoulder, patting it through the winter layers.

"I know. Just trying to help."

That's all anyone in this town ever does, you think, the sounds of the heater and the rumble of the tires taking over what's left of the conversation.

—

Your childhood bedroom is the same as you had left it. Well, mostly; the decade-old bedsheets have since been cleaned, and there are fresh tracks in the carpet from when your mother had vacuumed earlier today. You leave your suitcases and bags by your desk to unpack later.

"Auntie told me to stay for dinner," Seungmin tells you, falling back onto your bed and unlocking his phone. "So you'll have to put up with me for a couple more hours, at least."

"You're not gonna help with dinner?"

"I offered, but I got permission to hang with you instead."

"Suck-up," you say, and Seungmin rolls his eyes upward, poking his cheek with one finger.

You join him on the bed, taking a peek at his messages. He lets you be nosy. This is what you do best when you spend time with Seungmin—even now, you guess, you're just a kid in grownup clothes, watching your cousin navigate life and relationships with a maturity you try your best to emulate. You envy him as much as you love him, sometimes.

While watching him catch up on his mutuals' Instagram posts, your own phone buzzes beside you. Reluctantly, you flip it over, and your mouth parts when you see the notification.

"Who is it?" Seungmin asks, eyes still glued to his screen.

"Um," you slowly swipe the lock screen away, "Jungsu."

His attention turns to you fully when you admit as much. "What'd he say?"

You open your messages, a little self-conscious as Seungmin scoots closer to see the conversation. The last time you'd texted Jungsu outside of the group chat was a month ago, when you were still blissfully unaware of the upcoming layoffs and merely amused by a funny animal video that reminded you of him. The thumbnail of the cuddly, sleep-rumpled kitty is halfway visible, Jungsu's emoji-filled reply nestled right between it and the text he had sent just now.

jungsu: was your flight okay?

"Does that sound … passive aggressive to you at all?" you ask tentatively.

Seungmin squints at the message, scratching his head. "Nah, I don't think so. He's just asking."

"Okay."

you: it was fine. seungmin picked me up ^^

jungsu: good!!

jungsu: i wish i could've gone to the airport too to welcome you ㅠㅠ

you: me too haha but it's ok

"He should be off work in about an hour," Seungmin tells you, then nudges your shoulder with his own. "You want him to come over for dinner? Your choice."

The thing is, you should say yes. It should be as natural as breathing, because that's how it had been for as long as you can remember, and because Jungsu is probably still a little upset even if he doesn't admit it.

But you hesitate, and Seungmin takes it as a no.

"If it's too many people, that's—"

"No, it's okay. I don't want to leave him out," you murmur, already typing.

Like Seungmin, Jungsu will be in your life until its unspectacular end. And despite how distant you've been lately, that is still where you want him to be.

you: seungmin's staying for dinner, u wanna come over too?

—

An hour later, the doorbell rings, and you open the door to a stiff breeze, stray snowflakes, and Kim Jungsu.

His nose and cheeks are rosy from the cold. The front bangs of his hair (blond, freshly dyed, longer) stick out from underneath the knitted cap he's had since high school, dusted with snow, and the white of his breath dissipates before it can reach the toasty threshold of your home.

(You think, as you always have, that he looks pretty.)

His eyelashes flutter when he meets your gaze.

You bite the bullet. "Hey."

"Hi," he breathes.

You move to let him inside. He quickly sheds his winter gear, and you get a whiff of ginger and fried food when he gives you a hug.

"Welcome home," he whispers before he pulls away. He smiles at you, and even though you look for it, you can't find a single drop of resentment.

You manage to give him a small smile in return. His hands are a bit cold when they squeeze yours once, but the rest of him is warm. You try not to linger too close.

"Yo, Jungsu!" Seungmin leans over the back of the couch just a few feet away, and Jungsu walks over to hug him as well. "How was work?"

"Good, just busy. Some out-of-towners are staying the night because of the storm warning."

"Oh." You trail after Jungsu and Seungmin to the kitchen, where your mother has set the food out. Jungsu greets your mother affectionately, and she responds in kind before filling her own plate and heading to the living room to allow the three of you to gossip. "Anyone our age?"

"Nope."

"Damn."

"You know the only people that pass through here are old couples and families with little kids," you say, settling into your chair. The arrangement is the usual one—you on the side closest to the sink, Seungmin on your right, Jungsu right across from you. "We've never had anybody our age stop here for the night."

Seungmin points at you with his spoon. "No, there was that one guy when we were in high school, remember? The one with the shady van. Our moms thought he was trying to sell us drugs."

"He told me he was an artist," Jungsu adds, "but the entire time he stayed at the inn, I didn't see any artwork or supplies. He just had a small duffel bag that he carried everywhere."

"Drugs," you say.

"Or money from drugs," Seungmin says.

"He was really creepy." Swallowing his food, Jungsu leans forward as if you hadn't talked about the strange man countless times before, on nights just like this. "But he paid for the two nights he was here."

"In cash, right?"

"Yeah."

"If he was an artist," you say, thoughtfully, "he would have painted the view behind the inn."

Jungsu nods with a smile. "I think so, too. I don't think an artist would've ignored it." His glance towards you sticks. You shift just slightly in your seat as he chews his bottom lip and then asks, tone careful, "Do you guys want to go tomorrow morning? The sunrise will be pretty after the snowstorm."

"Sure," Seungmin readily agrees. He raises his eyebrows at you. "[Y/n]? You game?"

You open your mouth for a reply that you haven't yet formed. "... Oh, um," you finally say, nervous from the two pairs of eyes peering over into yours, unassuming and familiar though they are. "I don't know. I'm kind of tired from the flight ..."

Seungmin's mouth presses into knowing disappointment at the corners. Jungsu blinks and nods; his hopeful smile shrinks the tiniest bit, though to you it might as well be by a mile.

"Ah, right, you should rest," Jungsu replies in a softer voice, and he reaches across to pat the space in front of your bowl. "Maybe later this week?"

You stir your food around. "Sure."

"I can still meet you at the inn tomorrow morning, Jungsu," Seungmin says. He keeps his gaze on you. "I'll leave at seven, so if [Y/n] is awake, we can walk there together. Sound good to you, [Y/n]?"

The offer is well-meaning. You wonder how much pity your cousin holds for you right now, for it certainly bleeds into your own self-pity, and there is not much for you to do in response other than bob your head half-heartedly. Underneath the table, Seungmin's foot bumps yours.

The three of you finish dinner in relative silence.

And yet, after you use your excuse of fatigue once more and hug them goodbye for the night, taking a hot shower and settling into bed, you set your alarm for a quarter to seven.

—

"You're here." Jungsu sounds surprised within the warmth of his scarf and winter jacket. "You're not too tired?"

You note how the snow rises up above your knees as you nod slowly. Jungsu's eyes crescent with a hidden grin, and he takes a hold of your arm as the three of you march across the yard towards the edge of the hill behind the Kim family's inn.

Jungsu's family has owned this property for several generations, but it was only during his granddad's generation that they had decided to develop it and make a bit of money off the folks who pass through your hometown. The building is a small thing, but it is clean and very well taken care of, and the meals are always warm.

The best part of the inn, however, is the view.

It's still pretty dark outside. You stop at a bench, brushing it off and sitting down between Jungsu and Seungmin while you observe the thin sliver of orange peeking out from behind the trees.

"It's too cold."

"Don't fall asleep," Seungmin teases. "You'll get hypothermia."

"I won't," you grumble, though your eyes are half-lidded. "Jungsu has the coffee, doesn't he?"

"Here," Jungsu says, handing a small thermos to you before suddenly retracting. "Ah, wait. It might still be too hot." He unscrews the lid, steam bursting upward into the icy morning air and then sideways as he blows over the top of the drink a few times, taking a tentative sip before deeming it acceptable to share. "Okay, here."

He brings the thermos almost to your lips, but then seems to think better of it and simply hands it over with a slight blush, though not quick enough to beat the blood crawling to your cheeks.

"Thanks, Mom," you mutter, drinking from the cup. Truthfully, the drink is more of a hot chocolate, with some instant coffee added in. You refrain from being greedy and pass it to Seungmin.

Mouth and throat and stomach now warmed, you settle back, watching the sky as the darkness slowly peels farther and farther back.

When you hold your breath, you can almost hear the sun stirring underneath the indigo.

"I think you're right, Jungsu," Seungmin says over the lip of the thermos. "This is going to be a really good sunrise."

"They're always extra beautiful after a storm."

"Wow. Deep."

"It's too early and cold for deep thoughts," you mutter.

Jungsu tilts his head. "Do you need more layers? We have some inside."

"Oh, no, it's okay. I'm just finding things to complain about ..." still, Jungsu's brow remains furrowed, and you stumble slightly over your words, "as one does ..."

"Have some more coffee," Seungmin says, pushing the thermos in your direction.

You do as you're told.

The red-orange dappling the clouds has given way to something light and golden. As the minutes creep by, the sun shows itself above the trees, a shock of bright yellow whose glow reaches out and up.

It's blinding, the light, but you look anyway, wondering how something you've seen a million times can still feel like the first.

"Wow," you state into the still air, mostly to yourself.

The boys hum in agreement. You continue staring at the sky, hearing Jungsu finish rest of the coffee and snap the lid shut.

"I have to pee," Seungmin says suddenly. "See you guys inside for breakfast?"

You blink rapidly. As your cousin stands up, leaving only you and Jungsu on the bench, the slightest bit of nerves overtakes you. "Oh, I—"

"Okay," Jungsu says at the same time you start to stand, and you freeze. He is still seated, though now he casts you a surprised glance. "Oh. Do you have to go too?"

You avoid Seungmin's eyes and slowly sit back down, shaking your head. "N-No, I just thought we were all going now. Let's stay for a few more minutes."

"... Alright."

The crunch of Seungmin's boots through the snow fades into the distance as the two of you look back at the pale sky. Golden sunlight brushes the expanse of snow at the bottom of the hill, smooth and bright.

You burrow your chin into your scarf, the winter morning showing its bite in exchange for the view it is granting you.

"It's really pretty."

Jungsu's soft voice breaks through the silence. His expression is one of perfect contentment; his eyes catch the early light in a gentle way, and you find yourself momentarily at a loss for words.

When he meets your gaze, you smile quickly with your eyes, and a laugh like a small bell escapes through his scarf.

"[Y/n]," he says, "I'm glad you showed up."

"You didn't think I would."

"I hoped you would. You usually do, even though you always complain about waking up early." Jungsu pauses for a moment, and then his gaze flickers downwards. "But ... I don't know. It's been a while, I guess, so I just didn't want to get my hopes up."

He doesn't have to specify that he's talking about more than just the sunrise.

"I'm sorry." The apology is quieter than you had thought it would be, and the shame speaks louder than you had anticipated. You clear your throat. "Are you still upset with me?"

"Honestly?" He sighs. "I was still pretty upset until yesterday. But then I went to your house, and you opened the door—and then, well. I was just happy that you were back."

Oh. "Oh," you say.

Jungsu is quiet again. He tugs on the fingers of his gloves, and you track the movement idly, hyperaware of the hands that those gloves keep warm, steady hands that hold and play and tap. You swallow. Your throat feels tight.

"Can you promise me something, though?"

"Yeah?"

"Just be honest with me from now on," he requests. "We're best friends. You can tell me anything, you know that, right?"

"I know, Jungsu." The sentence is little more than a breath, but he hears you nevertheless, and he smiles before making a noise of realization.

"Ah, right, we should head inside, huh? Seungmin's probably waiting."

"He's a patient guy ... it's cold, though."

"Yeah, you've mentioned that once or twice."

You chuckle sheepishly as Jungsu stands and holds out a hand, helping you up. The sun shines behind your heads while you walk back to the inn, shoulder-to-shoulder.

You think about what he had said, and about the feeling of his hand in yours, and your heart clenches as if in warning.

Anything, but not everything.

—

Two weeks pass, and the boys still find things to keep you busy nearly every day. You suspect that it is partially at the request of your parents and partially due to worry they had mustered on their own; you are currently unemployed, after all, and they fear that idleness will make you depressed or delinquent or some other "D" word that describes small-town people your age whose hopes and dreams have been crushed by the big bad world outside. If you occupy yourself with cooking dinners and buying groceries and taking snowy winter walks, you won't have time to spiral into despair (which also starts with "D").

Today, the activity is preparing classroom decorations for the new year. Seungmin has tasked you with making lanterns and people out of colored construction paper, and so you have cluttered the table in the corner of the inn's dining area with clippings of various colors, being careful not to drop any on the floor.

"Wouldn't it be easier to print a coloring page and cut them out?"Jungsu asks after he finishes cleaning the other tables, sleeves rolled up to his elbows in a way that looks too good to have been done thoughtlessly. He leans over your shoulder, and the back of your neck prickles with heat. "Where's Seungmin, anyway?"

"Went to the store to get more stickers and colored duct tape," you say, unsheathing a craft knife to tackle the more minute details. "He'll probably come back with snacks, too."

Jungsu hums. "You're good at this," he says, sitting down next to you and picking up a cutout. You had clothed it in layers of different-colored shapes of paper, and he inspects the hem of their skirt with the tips of his fingers. "I bet you could become a teacher's aide for Seungmin's classroom."

"Probably." You take the cutout from him to paste googly eyes onto it. "Waste of my degree, though."

"… Well … I don't think we have any good tech startups around here. Or any at all. Maybe an IT job?"

You remain noncommittal, cool, even as the thought of job hunting all over again fills you with gut-curling dread. "That's probably what I'll end up doing," you say. "Not like I'm going anywhere anytime soon."

Your voice must hold more bitterness than you think, because Jungsu looks a bit uncomfortable at your words, furrowing his brow.

"Is it really that bad to live here?"

Count on you to sour the mood again. "I—no," you reply slowly, "but I mean, come on, Jungsu. You know all the good-paying jobs for me are in the city, right?"

"Seungmin and I are doing okay," Jungsu defends.

"Your family has been here forever and runs a business here, so of course you'd stay. And Seungmin is Seungmin. He'll be okay wherever he is." You tilt the cutout back and forth. The googly eyes move in response. "But I'm just me. I have to take every opportunity I can so I don't waste my life."

Jungsu opens his mouth and then closes it. His lips purse, and you can tell that you've displeased him.

(Jungsu has always been the sentimental type. He has found his dreams within the realm of your hometown; even while you both had gone to college in the city and been dazzled by the promises of big careers and changing the world, in the end, he had kept his love for the simple comforts of family, the inn, and the known. And so he had come back to stay. You understand, and at the same time, you don't think you ever will.)

"I'm never going to change your mind," he replies, laughing a little dryly. "Am I?"

"Probably not."

"Geez ..." A long sigh escapes him. He fixes you with a wistful smile and picks up a pair of scissors. "Then I guess we should keep putting you to work while you're stuck here, wasting just part of your life."

You kick him underneath the table. Jungsu snickers, taking a sheet of paper to cut out the lantern trapped in the middle of it.

The box of permanent markers is on the other side of where he's seated. You stand up slightly to reach around him, hooking your fingers over the edge of plastic and dragging it closer.

"You could've just asked me to pass them to you."

"Well, you were being mean, so"—you make the mistake of turning your head to look at him, and promptly choke at the close proximity—"so, uh ... um ..."

He tilts his head unbearably slowly, blinking up at you with a look of both amusement and bewilderment as you make a fool of yourself once more. Your eyes trace down the slope of his nose and pause on his lips, and your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth.

"... Are you okay?"

Soft.

"I'm ffine," you blurt, sitting down swiftly with a hot face. You do your best to hide it from him. "Stop slacking and go back to work."

"Now who's being mean?"

Jungsu gets up after cutting out the rest of the lantern, pushing it and the offending box of markers closer towards you. He pats your back gently before sauntering off to continue his daily tasks.

—

"Aw, look. It's Ankle Sprain Seungmin."

Seungmin drops his head back against the couch. "Once again, that's the dumbest thing you guys could have ever called me. C minus. F, even."

"It's more about how you got it," you explain, elementary school yearbook propped up against your torso as you tap a scrawny, cheeky-looking Oh Seungmin in the corner of one page. "It was a warm spring day, and you just had to show Kim Hayeon that you could jump down from the top of the jungle gym." Seungmin rolls his eyes. Jungsu bites down on his bottom lip, muffling a laugh, and you continue somberly. "Instead, you sprained your ankle and we had to carry you to the nurse's office."

"It actually worked, though," Jungsu counters. "Because Hayeon came up to him afterwards and asked if he was okay."

"All part of the plan. She thought I broke my ankle and was pretty worried for me."

You give a thumbs down. "Boo. Lamest way to pick up a girl."

Your cousin shrugs and takes a swig of beer. He purses his lips, flicking at the tab of his now-empty can as he says casually, "Didn't you have a crush on our homeroom teacher in sixth grade?"

This time, Jungsu bursts into laughter. "Oh, my god, you totally did!"

You slam the yearbook shut, mortified, and hit Seungmin over the shoulder with it. The jerk doesn't even have the decency to look sorry. "Shut up! Why would you even bring that up?!"

"What, I can't counterattack?"

"You're older than me, so you have to put up with it."

Seungmin squints. "Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

"No! Jungsu, you're the oldest. Tell him to toughen up."

"Okay, okay," Jungsu steps in, hands out in a placating gesture even as he recovers from his laughing fit. "Let's just say you're both even now. We all had embarrassing crushes."

"Speaking of which, Jungsu, I only remember you having one crush in high school," Seungmin says. "What was her name? She was in choir."

"Oh Jimin," you answer.

You remember Oh Jimin.

"Yeah, Jimin. She had a really nice voice."

"She did," Jungsu agrees. "I was too nervous to ask her out, though. She actually got married last year to one of her classmates."

"Really?"

Seungmin pulls his phone out to show you the wedding photos on Instagram. You look with mild interest. She's beautiful, has that glow that brides have. Her smile is the same. You remember when it would reduce Jungsu to wide-eyed, red-faced silence.

Seeing her now makes you feel guilty for the resentment you held for her as a teenager.

"Seungmin, please get married soon," you say, attempting to redirect yourself. "People will start to think something's wrong with the three of us if you don't."

Seungmin raises an eyebrow. "Find me someone to date, first," he shoots back. "And why should it be me? Why don't you or Jungsu get married?"

The 'or' in the second sentence does a lot of heavy lifting in your mind.

You cross your arms, scoffing. "To who?"

"I dunno." Seungmin pauses. Then, to your horror, he lifts a finger and waggles it between you and Jungsu. "But at this rate, if both of you are still single in twenty years, you might as well marry each other."

It's almost two o'clock in the morning. Perhaps you can blame what happens next on the late hour, or on the presence of alcohol, or maybe if you are really honest, you can just blame it on yourself.

Jungsu's cheeks have long been flushed, but you wonder if they've become just a little darker when he responds, chuckling, "O-Oh, no. No, [Y/n]'ll find someone before then."

You blink, your heart ripped in two.

"Wow, not even a maybe?" You do your best to sound upbeat, but your voice pitches oddly at the end, and you know Jungsu notices when his smile stiffens. "Am I that bad?"

He shakes his head quickly. "No, I meant that you'll find someone else—"

"But what if I didn't?"

The living room falls silent. The way Jungsu's expression turns pained tells you all you need to know.

Seungmin utters no more than half your name before you stand up and dash out of the room.

Your cousin's house is small. You reach the guest bedroom within seconds and fumble with the doorknob to open it, closing the door hard behind you.

Your feet carry you towards the hidden space between the bed and the far wall. Once you sit down, what feels like a decade's worth of waterworks turn on, and you cover your mouth and sob.

You had imagined Jungsu's rejection time and time again. But recently, you had also begun to think that, maybe—

Well. Maybe it was never.

Hiccuping, you draw your sleeve across your eyes.

Why would he even want you, anyway?

You spend what feels like hours wiping your face until your nose and cheeks feel scraped raw. More than once, you think you are finished, only for Jungsu's pitying expression to resurface in your mind and open the wounds all over again.

But eventually, the tears begin to run dry, and that's when you hear a knock at the door.

"[Y/n]?" It's not Jungsu, but Seungmin. His tone is coaxing. "Can I come in?"

You gulp. The backs of your eyes ache, and you wipe your nose. "Okay."

The latch bolt clicks. You hear the sock-clad footsteps of your cousin approaching before he sits down beside you.

He says nothing for a moment. When you lean against him, eyes closed, he wraps an arm around your shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Seungmin says. "I don't know why I said it. You can hit me, if you'd like."

"You know, don't you?"

Your voice is tiny. Seungmin squeezes you and exhales slowly, and you slump, defeated.

"Yeah."

"Does he know?"

You are deprived of an answer for a good minute. Finally, Seungmin clicks his tongue softly, and he says, "I think the two of you should talk to each other and clear everything up."

"He knows, doesn't he?"

"If he does, he'll tell you. He's still here, if you're willing to talk to him now. I just figured I should check on you first. But you need to talk to him and he needs to talk to you."

"I don't want to."

"But you have to," Seungmin says. His warmth leaves you, and you look up at him desperately as he grabs the throw blanket on his bed and tucks it around you. "You're strong. However it goes, you'll get through it."

The corners of his lips quirk upwards. You can't manage a smile, but his words touch your heart, and you curl into yourself.

"He's still here?"

"Want me to go get him?"

You nod almost imperceptibly.

A few moments later, Seungmin returns with Jungsu and a glass of water. The glass of water is given to you, and Jungsu receives a pat on the back before your cousin leaves the two of you alone.

You bring the glass to your lips and take a long, thin drink. It's cold, but not too cold, with no ice. It makes you feel marginally better.

Eventually, Jungsu speaks up hesitantly.

"Can I sit down?"

You nod, not looking at him.

So he sits down beside you, carefully moving the blanket wrapped around you so as not to sit on it. He brings his knees to his chest. There is an inch of distance between you and him.

You rest your mouth on the rim of your glass, the water touching your lips but going no farther.

"[Y/n] …" Jungsu starts. "I'm really sorry."

The second rejection stings more than punches, alcohol over the raw cut. You breathe out steadily.

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"I hurt you." You can hear the quiet shake of anxiety in his voice. "I shouldn't have laughed, but I—I got nervous, and then your question caught me off guard, too, and I panicked and didn't know how to reply—"

"Jungsu." You turn to meet his eyes, and you hear him swallow. "I'll be fine. It was a stupid question." You rip your gaze away again, digging your toes into the carpet. "Deep down, I think I already knew it wouldn't happen, anyway."

Jungsu is quiet for a long time.

You realize, with a shameful belatedness, that this is a painful conversation for him as well. Jungsu feels others' emotions like they are his own. He shies away from negative ones, sensitive to them like paper to a flame, and more often that not he appeases them with tight smiles and agreeable responses.

But here, in the dim lamplight of the bedroom, he is holding himself over the fire. He cannot run anymore, just like you.

He finally speaks, his voice nearly a whisper.

"It's not because I don't feel the same way."

Your world stops on its axis.

Your head snaps up. You stare at him with wide eyes. He faces you fully, and you scan his expression for a hint of dishonesty, but it is once again nothing but open. He looks sad. Small.

"What?" you rasp.

"I would," he confesses. "Marry you twenty years from now. Or ten, or five. If I had moved with you to the city, or if you moved back here with me. But we're ... I don't think I could make you happy."

You are sure this is your third rejection. But you are still reeling, because it sounds like it is not your feelings that he is rejecting.

"You're afraid to even try."

"You have bigger dreams than here."

"You had bigger dreams once, too. We could have been together in the city." Old grievances rear their head like a reflex to pain, souring your tongue. "But you backed out."

Jungsu's face pinches. "And if I had stayed with you in the city, what then?" he replies. "We'd hardly visit home? Call Seungmin once a month? Work ourselves to death at a place that wouldn't think twice about getting rid of us?"

Blood rushes to your face.

This is too much. Too many different feelings mixing together, too many things spilling out.

You wring out a laugh and grip the glass in your hands until it's just shy of shattering.

"You liar," you huff, new tears spilling over. "You said you weren't upset anymore."

"Well, maybe I am," Jungsu says.

But his voice wavers, and you know that he is no better than you.

So much for talking it out. The room feels as cold as it had when you'd first entered it.

You don't bother to dry your tears this time. Beside you, Jungsu sniffles quietly, the shuffle of fabric letting you know when he rubs his sweater sleeve against his face.

Somehow, it reminds you of years long past. Crying then didn't feel nearly as pathetic.

"I miss when we were kids."

"... Me too."

You stare into your glass, then drain the rest of the water and set it aside.

"I shouldn't have said that," Jungsu mumbles into his knees. "I'm sorry."

"It's ... it's okay. Um." You lick your lips and say, slowly, "I don't think I ever actually apologized for not keeping in touch as much as I should've. I'm sorry."

"… I forgive you."

"You do?"

He nods.

You relax just the slightest bit. Your shoulder touches his, and when he leans into you in turn, you feel a small amount of relief, heart no longer angry but still sore and bruised.

There's nothing left to lose now. You might as well say everything that's on your mind.

"Jungsu." He hums. "You've always made me happy. Just so ... just so you know."

His brow furrows. "I just made you cry."

"What I mean is that it's always been you."

You are being honest, like you had promised, and the way Jungsu flushes to the tips of his ears is honest as well.

"You deserve better," he says.

"I don't deserve anything. I want you. Don't you feel the same way?"

"I do, but ..." He takes in a breath, his hand finding the crook of your elbow and squeezing. "If we hurt each other and never talked again, I don't think I would be able to handle it. These past two years were already ..."

He trails off. There is a pang in your chest as he bites his lip and presses the edge of his sleeve against one of his eyes, and it dawns on you then just how much you have to atone for.

"I really hurt you," you murmur. "Didn't I?"

Jungsu turns. You are suddenly enveloped in a tight embrace, warm wool and clutching fingers. His heart beats against yours, and it's enough to make you tremble, knowing that this is far more than you will ever deserve.

"Jungsu ..."

"Can you wait for me?" The request is a whisper. "Just give me some time?"

You breathe. "Of course."

His weight bears down on you until you're nearly crushed. You find it within yourself to crack a small smile as he clings to you.

Pressing your cheek against his shoulder, one last question leaves your tongue. "Can we still be best friends?"

His answer is muffled and soft, but sure.

"Always."

—

(You wait for him. Jungsu waits for you, as well. It's a long and slow journey but you find yourselves and, in turn, find each other again.

And you are happy.)

#jungsu x reader #kim jungsu x reader #xdh imagines #xdinary heroes x reader #xh jungsu #jungsu #xdinary heroes #xdh #xh #beecee's writing #xh one shots

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al-the-remix · 7 months ago

Note

don't think I saw Climbing up You Walls but I am so intrigued

I just realized i really fucked up that typing, it's supposed to say "Climbing Up Your Walls" lol, but still, this one is about Tommy's house being in a permanent state of renovation--he's too busy--he has years to make decisions--he doesn't know what he likes--he's too specific--and then in swoops Buck with just enough construction experience not to be a nuisance when lending a hand and applies his foolproof Clipboard Treatment to helping Tommy get his act together (and it becomes their house along the way). Also, there's some mild angst from Tommy's side as he wonders if Buck's feeling as serious as Tommy is this soon into their relationship (Buck's impulsivity makes him nervous).

“See what I mean?” Evan had his hands on his hips, surveying the impact zone that is the central room of Tommy’s 1920s Californian bungalow. Tommy had tried to tidy up…he really had. But half way through trying to decide if he should take the sawhorses out from the middle of his living room and push the old coffee table back last night Tommy had decided his efforts were futile. He was better off letting Evan get an honest look at what he was signing up for. “It’s not that bad…” “Evan.” “What? It’s not!” He held his hands up in defence, the tips of his ears glowing siren red. Tommy just shook his head. “You’re not that good of a liar, babe.” “Seriously,” Evan walked up to one of his more recent projects and examined it, a side table Tommy had begun to re-stain then had to bring back inside during a freak storm…a month ago. “I was worried it would be more of a hoarding situation or something but besides all the sawdust and power tools, this place is pretty neat.” Tommy glanced sidelong at the stack of tile boxes he’s been using as a side table for upwards of two years. “That’s very generous of you.” “When did you buy this place?” Tommy signed and sat down on the arm of the couch, knowing there’d be a big dust stain on his ass when he stood and not caring. “2008, I never really spent any of my money when I was in the army and spent most of my two weeks between deployments couch-surfing. I got some money from selling my grandfather’s place after he died, but it wasn’t much.” Evan frowned. “So you’ve had this place for almost two decades, it’s hard to believe you haven't done anything to it. ” “Okay, I did all the major stuff.” Tommy started listing stuff off on his fingers as Evan listened intently. “There was some siding that needed replacing, a few windows, and I spent a whole summer re-insulating and re-shingling the roof. The plumbing is updated. The guts are solid. And I spent about the rest of my savings at the time on the garage… It’s more the cosmetics that aren’t my strong suit. “I want to keep the character of the place but there are some things that just need to be updated. And the more I dig, the more issues I find and then I never actually get around to making things look nice.” Tommy shrugs, feeling like maybe he said a little too much. “I guess because it was just me here and I don't really mind living with patchy drywall and holes in the walls.” Evan only looked more enthused. “Look, we can work with this. I've done a bunch of odd jobs over the years, including construction. And I've got two hands. I can help." Suddenly Evan’s grin dimmed, and Tommy watched as he visibly reeled himself back in, shoving his hands in his pockets and scuffing the toe of his boot against the drop sheet that had been doubling as an area rug. "If you want, of course, I don't want to overstep.” We. No matter what, it was always “we” with Evan. It didn’t matter how fresh this relationship was, Evan had a way of making Tommy feel like no matter what, he wasn't in it alone, whether the “it” in question was couples pickle-ball on Sundays or unpacking decades worth of emotional baggage. It was an unexpected, yet pleasant feeling Tommy was still trying to get used to. He wanted to trust it with his whole body, lie down in it and let it slowly creep over his face like warm bathwater. He wanted to trust Evan. “You could never,” Tommy assured. “I’d love your help.” The smile Evan gave him lit up his whole face, breathing life into something small and dim nestled in the hollow of Tommy’s chest. Evan clapped his hands together, already onto the next thing. “Okay, so first I think we start–”

#bucktommy #mine #wips #asks

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heartsmadeofbooks · 5 months ago

Text

[New Story]: Through Crooked Aim.

Hi everyone! Hope you're all doing great.

I wanted to share with you the preview of my upcoming Klaine fic, Through Crooked Aim, which will start next week, Thursday December 12th.

This is a story that I've wanted to write for a while now, and I'm excited to finally get to share it with you all. I hope to see you next week for the first chapter.

Hope you like this little snippet. Story is beta'd by @christinejaneanderson and the picture for the preview was made by @nerdishedits.

See you on the 12th for a new adventure!

The sun was hinting its presence in the horizon as the car took the last turn. The radio was playing softly in the background, the weather man of the usual show he listened to as he got his day started predicting a lovely April day, Spring in full swing, perhaps a bit chillier as the night returned to cover Lima, Ohio. But until then, it would be a warm, beautiful day – it made Kurt smile as he parked the car in his usual spot.

The diner looked good. They had given the exterior a new coat of paint just last month. The only thing that showed just how long it had been there was the sign on the roof, the one Kurt refused to change because it had been picked by his father, many, many years ago: the second m on Hummel’s was dimmer than the other letters. Kurt knew it could be easily fixed or replaced, but he refused to. Sometimes it was okay to choose history over esthetics.

And there was so, so much history here.

Hummel’s had been around for decades. It was the go-to diner for most of the residents of Lima, founded by his own father when he was barely out of high school. It had had a bumpy start – Kurt had heard the story ever since he could remember, how his father had turned years of savings and some money he’d gotten from his family after graduation, into his livelihood. It had been hard at first, doing everything himself because he couldn’t afford to hire any help, a few friends popping over here and there to help flip pancakes or make small repairs as Burt did everything else. Eventually, though, it began to grow, and Burt had enough money for new furniture, for a better grill, for a couple of waitresses. The business grew, and there had been plenty of sweat, tears and sleepless nights invested in it until it did. But Burt Hummel had been a proud man, and when things got hard, he worked harder, until he beat all the odds that had been against him.

“I didn’t have many choices after high school,” Burt had told his son on more than one occasion. “I knew I had to start my own business – I wasn’t exactly book smart, I’ve never been. For a while I entertained playing football in college, but then I got hurt during my senior year in high school so that was out. My dad owned a garage back then, and I thought about following in his footsteps, but there was enough competition in town that my dad was already struggling and going to work with him would have been a terrible idea. It was also probably a terrible idea to open my own diner – I didn’t even know how to cook, for god’s sake. I don’t even know where I got the idea to begin with. But I just knew I wanted my own business. And we all used to drive all the way to Kenton or even Dayton on the weekends for a good dating spot. There was nowhere decent to have a meal with your friends or your girlfriend here. I know you still call Lima a small town, but it certainly was small back then…”

For a younger Kurt, who dreamed of big cities filled with skyscrapers, Lima was certainly small – small-minded, too. He couldn’t imagine anything smaller than that.

Nowadays, Kurt wouldn’t think of Hummel’s as a dating spot, but he guessed back then it had been a pretty decent option, before places like Breadstix opened when he was a teenager, or even the Lima Bean, the local coffee shop that Kurt had loved when he was still in high school. Slowly, Hummel’s had become everyone’s go-to choice for a quick breakfast before school or work, or even a dinner stop at the end of a long day. Everyone had loved Burt Hummel – he had been a bit gruff, but always decent and kind and he would always sneak an extra scoop of ice-cream on every kid’s order of waffles.

A couple of years ago, that thought had sent a pang through Kurt, ache and grief mixing to make everything in him feel tight, tight, tight. Now, it had dulled into a manageable ache, and he was able to smile whenever one of the patrons shared a memory of his father with him. He still missed him – what he wouldn’t give to get one more hug, one more piece of advice, to hear his laughter once again – but it didn’t take his breath away, as it used to.

Kurt unlocked the door and went into the diner, turning every light on as he went. First order of business, every morning, was to turn the coffee machine on, so he went straight to it on the counter and got it started before he went into the office to leave his bag. As the scent of freshly brewed coffee began to fill the empty diner, he started to take the chairs down from the tables, getting everything ready for the first few customers, who would surely be here soon.

The inside of Hummel’s had a classic American diner vibe. In recent years, Kurt had only allowed himself to change a few things in the décor, mostly those that were too worn with age. He kept all the framed photographs that filled one of the walls, though, the ones that showed the history of his family with this place. He had only added a few, marking the moment he had taken over the diner after his father got sick and eventually passed away. Now, alongside pictures of his parents in their 20s, you could find pictures of Kurt’s twin daughters sitting side by side on the counter, or of his husband, Ryan, helping to fix a leak in the kitchen sink. His chest filled with pride as he stared at them, as he did each morning – he had never imagined they would end up here, and yet now… well, he couldn’t picture himself elsewhere.

The little bell above the door twinkled as it opened. Kurt turned and smiled at Marley, the morning shift waitress, as she came in. She was already wearing the dark blue uniform, her hair pulled up in a pony tail. She was also a recent addition to Hummel’s. Kurt liked her – she was kind and quick and responsible, and she was never late. Whenever he had to hire someone new, he wondered whether his father would approve. He thought he had nailed it with Marley.

About a minute after she had arrived, the door opened again and Blaine Anderson walked in.

#Fic: Through Crooked Aim #Klaine #Klaine fic #Klaine fanfic #Klaine fanfiction #You guys ready? :)#Let's do this

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darklove9314-blog · 2 months ago

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A Shadow in the Ember: An Azris fanfic (NSFW)

Day 4 of SJM romance week. prompt: Moving In.

Synopsis: When Azriel is forced to move in with Eris as his protection detail, things between the two of them heat up.

NSFW: Hate Sex. Dom Azriel and Sub Eris.

"You can't be serious." Azriel growled out, feeling his shadows caress him, swirling around him in anger, prepared to strike as he forced them to temper, leaning back in his seat, gesturing Rhys to continue.

His High Lord took a deep breath, recentering himself for the conversation as Feyre sat beside him, observing the conversation

"I know the situation is less than ideal-" He started as Azriel quickly cut him off.

"You call wanting me to shack up with Eris Vanserra less than ideal, it's more than that, you'd be signing his death warrant, because if that smug son of a bitch says anything to me, i will kill him."

Rhys glanced to Feyre, a silent conversation passing between the two as Azriel tried to temper his frustration. Sometimes he wished Rhys would just talk to him fae male to fae male without calling on Feyre to mediate the conversation.

"Azriel, we understand that this situation is less than desirable, and trust us when we say this was the last thing that we wanted as well, but with Beron figuring out what Eris was up to and Eris escaping within an inch of his life, well, we feel we owe it to him after all these years of working with us to at least shelter him until he can come up with his own accommodations."

Azriel glared at her, he hated how she always talked to him as if he were a child, the last time he checked he was the oldest fae in this room and she barely had a couple decades of existence to her name.

“I understand why he needs a place to stay, what I’m trying to find out is why I have to babysit him.” Azriel sneered, adding as much disdain into his voice as he possible could making Rhys stiffen.

Azriel He growled inside his mind, a warning. Azriel waved it off.

Spare me the overprotective bullshit. You know I’m not going to do anything.

Rhys sighed making Feyre glance between the two, but she knew better than to press, instead she continued with their explanation.

“Eris may be an ally, but that doesn’t mean we willingly trust him. That’s where you come in.”

Azriel lifted his eyebrow waiting for her to continue as she explained,

“You are our Shadowsinger, our spy. If you are in the same house as Eris, he may be willing to…cooperate.”

Azriel’s brow lifted,

“What makes you think he’ll cooperate with me or even trust me? Did you miss the part of the High Lord’s meeting where I almost chocked him out?”

Feyre gave him an exasperated look.

“How could I ever forget?” She mused as Rhys cut in.

“This isn’t negotiable, Azriel. We need someone to keep an eye on him.”

“Why not have Nesta and Cassian watch him then?”

“Do you really want to subject them to that?” Feyre asked as Azriel shrugged.

“It might give them a nice break from their….mating.” Azriel said as Feyre sighed.

“If you think I’m getting involved with that, you’re delusional. You’re the only one who can watch him right now.”

Azriel let out a small growl of frustration, laying back in his chair and breathing out a sigh of frustration.

“Fine. I’ll get my stuff from the house and go to the townhouse tonight.”

Appreciation welled up in Feyre as she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. He let her even though every muscle in his body wanted to strike, to halt that touch that he dreaded so much. It happened when anyone touched him without warning, especially his hands.

As if Feyre could see that murderous look on his gaze, she snatched her hand back as Azriel stood, Rhys stiffening, a warning in his gaze.

Azriel took a step back, composing himself as he smoothed out the wrinkles in his leathers before he said,

“I’ll get packing.”

That had happened two weeks ago, two weeks of being in that obnoxious, intolerant little shits presence, making Azriel swear he was two seconds away from wrapping his hands around the princelings throat.

He was lounging on the love seat, one that Eris had showed his disdain and disapproval of as Azriel listened to the water running, steam billowing from the washroom as Azriel crossed his arms over his chest.

Vanserra sure lived to run up his High Lord and Lady’s water bill, but seeing as how they had forced him into this, he let it be.

He smiled at the thought of Rhys receiving the bill as he heard the water shut off, the door opening as Eris emerged, making Azriel growl in frustration as he averted his gaze and growled out,

“We have towels for a reason, Eris.”

“We’re both males here, Spy master, you think that you would be used to the male anatomy by now.”

“The last thing I want to see is your dick, Vanserra, do us both a favor and get dressed.”

“Why? Jealous? Intimidated by the fact that it’s bigger than yours?”

Azriel narrowed his eyes at him, lowering his hand as he glared at the prince.

“We both know that’s not true. Now get dressed before I make you.”

Eris crossed his arms, displaying the entirety of his whole body to Azriel, making him blow out a breath. Azriel knew that Autumn Court males were cocky, but this was all too much.

Azriel stood, making his way over to the infuriating princeling as he towered over him, extending his wings as Eris glanced up at him, refusing to back down. Fine. Azriel thought, two could play at this game.

Azriel had taken males before, had found pleasure in them as much as he had females, and he had to admit, despite how much he detested Eris Vanserra, The Shadow Singer would be lying if he said Eris Vanserra wasn’t attractive,

He let his eyes roam over his body, taking in the confides of his body, the fire in those eyes and those russet locks. He wondered if those strands were as silky as he imagined.

Shaking his head, Azriel tried to clear the fantasies of Eris Vanserra underneath him from his mind, only to see that Eris had been looking at him too.

“What are you looking at Vanserra.” Azriel growled as a smug smile crossed the prince’s lips.

“Don’t play coy, Shadow Singer, I saw the desire behind your eyes.”

“Then why did you allow it, Vanserra?” He challenged expecting Eris to do a lot of things, what he had not expected was for the kiss to happen.

A deep seething hunger and hatred intertwined in that kiss. He had no idea why he let it happen, why he had continued to let it happen when he loathed this fae next to him. But the idea of having Eris underneath him, the thought of showing him just how much he loathed him felt rather enticing.

Growling, Azriel threw Eris onto the couch, his back hitting the base as his gaze simmered with all the hate he could muster.

"What are yo-"

Before he could say anything, Azriel took the binding he used to tie up his enemies out of his pocket as Eris’s eyebrows lifted.

“Kinky, but what’s the occasion?”

“Get up.” Azriel growled out expecting Eris to stay in place. To not comply with Azriel’s commands, what he didn’t expect was for Eris to rise.

He stood there, the smug smile Azriel always hated staying planted on the face, Azriel wanted to smack that look straight off.

“Your wish is my command, Shadow Singer, if you’re brave enough to take it.”

Azriel bulked at that, resenting his words. Resenting those desires that pelted him, one after another. Desires for this male. The one he had always hated ever since he had beheld that vile face.

He strode over to the princeling, tilting his head back, and smashing his lips to his, his lips punishing as he grabbed a fistful of Eris’s auburn hair. Pulling it back if he could get every inch of that lucious mouth.

He spun Eris around, pinning his back, as Azriel pressed his erection to his ass, showing him exactly what he was dealing with.

“You sure you can take all this, Princeling?” Azriel taunted, his lips firmly pressed to Eris’s ear swearing he could feel the prince shiver in response.

“I’ve taken bigger.” Eris lied. Azriel could sense it. He knew that Eris had never taken a male as big as Azriel before this, and that made him feel…intoxicating.

He briefly let go of Eris, putting some distance between the two so he could bound Eris’s hands together, making sure that his bonds were tight before he put the princeling on his knees. His cock hardening at the sight.

Azriel growled, unbuckling his leathers so his erection could spring free before he wound his hand in Eris’s hair, titling his head up roughly as Azriel rasped out,

“You want my cock so bad, Vanserra, Why don’t you choke on it.

Azriel opened Eris’s mouth, thrusting his cock all the way to the back of Eris’s throat as the prince gagged on it.

“Too big for you, Vanserra?” Azriel mocked, “if your mouth can’t even take me, why do you think you can take me?”

Even though Eris’s eyes were covered, he swore he could feel the glare underneath their as Eris stiffened, sucking on Azriel’s cock as Azriel chuckled.

“Good boy. Now show me how well that mouth of yours can take me.”

Eris weathered him as Azriel thrusted his cock in his mouth. Pulling out his length as he thrusted back in, Eris’s salvia coating his cock as he swore tears ran down Eris’s face soaking through the blindfold from the effort.

Azriel’s balls tightened, his release coming close, as he groaned out.

“Swallow every last drop.” He commanded as the first spurts of his release shot ip in Eris’s mouth. Filling it with his cum as the prince followed instruction and swallowed Azriel’s release down.

“How does it taste, Vanserra? How does the cum of a lowborn Illyrian bastard taste?”

Eris hummed swallowing every last drop Azriel gave as Azriel jerked his cock from Eris’s lips, a few droplets of his release on Eris’s chin as he lifted his head up.

“Answer me.” Azriel commanded as Eris’s voice filled his ears.

“The best I’ve ever tasted.” Eris gasped out as a low cruel laugh fell from Azriel’s lips.

“What would daddy think about that? About you on your knees in front of a lowborn Illyrian bastard. Of you sucking his cock?”

Heat blazed from Eris.

“I could give less of a shit about what my father thinks.”

“Prove it.”

Standing up, Eris carefully made his way back to the couch, bending over and placing his hands on the couch so Azriel has a clear view of his ass as Azriel swore his breath caught.

“Ruin me Shadowsinger. Make me forget every other lover I’ve taken.”

A low primal growl rose out of Azriel as he spread the princeling apart seeing him bared before him like his own personal feast, and he was ready to devour him.

spitting on his ass, Azriel made sure Eris was nice and ready for him as he pressed his hands to his bare shoulder to brace himself, before entering inside of him. Hearing the princeling moan in delight as Azriel stretched him out, making him take all of him as he grasped his throat, gentle enough not to hurt as he growled,

“There we go, look how well you take me.”

“Bastard.” Eris breathed, clenching around him as Azriel pulled out, grasping Eris’s balls and stroking his cock before he slammed back into him again, warning a strangled cry from the prince.

“Brace yourself. “ he warned, giving Eris little chance to recover as he rode the prince, Eris moaning out his name as his hands clenched the couch in front of him, the force of their conjoined bodies making the couch shake as Eris bit the couch cushions to silence himself. Azriel grasping his throat to pull him back as he growled out,

“Oh no you don’t. I want to hear you scream,”

Hearing the prince’s moans of pleasure were delicious, the princling did not fight his basic urges as he lost himself. Surrendering to Azriel as Azriel stroked his cock, not leaving any part of the princeling untouched until he felt the prince’s orgasm. His seed coating his hand as Azriel surrendered to his own orgasm filling the prince so much that it leaked out as Eris let out a primal moan. Glancing back at the Shadowsinger with a promise in his eyes. This dance was far from over between them.

Azriel slipped out of him, a cocky grin forming on his lips as he gestured to the bedroom,

“Come Shadowsinger, we have unfinished business to attend to.”

And without a moment’s hesitation, Azriel followed him, wanting nothing but more from the Prince.

@sjmromanceweek

#sjmromanceweek2025 #sjmromanceweek #eris vanserra #azriel #azris #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acosf #sjm #fanfic #fanfcition

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schrodingersbobby · 11 months ago

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when you're gone, i come undone

Buck’s never been religious, and he sure as hell wasn’t raised with the brand of catholicism that seems to plague Bobby and Eddie’s every step, but he thinks he can understand why Bobby likes his rosary beads so much. At the very least it would give him something to do with his hands while he sits vigil at Bobby’s side, way past the time visitors who aren’t on a first-name basis with half of the hospital staff would be allowed.

The others had left hours ago, some with kids who needed taking care of and others anticipating early shifts the next day, promising to take over from him as soon as visiting hours started. There was no shortage of people who wanted to be the one to keep watch over Bobby, but the night shift would’ve usually fallen to Athena, if she wasn’t recovering in her own room and allowed more than a couple minutes out of bed at a time to come see him.

There was a quiet devastation clinging to her that Buck had never seen before. Maybe because before there would’ve been the safe walls of her home and the arms of her husband to cover her when she lost her unflappable mask.

That, more than anything, makes him feel utterly helpless. As much as he had been thinking of Bobby as more of a dad to him than his own father for close to a decade, Athena was never his mom.

After the rough patch at the start of their relationship, they’d understood each other in the way only two people who love someone as much as they both loved Bobby could. You hold half of his heart, so you’ll hold your fair share of mine, as well. Maybe that was why he’d taken one look at the longing in Athena’s eyes and promised to stay the night with Bobby. No matter his own desire to never let Bobby out of his sight again, he also wanted to protect the pieces of Bobby that were with Athena, as well.

The only problem is that Buck has never been able to stay still for too long. He fidgets, and he bustles, and he fills silences. At the minimum, it usually earns him a dead-pan look that’s suspiciously drenched in fondness, or his name uttered in gentle scolding twinged with amusement.

He half-expects the latter to fall from the corner of Bobby’s mouth with a single eyelid cracked open to give its best effort at the former, the way it usually happens when they’re in the bunkroom and everyone else is ready to sleep like the dead while Buck is wide-awake and wired like an electric fence.

The image stands in such contrast to the blank slate of Bobby’s unconscious face that it does nothing to soothe his nervous fidgeting. He’s leaning so far forward, trying to summon any sort of conscious intention behind the mechanical rise and fall of Bobby’s chest and every reflexive twitch of his face, that he accidentally shifts the chair, so the bottom slides against the floor and breaks the momentary silence that only exists between the regular beeping and intercom noises that come muffled through the hospital room doors.

Come on, Bobby. Tell me to shut up and go to bed. Tell me it’s late, and I can either close my eyes and actually try to sleep or go make some of that lavender tea we keep for this exact reason. You know you want to. Stilling so as to not miss any minute signs of Bobby’s stirring, Buck’s breath catches tight in his lungs like it used to when the fridge door would be too loud as he tried to sneak past his dad’s sleeping form in the living room armchair when he was a kid. Unlike back then, the disappointment when Bobby fails to stir is a living thing that threatens to swallow him whole. He rides the wave of devastation by opening his mouth and intentionally filling the silence, instead.

“I’m gonna say something, but you can’t get mad at me,” he says. Bobby is silent, but that’s not much different from how he’d usually react to such an opening from Buck, so he takes that as his go-head anyway. “I think this may be all my fault.”

It’s probably just his own nerves, but the air in the room settles around the words with so much tension that it only serves to spur him on. “Not the- not the fire, obviously. I mean, I had no idea you’d even met the guy Athena thinks is responsible for it, but that’s kind of what I mean, you know? I had no idea.”

His breath is shaky as he exhales, a tremble running up his shoulders.

“I don’t- I don’t think I ever told you, what I saw when I was in the coma. Maybe you already guessed. Some days it’s like you seem to know what’s going on in my brain better than even I do, but it was just. It was a different world, Bobby. Daniel was still alive, so I guess I never had a reason to come to L.A. and join the academy and everything was just…wrong. Maddie was still with Doug, and Eddie never got to meet Carla so he couldn’t figure everything out fast enough to keep Chris, and Chimney…well, Chim was still Chimney but he told me that you were dead, Bobby. He told me you’d been dead for years and it was like I couldn’t breathe.”

He kind of feels like that now, actually. His face feels hot and his eyelashes are heavy like when he’s about to cry but his eyes are dry. For the first time in years, he’s in agreement with his body’s reaction to something. If he were to start crying now, he wouldn’t ever be able to stop, and that feels too much like giving up to be acceptable.

Deep breath, he thinks, in through his nose and pushed out from his mouth. His lips are dry. He keeps going.

“I used to think that’s why I died, you know. Like I was supposed to learn something and that’s the only way the universe could think to get it through my thick skull, I guess.”

“But I think I got it wrong,” he whispers, and it echoes as loud as the beeping from the heart monitor.

“I thought it meant that I matter, you know. Like, ‘they need you as much as you need them! Don’t leave them alone!’ But I was so stupid.” So much for not crying. His day-old stubble is damp with tears. He’s been wearing these clothes for more than 24 hours at this point and he’s starting to feel overstimulated in the way he sometimes does when they’re on a busy shift and don’t have time to freshen up. It occurs to him that Bobby usually notices, like he notices most things that have the potential to bother any of them. This would be the time when he tells Buck to go ahead and take a quick shower while he reheats the food. And Buck would come back good as new, a weight lifted off his shoulders before he could even recognize it because someone cared enough about him to know him better than he did himself.

“I’ve been so caught up in my own stuff since I came back and, God, I’ve just been so happy these past couple of months it feels like I’ve been walking around with blinders on. I didn’t even notice this thing going on with Eddie until it was too late and now he might lose Christopher. You came to talk to me after our last shift and I should’ve - I should’ve - noticed something was wrong but all I could think about was if I had everything to go stay with Tommy. a-and then something happened with Eddie, and I honestly don’t think I spared you a single other thought that night, Bobby. I was using your recipe to make dinner for my date while your house was burning down.”

He’s tripping over his words, like if he says them fast enough he can reach Bobby and earn his forgiveness first, before the disappointment settles in and bars the gates.

“I should’ve remembered, Bobby. The dream showed me a world where I wasn’t there and you died, and I left it. I came back because I couldn’t live in that world. I refuse to.” Saying the words settles something in him, and he wipes the wetness from his eyes away with the flat of his palm before crossing his arms and sitting up in the chair, body once again posed like a shield between the outside world and the figure lying in the bed.

“Look, maybe-maybe I already missed the chance the universe gave me. But you know better than anyone that I’m way better at third chances anyway.” He tries for a smile, and if he squints really hard he can almost see the muscles under Bobby’s eyes tensing the way they do when he’s about to smile, too.

“You’ve never given up on me before, Bobby. Don’t start now.”

The monitor’s beeping remains the only other sound in the room, but that’s okay. He’s learning to be patient. Bobby knows that, too.

#dear god im literally in emt class rn but i had to post #if anythings fucked ill fix it later #911 spoilers #weewoo brainrot #evan buckley #911 abc #bobby nash

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