#m:i fic

[unlawfulsp00n]

the amount of people in the notes only now releasing what the o3 stood for from this post is sending me

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Another Heartbeat

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, captivity, elements/suggestions of feederism behaviour, breeding, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You get your valentine's surprise.

Based on responses: Lap sitting, breeding, creampie, plus size reader, being carried

Characters: Steve Rogers

This is #2 of the Valentines Roulette stories

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

You wince as the light aches in your eyelids. You stay hidden behind them as you raise your hand shakily. Your lashes wet with tears as you search for the strength to open them. You hunch down and slump further into the corner. 

“Sweetheart,” his deep timbre fills the cramped space. “Hey, are you awake?” 

You sense him come closer. You don’t have the voice to answer him. Are you awake? This feels like another rotten nightmare. 

“Sweetheart?” His shadow dulls the glare shining through the open door. Open... there was a time when all you did was stare through the dark and pray for those hinges to turn. “It’s a special day.” 

He touches your shoulder. You flinch. He curls his hand around your arm and slides you against the wall to sit straight. He catches your head as it bobbles on your neck. 

“You can behave, can’t you?” His thumb brushes your cheekbone and he cooes at your witless murmuring. “I know you can be good for me. You have been.” 

Your eyes are like marbles, threatening to roll back. The days, weeks, months, however long, blend together in blackness. The only light comes through when he slides back that narrow latch and pushes through the tray. A thick bitter smoothie and bland food. Nothing sugary or processed. You eat it or... 

You shudder as your teeth ache at the memory of the metal clamp pushing open against them. The strain of your esophagus and the churning of stomach acid. No, you eat on your own and it keeps him happy. Nice, even. 

“Alright, let’s get you ready, sweetheart,” he slips an arm behind you and another under your knees. He lifts you effortlessly. “Oh, sweetie,” he purrs, “you’re so...” his hand squeezes along your hip. “Soft.” 

The food comes like clockwork. You clear the tray and push it back every time. You feel it engorging you, adding to the cushion around your hips and belly. Even your chest feels bigger. 

He carries you into the light. You turn your head and hide your face against his hard chest. If you open your eyes, they’ll burn out of the sockets. It’s too bright. You cradle your face as all of your trembles. 

“I know, sweetheart, gotta build up your strength,” he coaxes. 

The motion of the world around you adds to the dizzy spin in your head. You lean into him as you feel like you might fall out of his grasp, even as he holds you snug. He finally puts you down. You fold over your lap instantly and he pushes you back up. 

“Work with me,” he pets your hair. 

You tense and quiver as you hold yourself up. You stopped standing up a while back, stopped trying to get any sort of exercise in that space. A cell. The prison he made for you. 

“Alright, we’re going to get you cleaned up.” 

His knuckles brush down your temples and cheek, then along your neck. He follows the silhouette of your body along your shoulders and arms. He gently reaches behind your neck to untie the knot behind it. He peels away the open back linen gown. 

You shiver as your head hangs like a boulder. 

“Open your eyes, sweetheart,” he says. 

You shudder and ball your hands. You exhale as your eyes singe with the effort. You have to obey or... 

You whimper as you pry your lids open. He cradles your chin and forces your head up. Tears roll out and flow down your face. Everything around you is harsh yet fuzzy. 

“I know, sweetie, gotta adjust,” he stands and lets you go cautiously.  

You quake as you lean back against the cold tank of the toilet. He turns and dims the lights. You let your head sink again and watch the tile. The last time you saw those dainty blue diamonds, there was water splashed all around, your body was thrashing, your voice shrill and dry. 

You jolt as you come back to the present. He lowers you into the tub as hot water laps down from the faucet. The steam rises around you in a cloud as he helps you recline against the porcelain.  

His deep voice rises from his large chest. You stare at his shirt. He sings as he washes you with a cloth, suds foaming round his thick fingers. Your eyes creep up to thick beard along his jaw. His eyes are as bright as gems as they focus on his task. Everything is bright. 

And heavy and rough. Just the cotton is enough to make your skin crawl. After so long in desolation, it’s like sandpaper. His voice is low but rattles your eardrums. The song plucks at your brain but you can’t place the memory. 

What was before? 

“Till the end of time,   Long as stars are in the blue,   long as there’s a spring,   a bird to sing,   I’ll go on loving you.” 

You close your eyes and moan. He clucks. 

“No, don’t go to sleep,” he bids. 

Your eyes snap open. He continues his work. When he’s done, he lifts you out, leaning you against him as he wraps you in a towel. There’s a warm smell wafting from your skin. 

He dries you meticulously and replaces the towel with a robe. He takes you to a new room. He sits you at a table with a framed picture of a woman above it. You blink as he moves beside the woman. It’s not a picture. It’s a mirror. 

Is that really you? 

He moves behind you and tugs at your hair. He pauses to check something as he arranges it. Some sort of instruction? Then he shifts you to face him. He uses pencils and brushes on you; tugging at your eyelids and spinning a wand against your lashes. 

He puts you to face the mirror again. You look shinier. You? That’s you? 

He dresses you in red. A plush cloud of fabric in light layers, with roses on the bodice, a short robe with puffed sleeves. He guides you before a bigger mirror. Tall. He stands behind you as he makes you look. 

“You’re gorgeous, sweetheart,” he drags his hands up and down your sides. “You ready for your surprise?” 

You mouth the words. You don’t think you can speak. He smiles and sits you on the cushioned stool again. 

“I almost forgot about me.” 

He leaves you and opens the closet. You watch his back. He’s so big. Tall, broad shoulders, thick hands. 

Your eyes list to the door. You can’t stand without him. You press your soles to the floor and your calves shake. No, you won’t get very far. 

“I can hear your excitement,” he turns with hangers hooked over a finger and taps on his chest with the other. “Sweetheart, you’re going to love it.” 

He goes behind a folding screen painted with golden feathers. You can see his head above it as he changes. He emerges, knotting a patterned silk tie over his crisp white shirt. The jacket is a pale shade of grey that somehow makes his eyes bluer. 

He nears and bends to check himself in the mirror. He combs his long hair back. His thick strands and beard don’t match the formality of his attire. 

“Come on, sweetheart.” 

He stands straight and bends his arm. You stare at it before your head clicks. He helps you stand and loops your arm through his. He walks you into the hallway. Your legs wobble dangerously. 

He stops you before a closed door. There’s a small wooden sign hung on it that shows a stork. You frown. You wonder what it means. You waver as you expect him to put you back into the dark. You step back on your heel and whimper. 

“Sweetie, you’re being good. You can stay out.” 

He turns the crystal door knob. Something about the decor feels so... out of time. He pushes the door inward and unhooks his arm from yours. He guides you by your shoulders into the room, staying behind you. 

The first thing you see are balloons. Big round balloons with pink ribbons and bows attached to them. The latex shines in shades of rose, blush, and ivory. They’re tied to the furniture that fills the room. 

The walls are painted in shades of pastel, one is a forest scene with critters and birds behind branches and stones. There’s a dresser and a table with a pad on top. A chair and a matching ottoman, a rug that looks softer than a cloud, and at the center of it all, a crib. Above hangs a mobile with stars and moon. 

“Happy Valentine's, sweetheart, you’ve been so good,” he praises as he trails his touch down your arm and takes your hand. He draws you around the room. “You like it?” 

Your stomach stirs uneasily. You nod despite the violent tide inside you. This isn’t right. What is this? 

“I knew you would. And you can help finish it. The little things. You know, I don’t have a good eye for the details,” he turns you to take it all in. The windows. There’s no sunlight coming in. Are they even real windows? They are just frames nailed to a wall. 

“Come on,” he brings you to the chair and he sits. He tugs you by the hand. You nearly collapse. “Right here.” 

He pats his thigh. You turn and he helps you sit. He pulls you against him to recline as the back lowers with his lean. He extends his legs onto the ottoman, yours with them. 

He sighs as you lay atop him. He traces the length of your arms then feels along your torso, squeezing the padding along your stomach and chest. You squirm uncomfortably. 

“You been eating good. Drinking your smoothies. Getting your vitamins,” he says. “I can see how good you’ve been.” 

His hands stop on your thighs. He rubs the fabric then slowly drags it up with his fingers, crumpling it high above your naked legs. He tickles you and you wince as he kneads you more firmly. 

His hand trails beneath the bunched skirt and he pets long your curly patch of hair. You hold your breath and tense. He pushes his fingertip between your folds and your voice trickles out in a squeak. 

He rubs you as your insides squirm. You shift and he spreads his other hand across your stomach to still you. You slicken beneath his teasing touch. Your legs fall apart as he pushes his hand further back. 

He exhales over you and drags his hand around your thigh. He slides it under you and his knuckles press into you as he plucks at his pants. He pushes his fly open as you wriggle against him. He shifts you up his body as his other hand dips down to your pelvis. 

He angles you down as he guides his tip long your cunt. You arch your back as he wet himself with your juices. He delves into you slowly and you latch onto his wrist. You convulse as he gets deeper and deeper. 

He rolls his hip, gliding out and back in. You clench around him and measure your breath around the tension in your muscles. He pushes in and you whine. He keeps a slow, even tempo as he stretches a finger down to toy with your clit. 

“I was reading a lot. They say it’s better when you cum. To make sure it takes.” 

His words confuse you. You can barely think as he makes his long thrusts. You brace the armrest as he unravels you tilt by tilt. 

He swirls his fingers as a fiery cluster blooms in your core. You push your feet down around his, digging into the cushion of the ottoman. You strain and writhe as your voice breaks through the brittleness of your throat. You twitch as the heat within unfurls into icy tendrils. 

He hums as he urges you through but doesn’t let up. He pumps into faster as his fingers keep their tempo. The layers of clothes build a fire between you, raising a sheet of sweat over your skin. He groans as he fucks you from below. 

His feet slip from the ottoman as it slides beyond his height. He plants his soles on the floor, rutting up into you as your legs splay wide. Your body bounces helplessly and you cling to the chair and moan, drowning in the shallowness of your breath. 

“I can feel how ready you are, sweetheart,” he grits through his teeth. His hand roves up to your chest and he squeezes, your nipple throbbing tenderly. “You’re going to be a good mommy.” 

You shudder and gasp, your ribs wracking in dread. He groans and fucks you harder, puffing over your hair. 

“Sweetie, are you ready? Tell me you’re ready? You gonna make me a daddy?” 

You gulp and cough, head lolling as you cling onto his arm. He hammers into you harder and harder. 

“Tell me,” he snarls. 

“Y-y-yesssss,” you rasp from your tortured through. 

He grunts and spasms, a warmth flooding inside you as his pace turns wild. You close your eyes and they sting with another swell of tears. The painted walls, the glowing the balloons, it’s all so much worse than that black cell. 

[sherlockggrian]

- notes on impossible minecraft.

It’s the end of Wild Life, and something is different. 

Joel stands, breathing hard, a victor above his failed trap. He holds a sword in one hand, an ender pearl in the other. He knows that when he turns around he will see them, just like the others had. Except when he turns around, there are ghosts.

They’re supposed to go home, after they die. That’s what had always happened. It was how they got out of the world - but it didn’t seem to matter this time, everyone was still here, around him. 

Joel throws the ender pearl, and takes the ghosts with him to the void. They stand around him as he faces the Watchers, though they are unable to see it themselves. Joel begs the Watchers to let them go. He would let the Watchers have him, if they let the others go. But the Watchers don’t want just Joel. They want Grian. 

There are many different worlds within the universe. Hundreds, thousands, infinite numbers - some of them further away, distorted, uninhabitable. Time moves differently in some of them, you could spend a thousand years in one world and only pass the tick of a clock in another. Worlds are created and destroyed every day. Every hermit has come from somewhere - they are all refugees, in a way, forced out of their home worlds for one reason or another. For some, it’s been so long they can hardly remember the place they came from at all. Every world has its own rules. In these strange, short lived places created by the Watchers, the rules have always been simple - to leave, you die. Play the game, run out of lives, and one lucky winner might have the chance of a lifetime, the chance to speak to the gods. It never happened quite like that.

Joel stands in the void now, surrounded by his friends, sword in one hand, empty fist in another. If the Watchers wanted Grian, they’d have to go through him. There is a whirlwind, as the patchwork of worlds twists and turns around them. He’s spinning, thinks Joel. Creating more time. Giving us a chance. Grian calls to the others, to Etho and Cleo and Bdubs, who stand at the back - to go through the door that has appeared in the void. Joel wonders why, and how. The Watcher’s have created a portal - you can go home, they say, all of you - but Grian belongs to us. So does Joel. He won the game, after all. But the ghosts don’t all go home. To Joel’s surprise, he watches as Gem steps forward into the spinning vortex of space and time that he and Grian are caught in. She raises her fists defiantly toward the enormous, impossible beings bearing down on them. Pearl joins them. Then Impulse, and Skizz, their faces written with hard determination. Joel feels a hand take his, and he almost pushes Lizzie away, begging her to follow the others through the portal. He doesn’t. Worlds spin past them, faster and faster, thousands and thousands of them, each a tiny crystal in the infinite void. Grian’s screaming for Scar and Jimmy to go through the portal, and Cleo is trying to pull them in, but they don’t, and they’re running towards the circle of light. Joel tries to move, but finds his feet locked in place, wincing against the wind that whips his cheeks, faster than any storm, and he reaches for Jimmy and pulls him into him, clawing into his back for dear life. For a moment, he doesn’t think Scar is going to make it, but he hears the Watcher’s panicked voices in the back of his mind - 

And then everything stops. He stands, in a circle, on a rocky outcrop, and distantly he thinks he can hear the sound of the sea. Everything is silent. 

It’s the end of Wild Life, and nine players find themselves somewhere unfamiliar. 

The cold chill of winter hangs in the air. They’ve forgotten that it’s late December, somewhere. The world of Wild Life felt warmer. This one doesn’t - it’s bitter, there’s a freezing wind coming in from the ocean, and an icy layer of snow on the ground. It’s not a place any of them recognize. 

This world instantly proves itself to be different. The first death comes within an hour. Lizzie bolts upright, back on the slab of rock, still reeling from what had killed her. Pearl nurses a wound where the bark of a tree had sliced into her skin. Five hours in, and the group realizes that wherever they are, the rules here are unlike anything they’ve ever seen.

Grian privately wishes the others had gone through the portal home. He tries everything he can think of, but is unable to reach beyond the borders of the world. They’re trapped here, in this place where reality seemed to warp in on itself, and everything wanted to kill them. No matter how many times they died, they always ended up back on the rock by the ocean. 

Grian can’t tell if the Watcher’s had meant to send them here. They’d panicked, caught off guard by Grian’s swarm of chaos and unexpected backup. He can tell…something is here, though he’s not sure what - it’s an overbearing presence, a feeling that somebody is controlling them, watching them, learning from them. He has one goal in his mind. Reach the End, kill the dragon, and he can make a portal home. It’s worked in the past. The End is like a pocket dimension, a border between worlds, a place where the rules didn’t apply. They could get home, if they could only make it to the End. The uneasiness grows on him, and Grian tries to push it away, focusing on staying alive. The others are determined. He’s angry, at first, that they’d followed him, but soon he’s glad to have them. Three days in, and they’ve already grown somewhat numb to the constant onslaught of physical attacks. Grian almost welcomes the familiar feeling of dying. He catches himself cursing the view from his makeshift bed, wishing he might wake up anywhere else. 

A week in, and the determination starts to wear down. 

The cold makes it difficult. Gem shivers as she tries to heat her cabin, attempting to find a way to light a fire without burning to death. Despite their constant battle with the lava flow, the world is freezing everywhere else, hung deep within the darkness of winter. Pearl tries to make amends, but Gem is still tense, guarded, cautious - though she says they are on the same team now, the heat of the recent game is still clearly in her mind. Jimmy attempts to grow food, battling the icy wind and little daylight. Joel tries his best to gather Iron, though the caves are worse than above ground. Impulse and Skizz’s successful iron farm is a win. That night, the group huddles all together on the top floor of Joel’s cabin, repeating the only glimmer of hope they have, that they just have to kill the dragon. Joel starts to think it might be impossible. 

Two weeks in, and it’s like the world is learning from them, like it can see the small victories and successes, and preys on them like a hawk. Lizzie curses as the smoker burns her eyes, leaving what little food she had charred and barren. The sharks encroach further and further from the water. The Nether is a literal hellscape - and Grian almost gets used to the feeling of burning to death. Almost. 

And Scar, Scar is…wrong. He drifts along, as though he isn’t quite there all the time. He disappears, then reappears, once in front of Gem’s eyes - and she blinks, trying to make sense of what she’s seeing. He falls asleep, or stands still, and seems to sit on the edges of the world itself, growing stranger and stranger. Grian can feel it. He’s not really there, not all of him. 

When they’d been in the void, Grian had screamed for Scar, feeling the tug of the vortex already pulling him away. He’d grabbed out and touched his hand, reality bending and warping around them. He’d barely seen Scar’s wide, terrified eyes, before they’d been whisked from the black hole into the broken world they found themselves in. Scar had just made it. Or maybe he hadn’t. It was like he was half there, one foot inside the portal and one out - and as time went on and the world’s borders stretched and warped, so did Scar, drifting in and out of consciousness. Sometimes Scar found himself back home, except it wasn’t the right home, it was one he’d left years ago - and he’d wander aimlessly, utterly alone, before realizing it wasn’t right. He hopped between dreams and worlds, living and unliving, shadows and reality. Back in the strange place, the group grew increasingly anxious. Grian felt the hope he’d held for the End dwindling. He was powerless here. All of them were. 

Then, finally, they have the Eyes of Ender. They knew how to do this part. Lizzie stayed with Scar while the others went out, trying to shove thoughts out of her mind of what might happen if they were to fall into the void. They make it to the stronghold, the place they need to be, and all they have to do is defeat the dragon - freeing the borders of the End, and letting them go. Only the dragon doesn’t look how it normally does. It wasn’t like Grian expected it to, anyways. 

Six weeks in, and the compass is their last hope. If they can just get the echo shards, they’ll have a chance at killing the dragon. Gem has never liked the Deep Dark. It twists around her, whispering things in her ear and making her head hurt. Be careful, says Joel, as she leaves the camp with Grian and Jimmy. We need you. We need all of you to come back alive. 

It’s near the very end, when Grian remembers. He feels the twinge of longing in his back muscles, the phantom pain of something that should be there that isn’t. He could fight the dragon, if he was truly himself, if he had access to it - and he wonders if it’s possible. He’s never done it without killing the dragon first. There’s a first time for everything, he supposes. He’s not sure why he takes Jimmy. Maybe it’s because they’ve been together now for longer than they’ve been in a long time, and Grian is holding on to the hope that maybe he can keep Jimmy safe, if he takes him home. Maybe it’s because he feels guilty, still, for Wild Life - he’d only been trying to keep him from getting to the end, but still, the anger had been real. The blood had been real. There was no changing that. Maybe it’s because Jimmy is his brother, and despite it all, Grian still trusts him. Jimmy has always been complicated like that. 

When they get the wings, the feeling is magical. Grian feels the familiar magic course through his veins, and the feathers unfold from his back. It feels like taking a breath of fresh air again, arising from a deep and stagnant cave. Against all odds, here, in this broken, far away world where reality bent in on itself like a broken spring - Grian has wings, and Grian could fly. 

How many weeks has it been? Grian doesn’t know anymore. He forces Scar to come with him, one last time. They would make one last journey to the stronghold. They were ready for it, this time. For once it felt good to fight together, and not against one another. Pearl’s shouts echo through the black landscape, and Joel and Lizzie take swings side by side, no longer feeling the sting of death as they roll between hits. Gem fires arrow after arrow, and Grian and Jimmy weave through the great obsidian pillars, throwing themselves at the crystals, wincing to bear the explosion. The dragon has three lives. Grian is reminded, then, of a world far away - and he thinks, in a way, the answer is still to die. The universe works in a web of death and life. The Watchers aren’t the only power that exists out there. There are other forces at work, stranger than he can imagine, and as Grian lands the final blow, he feels the world around him shift, the borders change, and the End stretch out infinitely beyond him in a mass of dark void. As much as he hates it, it does feel like home. The Watcher’s voices echo in the darkness somewhere. Grian deliberately sounds them out.

Then they’re holding hands, standing in a circle, watching the dark, starless sky. Grian stares at the portal in the ground, a swirling mass of blue and black and endlessness, and knows that it will always lead the player back home. He feels that background presence start to lift, and he grips Jimmy’s hand tightly in his right hand, Scar’s in his left. Scar holds Gem, who holds Impulse, to Skizz, to Pearl, to Lizzie - and to Joel, whose grip on Lizzie and Jimmy is a little harder. In the back of his mind, he knows they have no home world. He wonders if they’ll make it back with them - or if they would once again be torn from him, transported somewhere else in the fabric of the universe. They couldn’t, he thinks, because right now, Joel’s grip is enough to hold the entire universe itself. 

Gem looks to Pearl, just before they jump. Her eyes are shut, her face lined with quiet determination and concentration, her hair pulled back and tangled from the fight. Gem thinks she might forgive her. 

Then they jump, the nine of them, all holding each other, just like they did in the void, just like they did when Wild Life ended. Worlds spin past them like grains of sand in a vast ocean. A thousand sunrises pass by in the blink of an eye, and Joel feels Jimmy and Lizzie start to drift away from him - but he pulls them in, holding on for dear life, clenching his eyes as the colours swirl around him. Grian knows the Watchers are out there somewhere, no doubt trying to steal him away. They can try, he thinks, surrounded by his friends. In reality, no Watcher can even come close to them now. Love disgusts the Watchers. It repels them. Scar had always said that is what made Grian human still, despite it all. Scar looks at Grian, a single constant in the spinning mass, and feels himself fall back together, like pieces of a puzzle. 

It is sometime in late winter, maybe early Spring. The snow is starting to melt here, and new shoots of grass are just barely emerging from beneath the dry bed of last year’s growth. Stars blink down over the lawn, where nine people lay, hand in hand, breathing hard. A light flickers on from a window a few feet away, where Hypno sits up in bed, wondering what the sound outside is that has woken him. The gentle glow of a Lighthouse hums in the distance. Mumbo rolls over, waking from the strangest dream he’s had in his life. Etho meets the eyes of Tango, still awake and drinking over a game on the table, and he feels something shift, like a slight pull at the back of his chest. Xisuma pulls the curtains back from his window and looks out toward the group of people in the distance, and smiles. He’d known it before they’d even landed. 

Joel, still holding the hands of Lizzie and Jimmy, still feeling the sting of the sword and the rush of blood and the hope and loss and finality of Wild Life, starts to laugh. 

hey if you read this far I love you!!! just wanted to get my thoughts out on the impossible lore, without doing a tumblr textpost word vomit lol. you can read this on ao3 if you'd like, I love the comments!

[kirain]

Part five of my appreciation project.

@bbluxart A fic based on their wonderful art piece here and here. Thank you for feeding the fandom!

Emmrich sat at his desk, the soft scratch of his quill the only sound in the dimly lit study. His brows were furrowed in concentration as he penned the final lines of his acceptance speech, each word weighed with meticulous care. Though sleep clouded his mind, he ignored it—this was far more important.

"'You cannot imagine how much I'... no. 'I cannot thank you enough'? No, that's not it."

Stacks of parchment surrounded him, some filled with earlier drafts, others littered with notes and revisions. The candle beside him burned steadily, casting a bright glow over his work—until a shadow suddenly fell across the page.

Kalais, his elven goddess. She leaned over his desk, arms braced against the wood, her face close enough that he could smell the faint trace of lavender on her skin.

"Are you really going to spend all night scribbling away when you could be spending time with me?" she asked, her voice lilting with mock petulance.

Emmrich chuckled, not looking up. "Tempting as that is, I do have to finish this. The university expects something... coherent, at least."

Kalais sighed dramatically, shifting so that she blocked more of his light. "Are you saying I have to wait to be showered with attention?"

"That does seem to be the case." He finally lifted his gaze, amused. "Though, if it helps, I'm already looking forward to it."

Kalais smirked but said nothing. Instead, she pushed off the desk and stretched, as if preparing to wander off and find something else to entertain herself with.

"Wait, Kalais? Before you turn in," Emmrich said, his voice unusually timid. "I did want to ask—would you accompany me?"

She froze. "To the... ceremony thing?"

"Yes." His expression steeled, no longer flirty, but earnest. "It would mean a great deal to me if you came along."

Kalais forced a smile before he could see the apprehension flicker across her face. "Is this, uh... fancy-fancy? Like, with wine and cheese and hors d'oeuvres and... all that?”

"Yes, but don't worry about that. I just want you there. To celebrate with me."

Kalais hesitated for only a moment before she gave him a breezy grin. "Well, when you put it like that... how can I possibly say no?"

She sounded excited—at least, she hoped she did. Inside, doubt churned in her stomach, but Emmrich was looking at her with such expectance, such conviction, she couldn't bring herself to refuse.

"Marvellous," he sang, relieved. "It wouldn't feel right without you there."

Kalais turned away before he could catch her uncertainty. "Guess I'd better find something to wear, then," she winked over her shoulder.

"Oh, you'll look stunning no matter what you choose, my darling."

Kalais flashed a cheerful wave as he watched her go, her playful bravado intact. But as she closed the door behind her, her smile slipped, and she wondered if she'd made a mistake.

-----

The grand hall of the university glistened with an inescapable air of prestige. Golden chandeliers loomed over rows of blackwood tables and chairs, their polished surfaces reflecting the green glow of countless candles; all lit with a necrotic magic Kalais couldn't even begin to comprehend—and the room was bustling. Scholars and dignitaries from across the kingdom and beyond had gathered to celebrate Emmrich's vast achievements.

Emmrich.

Professor Emmrich Volkarin of the Mourn Watch—a title she'd heard him use only once, the day they met. Yet tonight, it was spoken by every person who shook his hand, clapped his shoulder, and vied for his attention. It was so formal. So unfamiliar.

"I am profoundly grateful to be standing among you this evening. May we continue to expand our knowledge for centuries to come, and make the unknown known."

Applause thundered through the chamber as the university president fastened a medallion of honour around Emmrich's neck, its emblem catching the light. Kalais couldn't be on stage with him, but she smiled as she watched, his speech brief yet brilliant. She knew almost nothing about his research, but she did know this meant a lot to him—a recognition hard-earned and long overdue.

As he accepted his award, she stood at the back of the hall, clutching a single branch of lilacs in her hand. The flowers were delicate, their fragrance a comfort to her anxious heart. She had spent the last of her coins on it, knowing it was Emmrich's favourite; rivalling even his love of Weeping Widowers, but she'd kept it hidden until the proper moment, hoping to surprise him.

Once, he had shared a memory of his late mother tending lilac bushes in her garden—a memory that often brought him peace. He didn't remember much of his parents, but those memories were bright, often triggered by the syrupy-sweet scent and pastel purple hue. Perhaps, Kalais thought, it would make him feel as though she were there, relishing in her son's achievements.

As the awards drew to a close, he stepped off the stage, waving her forward. Kalais nodded, but as she moved closer, her confidence wavered. Emmrich was surrounded by nobles in tailored suits, scholars in richly adorned robes, and students whose laughter rang with the ease of privilege. She wasn't one of them. She wasn't an academic or a necromancer. She had never belonged in a place like this, and she knew that sentiment was shared.

"Goodness, look who's here," a sharp voice cut through the crowd.

Kalais paled.

Vanessa Schulzer, one of Emmrich's fellow professors, stood with a small cluster of colleagues, all of whom had made their disapproval of their relationship abundantly clear. Kalais had met them once before in the Necropolis, during a perilous expedition. They had mistaken her for a tomb robber, their accusations tempered only by Emmrich's intervention.

"If it isn't... what was your name again? Kaless?"

"Kalais," she answered plainly.

"Oh, that's right," the woman cooed. Her vibrant gown and pearly chains of office glittered—a stark contrast to Kalais' threadbare dress. "I must say, I'm surprised to see you here," she continued, her tone pure politeness and venom.

"Is there some reason I shouldn't be?" Kalais asked, holding back for Emmrich's sake.

"Not at all. As I said, I'm just surprised. After our... introduction in the Necropolis, I didn't get the impression you had much interest in our craft."

"I wasn't stealing," Kalais groaned.

"Of course you weren't, dear. Of course you weren't. I only meant you seemed slightly out of your depth."

An uncomfortable silence, before the woman laughed delightedly, swirling the glass of wine in her hand.

"Quite the evening, isn't it? A true celebration of academic excellence." She took a sip, her cold, azure eyes studying Kalais like a jeweler appraising a flawed gem; searching, scrutinising. "Would I be correct in assuming this is your first time attending an event such as this?"

The others snickered, the gibe conspicuous.

"First time, yeah," Kalais smiled. "We've been so busy saving the world, we haven't had much time for diversions. But we made an exception for this."

The group frowned, visibly irritated, but they recovered quickly, Vanessa's eyes flicking to the lilacs in Kalais' hand.

"And what's this?" she asked, her lips curling in amusement. "A gift?"

Kalais flinched, tucking the branch somewhat behind her back. "For Emmrich. To congratulate him."

Another professor, Enrique Webb, chuckled at the display. "How... quaint. I'm sure it will slide in quite nicely with one of the many bouquets he's already received."

"He likes lilacs," Kalais said, trying not to sound defensive.

She failed.

"He does," Vanessa chided. "But lilacs are a copper a dozen. The professor is being honoured for a lifetime of contributions to necromancy, Fade exploration, and magical theory. A single stick of lilacs compared to the rest of the accolades he's receiving tonight—" She winced, feigning sincerity. "Well, I don't mean to disparage your efforts, but it does feel a little insulting. Don't you agree?"

"It's a nice thought," another professor chimed. "It just doesn't fit the occasion. We call that 'undervaluation', and it's taken very seriously here."

"I bought him one of those revolutionary new pens I've been hearing so much about," Enrique said proudly. "It will be instrumental in aiding his work to come."

"I bought him an engraved cluster ring," another woman added. "Enchanted, of course, to read the proximity of spirits."

"Doesn't he already have one of those?"

"Yes, but it's tarnished. Volkarin appreciates..." She looked Kalais up and down. "Finer things."

Laughter rippled through the group, their words cutting deep, while Kalais' grip tightened around the branch of lilacs. She had known they wouldn't welcome her, but the sting of their mockery still burned. She glanced towards Emmrich, still engrossed in conversation with the elite, unaware of the exchange. Perhaps they were right, but she wasn't about to give them the satisfaction.

"You don't know Emmrich like I do. He appreciates the finer things, yes, but he appreciates affection more. His mother—"

"Excuse you?" Vanessa snapped. "We've been working with him for decades. Some of us went to school with him. You've known him a total of... six months? That hardly makes you an expert."

"And what exactly are you an expert in?" Enrique pressed. "Volkarin is an intellectual. Above all, he appreciates intelligence the most. You're here to celebrate his accomplishments, but do you even know what they are? Do you understand them?"

"I..." Kalais looked away, her ears drooping.

"We mean no offense, of course," Vanessa sneered. "You're very pretty. I think we're all just a little shocked Volkarin chose such an... unlettered inamorata." She took another sip of her wine, her eyes boring through the young elf like a spear. "I would be happy to educate you on our craft, of course. I am an excellent teacher, after all. You only need to ask."

"That's right," Enrique tittered. "You know what they say—the first step is admitting you need help."

Kalais tensed, her arms shaking. She wanted to tear into them; she could have, but this was Emmrich's night—and they were right. She didn't belong there. Without another word, she turned away, the group's jeers echoing behind her. As she passed a waste bin, she dropped the lilacs inside, their petals trembling, mirroring her despair.

Then, she headed for the doors.

-----

As the celebration wound down, Emmrich wandered the hall, his thoughts preoccupied. He was looking for her, cutting every conversation short as his eyes scanned the room.

"Kalais?" he choked, his tone laced with concern. "Darling, where are you?"

"Good evening, Emmrich," Vanessa said, slithering up beside him. "I believe congratulations are in order—"

"Have you seen Kalais?" he asked hurriedly.

The woman stifled a groan. "Kalais? Who was that again?"

"You know very well," Emmrich huffed. "I arrived with her."

"Ah, yes, the elf woman. Last I saw, she was heading for the buffet."

"She isn't there," he countered, his head turning in all directions. "That was the first place I searched."

"I'm sure she's mingling elsewhere," the woman decried. "In the meantime, I have something for you." With a suggestive glance, she pulled an ornamented box from her purse. "It was a challenge to find, but I managed to—"

"Forgive me, but I really must find her," Emmrich interrupted.

And he walked away, leaving Vanessa shunned and forsaken.

"Kalais!" he yelled over the music and chatter. "Kalais, can you hear me? Please, darling, where are you?"

As he neared the back wall, his eyes caught a flash of mauve, stopping him in his tracks. In the bin, a branch of lilacs lay atop a pile of trash, the colour standing out amongst the manilla wrappers and containers. Curious, he picked it up, its inexorable scent stirring something deep within him.

"Who left this here?" he murmured, running his fingers over the delicate petals.

A voice, faint and otherworldly, answered him.

"One who admires you greatly, Professor."

Emmrich turned to see a translucent figure manifesting behind him—a spirit draped in soft, glowing light. It wasn't uncommon for spirits to gather in the university, especially during celebrations, where emotions ran high.

"With whom do I speak?" he asked, respectfully.

"I am but a watcher of moments, drawn to the pain I witnessed here tonight," the spirit replied.

"An observer," Emmrich said, fascinated, "who witnessed... pain? Here, in this merry hall?"

The spirit nodded. "A pain not marking the flesh, but scathing the soul."

Emmrich's back stiffened with a strangling sense of dread. "Would you be willing to show me?"

"Behold."

The spirit lifted its hand, and the air around them changed. Through its eyes, Emmrich saw the night replay before him like a vivid dream. He saw Kalais approach his colleagues. He saw her expression dull as they spoke cruelly—taunting her, humiliating her. He saw her leave, her head bowed. He saw her drop the lilacs in the bin.

Then, the vision faded.

Emmrich gripped the branch tightly, his heart twisting with anger and sorrow.

He had no idea.

-----

A fair walk from the university, Kalais sat on a bench beneath the night sky, the distant hum of the celebration fading into silence. The cool breeze pricked at her skin, crisp and invigorating, yet it did little to soothe the ache in her chest.

"I'm sorry..." she grimaced.

Her eyes fell to the grass, shame whirling through her like a fever. She had left Emmrich behind, but it was for the best. As insufferable as his colleagues might have been, they belonged in his world—she didn't. He deserved someone who could stand beside him, not someone who struggled to understand the simplicity of self-abnegation techniques for sub-astral navigation.

"Darling?"

Kalais looked up, startled to see Emmrich standing before her.

"Emmrich?" she whispered, rising to her feet. "I just... needed some fresh air." She forced a smile, unaware that it broke him inside and out. "You didn't have to come looking for me. I was just about to head back in—"

"This," he said, holding up the flowers, "means more to me than all the grand speeches and applause I received here tonight."

Kalais gasped, but quickly looked away, embarrassed. "I didn't think you'd want it," she admitted, her voice low. "It just seemed... out of place."

"Out of place?" Emmrich frowned, then stepped closer, his boots nearly touching hers. "You belong, my darling. You belong with me. Never let anyone tell you otherwise." A faint blush spread across her cheeks as she saw the veracity blazing in his eyes. "Those who tried to belittle you this evening—they have much to learn about strength of character. It seems they've forgotten that I myself came from nothing, and I have no qualms about reminding them."

"Emmrich, you don't have to—"

His hands came up, gently pinning the flowers to her dress like a corsage. "Darling, do you know what the lilac represents?"

Kalais paused, her heart racing. "No. What?"

He smiled handsomely. "Love, innocence, youth, and nostalgia." As the stem slipped into the perfect position, he moved his hands to her waist, admiring the way the petals accentuated her natural beauty. "You are my lilac, my love. The sweetest, most precious thing in my life."

"Emmrich..."

Before she could say another word, he leaned in, capturing her lips with his. It was soft at first; gradual, searching, as if coaxing her back from the depths of her insecurity. His lips were both desperate and patient, and the way he kissed her sent a shiver down her spine.

"Mmhm..." Kalais moaned, melting into him before she could realise it, her fingers gripping his coat.

He felt it—and he deepened the kiss, parting her lips with the barest flick of his tongue. The teasing brush sent heat curling in her stomach, and then lower as one of his hands roamed to the back of her head, his fingers lacing through her hair. Kalais responded in kind, parting her lips further, inviting him in as she slipped her arms over his shoulders.

He tasted of wine and something richer—something uniquely him. His tongue stroked against hers, hungry and lingering, turning the kiss from a gentle reassurance into something far more intoxicating. As another moan escaped her throat, he swallowed it thirstily, his other hand squeezing her waist just a shade tighter.

To remind her she was wanted.

In that moment, the world blurred. There was no university, no judgmental scholars, no crushing self-doubt—only the warmth of Emmrich's mouth, the press of his body, the delicious drag of his tongue against hers. This kiss, possessive and passionate, proved to her that he believed she was worth holding onto.

Then—a shimmer at the edge of their vision. A flicker, soft and ethereal. Another. Then more.

Wisps.

Like fallen stars, they drifted from the trees, gliding in slow, captivating spirals. Drawn to the bond between them, they circled the pair, their spectral glow bathing the moment in a hushed, enchanted light, silvery-blue and striking. Kalais felt their presence, the air thick with magic, and nearly pulled away—but Emmrich wouldn't allow it. His hands tightened, his lips pressing harder into hers, sealing them in this perfect, fleeting eternity.

At that, the wisps pulsed, their light swirling in time with the beat of their hearts, as if blessing their love with mystic approval.

They were meant to be.

When Emmrich finally pulled away, Kalais' eyes gleamed, welling with tears. He always saw her, even when she tried to hide herself.

"Do you want to go home?" he asked suddenly, wiping her tears with his thumb.

"But... your party," she wheezed, basking in the sensation of his touch. "And all that... food," she drooled.

Emmrich laughed, her pain seeming to vanish at the prospect.

"Then let's go feast," he said, cupping her chin. "On the wine and cheese and hors d'oeuvres and... all that." Kalais giggled, making his chest swell with ecstasy. "But only if you promise to be the loudest, most outrageous person in the room. No apologies."

She grinned, hugging his arm. "I can do that."

"Good. I wouldn't have it any other way."

Together, they walked back towards the university with their heads held high, the lilacs a solace in the corner of Emmrich's eye.

[sunseed-fandump]

I need more backstory on bad batch wizard!! What do you mean my baby boy was almost devoured 😭

(Also totally not cus he's my fav and im biased to want more content of him no wayyyy 👀💧)

(An old picture sits in Vampire Cookie’s desk drawer. A reminder of a happier time, back when he and his sister used to live in a place very far away…)

Tell me, what are you willing to do for the sake of survival?

When Wizard was first baked, he was lucky he got away when he did. The life powder in his body had kicked in very late. When he awoke, it wasn’t to crackling flames, burnt cookies, and oven walls; he woke up on a plate, the only cookie in his batch to have come alive at all, stuck under the weight of inanimate dough. He didn’t even fully comprehend what was going on until the entire pile had shifted from the Witch taking one of the cookies from the top, offering him a wonderful view of her biting off its head.

He panicked, kicking and flailing in an attempt to free himself and run. The hard porcelain beneath him, the crushing weight above him, and the looming threat beyond that was all too much. He didn’t even know his own name yet and he was already afraid of losing what little life he had.

His struggles had caused the pile to shift slightly, gaining the Witch’s attention. Before she could discover him, the sound of glass shattering and the cat screeching heralded the arrival of a blessing in disguise. With the Witch preoccupied, Wizard was able to wiggle his way out from under the pile and flee to safety.

Like I said, he got lucky.

He wandered the Castle alone for a time, piecing together an identity for himself as he went. However, he didn’t discover his love for knowledge until he stumbled across the Witch’s library. With every book he read, (and he taught himself how to read very very quickly) he understood things a little bit better. The world around him suddenly seemed less scary. Those stringy things in the tunnels? Just cobwebs. Strange-looking shadows? Just a trick of the light. The thunder that crashed beyond the castle walls? A by-product of lightning from the expansion of rapidly heated air. Simple!

Then he found the magic books and Wizard discovered a whole new thing about himself.

He loved magic. He loved the very concept of it. He loved the idea of being able to use it. He wanted to shoo away the cobwebs by conjuring a gust of wind. He wanted to illuminate the shadows by creating light from nothing. He wanted to call the lightning from the heavens and have the thunder clap at his command.

(He wanted - needed - a shred of control over his own fate, lest the Witch find him.)

So he studied, and he practiced, day in and day out, using twigs and common quartz as foci. They weren’t strong, and would break if he tried anything too advanced, but he managed.

Then he met Alchemist Cookie.

At first they didn’t think much of each other. Wizard preferred the Arcane Arts while Alchemist stuck with her potions and elixirs, both considered their chosen path to be superior to the other. Yet, after a few encounters, the two found companionship in one another. It was refreshing finally being able to meet someone just as passionate about magic. It was thrilling to engage in academic discussion and not have to be met with blank confused stares. They became friends.

She introduced him to other castle residents who were just as passionate about magic. She was willing to share her lab with him so he could practice in a safer environment. She showed him the safest paths through the castle walls and all the settlements to find the best reagents. He was very lucky to have met her.

And then came the day his luck ran out.

If you were to ask the two of them whose idea it was to sneak into the Witch’s Lab that day, Wizard would blame Alchemist, while Alchemist would blame Wizard. The truth is, neither of them remember, and by this point it doesn’t matter.

The rarest reagents and best supplies in the castle could be found in that lab, but while Alchemist had plundered the cabinets, Wizard had found something of interest in a display case. A staff, relatively simple in design, with dragon wings carved from amethyst, and a small flickering azure ember hovering above it. Despite his better judgement, despite knowing the Witch would notice such a thing going missing, despite the red flag of repressing runes surrounding the artifact, Wizard Cookie took the staff.

The minute his little hand lifted it from its display, the tiny ember burst into a strong flame and a bright blazing eye slid open. Wizard had been scared at first, almost putting the staff back, but then it spoke to him. It thanked him, it told him it had been trapped for so long, its last master had been killed and it had been waiting for a new wielder worthy of its powerful secrets ever since.

It asked if Wizard would like to know those secrets…

But before the boy could give the staff his answer, Alchemist Cookie had returned from the cabinets. She scolded him for being so reckless and told him to return the staff where he had found it, but Wizard refused. After all, if this staff was as powerful as it boasted, perhaps it could be used for the good of the cookies back home? Besides, the other scholars would probably love to study it. It was such a good find!

Alchemist eventually relented, and the pair left the lab, reagents and staff in hand.

They didn’t know that they were being followed.

When they had returned to the settlement nestled in a crawlspace, the two were wholly unaware of what else they had brought back with them until it was too late.

The Reaper, one of the Witch’s faithful servants created from a hollowed out pumpkin and vines, had followed them back home. She, like the other familiars, had been tasked with capturing the sweetest creatures they could find, especially Cookies. She descended on the town with ruthlessness, spreading seeds that grew into brambles and swinging her scythe with deadly grace.

The town was in complete chaos. The militia scrambled for control, spells did nothing as The Reaper grew back whatever damage was done to her plant-composed body too quickly, nobody could escape because the town had been sealed in by the thorns. That did not stop Wizard and Alchemist from trying to find a way out or helping the other desserts hide while searching for Alchemist’s brother, Vampire Cookie, to make sure he was safe.

Unfortunately, the Reaper found them first.

Two of the many vines that made up her body had caught them, plucking them up like a fresh harvest.

“Oh goody, more cookies!” The Reaper had said with a cackle, but then paused and raised them higher for closer inspection. “Wait... Oh, I know you two! You’re the little thieves I followed! I’m sure The Witch will reward me handsomely when she finds you on her plate tonight!”

Now, as a plant, the Reaper had no need for real food. All of her sustenance came from planting her roots into soil and absorbing whatever sunlight filtered in through the castle’s windows. Because of this, her large empty head was used as a prison for whatever creatures she caught. It was a perfectly harmless holding space. Wizard knew this, of course, because he had done extensive research into as many of the Witch’s minions as he could. (Unlike the cobwebs, shadows, and thunder, the more he learned, the scarier they became.) Despite this knowledge, however, when the Reaper had raised him to her mouth in order to stash him away inside her head, Wizard felt a terribly violent spike of fear for his own life.

His first memory had returned to him, unbidden. The vision of the Witch biting the head off of a cookie flashed in his mind, and that combined with his fear, caused the irrational thought of “I am going to die. She is going to eat me.”

And then the staff, still clutched tightly in his hands, spoke to him once again.

It told him it could save him. It told him it knew a spell that could stop the Reaper once and for all. He needed only to ask, and it would happily whisper the words into his ear. After all, it would hate to see Wizard wind up on a plate like its last master.

All Wizard had to do was listen closely…

The words of the spell felt vile on his tongue, but the Azure Flame Staff assured him that he would get used to it. He was mere inches from the Reaper’s face when the blue flame at the top of the staff burst.

A massive inferno consumed the Reaper and soon the flames spread to the brambles. The force of the explosion had shook the foundation and support beams, causing the old castle stones to collapse which resulted in a cave-in that buried some of the town.

It was complete and utter devastation.

Wizard and Alchemist had been flung from the Reaper’s grasp when she flailed around in a desperate attempt to put the fires out. The azure flames ate away at both her plant-like body and the magic that fueled her life-essence. It was a weirdly beautiful sight, though Wizard didn’t have a chance to see what became of her as he and Alchemist crashed into a fountain, the water just barely broke their fall.

They hauled themselves out of the fountain, soaking wet and trembling, but alive. They were alive. Wizard had done it. He finally had the power to change his fate however he wished. He’d done it!

Laughter had bubbled out of his chest at the revelation, the hand that wasn’t clutching the staff had flown up to his hair. (He had lost his hat in the fall. Pity.) All the stress and fear melted into an emotion he couldn’t quite describe, but it gave him butterflies in his stomach and a lightheaded feeling that just made everything suddenly seem so funny. He could barely contain himself as he leaned back against the edge of the fountain and released all that pent up emotion through cackling laughter that could only just barely be heard over the sounds of crackling blue fire.

“I did it!” He had said with joy in his heart. “We’re safe, Alchemist, we’re–!” But his joy melted into concern when he looked over to his friend. Where he had been expecting her to be just as relieved and happy as he was, he saw fear.

It took him a moment to realize that it was directed at him.

“Alchemist?” His brow furrowed.

“Wizard…” Alchemist began slowly. “Put the staff down.”

The staff almost seemed to hiss at her suggestion, and Wizard found himself clutching it tighter. “Why?”

“Please, I just need you to trust me, okay?” She slowly got to her feet, approaching him like one would a scared animal.

With the Reaper no longer an immediate threat, the townscookies had begun leaving their hiding places in favor of getting the inferno under control. The square was suddenly full of noise, cookies shouting orders and rallying others to shift through the rubble. Wizard didn’t hear any of it as he stared at Alchemist with confusion.

“But, Alchemist, it’s fine. See?” He held it up and she cringed away, as if expecting him to cast that same explosive spell at her. Why did she think he would hurt her? They were friends!

“Th-That’s great, now put down the staff.” Her insistence made annoyance flare up in Wizard’s gut. They had just escaped certain death and this was what she was focusing on?! He wasn’t a threat, so why was she acting so weird? She knew he’d been looking for a strong foci for a while now, so why was she trying to take the staff away from him?

Wizard narrowed his eyes. “... No.”

“What?”

“We finally have a means of defending ourselves against the Witch and her minions and you want me to just let it go?” The boy rose to his full height, taking a step forward (and ignoring her taking a step back).

“Wizard, that thing is dangerous!” She flung her arms out to the side, gesturing at the burning town all around them. Wizard scoffed.

“I have it under control!” He didn’t, but that wasn’t important right now.

“You call everything that just happened control?! You just killed one of the Witch’s familiars and buried half the town!” Alchemist was getting visibly hysterical, but Wizard was too angry to notice. She was treating him like a child! He knew what he was doing!

“I just saved your life! A ‘thank you’ would be nice!” He put a hand on his hip, offended at the lack of gratitude.

“Thank you? You want a thank you?! There are cookies buried under there, some of them might have even crumbled, and you want me to THANK YOU?! My brother is over there and–!” She stopped short, as if surprised by the words that had come from her own mouth. The color drained from her face as realization set in, her eyes were wide and she spoke with a soft trembling voice, “Vampire Cookie….”

She had spun on her heel, anger towards Wizard forgotten in favor of fear for her brother. “VAMPIRE COOKIE!”

“I’ll help!” Wizard’s own anger simmering into concern over the lax cookie’s well-being. Yet he was stopped by a spear impacting the ground in front of him.

“I believe we’ve all had enough of your ‘help’,” spat the militia-cookie who had gotten in his way before he extended a hand toward the boy. “You’re under arrest for use of dark magic. Come quietly.”

“Wha–?!” Wizard jumped back, looking from the armored cookie to Alchemist Cookie’s back. “You-You can’t be serious! You’re joking, right? It was just the one spell, how does that make me a criminal?! Alchemist, tell him he’s wrong! Alchemist!”

The girl said nothing for a long moment, refusing to look at him. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. When she finally spoke it was a whisper, “Leave…”

Wizard cringed as if he had been struck. “B-But–”

“I said LEAVE!” She whirled around on him, tears and fire in her eyes. “THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!”

Wizard Cookie felt numb. This couldn’t really be happening could it? He had just defeated the monster attacking the town, and now they were treating HIM like the monster! All he did was cast a spell! A spell that saved them from the Witch’s dinner table!

“HAS EVERYONE GONE CRAZY?!” Wizard snapped. “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU–AH!”

A stone had gotten thrown at his head, and it was only now he realized the scene had amassed quite an audience.

“The only crazy one here is you!” shouted one of the cookies in the crowd.

“What were you thinking?!” cried another.

“This is so much worse than what the Reaper would have done!”

“Get out!” Another stone was thrown, which Wizard was able to avoid this time.

The boy began to feel overwhelmed. Despair settled in his gut and made it feel like heavy stones had been tied to his feet as he looked around at all the cookies who were angry at him. He gave one last pleading look to Alchemist, who stared at him with a cold look.

Without another word, she turned her back to him and left.

Wizard scrambled back when a few more militia-cookies began advancing on him. Outnumbered and heartbroken, he fled. The militia probably would have caught him if the staff hadn’t whispered a teleportation spell into his ear, which he used without a second thought.

And the minute he left town, the azure flames blew out.

Wizard was on his own for a while after that. The experience made him bitter, especially when word spread throughout the castle of a cookie of his description practicing the forbidden arcane. A menace, a mad wizard, a twisted child who could destroy a whole town and laugh about it. He hated those rumors. He despised the vile things everyone said about him, especially since most of it wasn’t even true! But nobody asked for his side of the story. They only ever pointed and called him a monster!

And after everything he’d done for them…

Did they expect him to have just let himself be taken and eaten by the Witch? Did they want him to just rely on luck like everyone else? Did they want him to just accept whatever fate the Witches designed for him?! No, he refused. He wanted to live. He wanted to learn. He wanted to paint his own destiny and leave a mark on the world that no one would ever be able to erase.

Wizard Cookie did not want to be lucky, he wanted to live.

So, I ask again.

What are you willing to do for the sake of survival?

[artsy-hobbitses]

One of the images that would not leave my head is that of Prowl coming face to face with the man he once was, which happens during TTB's Functionist! AU arc and becomes a narrative testament to the growth he's gone through as a person inside, as opposed to the shiny, chrome outer growth of P7031 who sees him as a glitch that has to be eradicated. So they go Highlander on each other because THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE As an additional treat, a short fic under the cut!

Preston Wan Peirong - Prowl

Jace Zayden - Functionist!AU Jazz

Benjamin ‘Ben’ Bane - Functionist AU Bumblebee

Hanley Riordan - HotRod

Hale Donovan - Hound

Stefan Scavarro - Starscream

Spencer Rao Shouren - Springer 

Breaking into Sentinel Prime’s base was a deathwish back in his own universe, and it was no different here, Preston Wan mused to himself as he slipped out of the shadows during the five minute window — just as he’d predicted — where the guards at the outpost were scheduled to change shifts before beckoning the rest of the ground crew to follow in his stead. 

The first line of defense cleared, they silently made their way towards the heart of the self-proclaimed dictator’s operations, breaths hitching in unison every time a guard passed a hair’s breadth away from them.

The base schematics Jace Zayden had managed to hack into and download through one of the contractors’ stolen biometrics data revealed a network of utility corridors which saw little use from the guardsmen — minute cracks in the citadel’s defenses they could capitalize on. 

“How close are we to the laboratories?” Jace inquired under his breath as behind him, Benjamin Bane surreptitiously peeked at the hologram of a map emitted from a prosthetic hand. 

“There’s a turn 500m ahead—we gotta take a right from there,” the youngest member of the team murmured, frowning slightly before adding: “You really think that’s where we’ll find them?”

“If what we know about the Matrix is true and Stefan’s communications with us are found out — and I’m sure they have been — then yes,” Preston said with a nod as they moved deeper into enemy territory. “The Quintessons ate those of us they couldn’t use—with greed rivaling theirs, I don’t believe Sentinel would waste a warm body on a grave over a weapon. Ours included.”

Jace winced. 

“A ‘We got this team, let’s not get caught’ would have sufficed.” 

“Pep talks are your specialty,” Preston reminded the rebellion leader with a raised eyebrow. “Facts are mine.” 

“Like you keep proving with every sentence, my man,” Jace responded with a resigned sigh as they were halfway to the turn, when he suddenly came to a dead halt. 

The raised hackles, the snarl, Preston knew what it meant even before he caught the faintest sound of gravel crunching underneath metallic soles approaching them. 

“It’s him,” came the low growl from the shambling mass of fur and muscle that was Hale Donovan, who suddenly loomed over them protectively. 

“Hey, it’s five on one tin man this time, and between the lot o’ us, I like those odds,” Hanley Riordan pointed out, taking on a defensive stance, and immediately Preston could feel a migraine coming along at the risk of the plan derailing entirely. 

“Listen to me. Any changes to the plan at this stage, and we risk losing both Starscream and the Matrix,” he said sternly as he held out an arm to bar the rest of the group from engaging with their pursuer.  “Keep the pace. I’ll stall him.” 

Ben and Hanley both opened their mouths to protest, though Jace’s voice cut through the tension first. 

“We’re not leaving you to get smoked out here!” 

“Don’t be dramatic, I have no intention of disobeying a direct order by dying out here,” came Preston’s brisk assurance with a wry, fleeting grin as the pistols hooked to his belt hummed to life. 

“An order from whom?!” Jace snapped, his grip on the Autobot chief strategist 's shoulder tightening as the heavy footfalls echoed closer to them. 

There was a pause as Preston clutched the grips of his firearms, stoic features softening with tender solemnity. Home. He’d been ordered to complete the mission and come home. Home to Spencer, who needed him more than ever now. Home to—

“You.” 

Jace blinked and took a second to compute an order that seemingly never passed his lips; the thought was about as absurd as the idea of two Prestons inhabiting the same universe; One a hated nemesis, the other a fledgling friend. 

“... Aight. Holding you to my order, Prowler,” said the rebellion leader firmly as he thumped the ex-cop’s chestplate twice with the side of his fist in a brotherly manner, gaze dripping with loathing for the figure that strode purposefully out of the shadows. “Go full Highlander on his ass.” 

With a sharp flick of the hand, Jace led the rest of the crew and made a dash for the laboratory block, while Preston positioned himself to block any access to their path. 

The figure, all sleek steel and titanium save for a face that he imagined was as devoid of warmth as his was from years ago, stopped nine feet away from him.

“I’m under directives from the Prime to take all of you in for questioning,” P7031 said emotionlessly, cocking his fist to activate a firing gauntlet. 

“Affirmative. I’m under my own to see to it that you don’t, and my captain’s to ensure I survive this encounter,” Preston responded in kind as he whipped out his pistols. 

P7031’s blank slate of a face suddenly rippled with something that looked like it could have been pompous scorn. 

“Strong words for a glitch. And what exactly do you imagine you can do against a better version of youself in every conceivable way?”

There was a second’s pause as Preston thought back to the man he once was a lifetime ago, a perfect cog in the machinery he was told kept the peace for the good of the many. He’d been taught to view deviation from his purpose and the system as something that had to be fixed—a glitch, as P7031 had so eloquently put it. But if it was one thing his time with the Autobots, with Jace had taught him, it was that he was more than his purpose, more than his past, and more than the copy of The Art Of War which those who shared the barcode on his neck were ordered to memorize word for word from the moment their small hands were steady enough to hold a weapon. 

“Improvise.” 

[h0w-ar3-y0u]

I used to not read tags beyond character tags so if fucked up shit happened I'd be like what??? Finish the chapter and go look at the tags. It would be tagged, and I'd finish the fic as god intended. Or not depending on the mood.

But I never complained as god intended.

Take accountablity.

(The worst instance of this is when I read a fenrir greyback/harry potter fic cause it was recc'd in a discord and it had Stockholm syndrome and mpreg and miscarriage and I didn't read the tags untill after I finished it. (It was like 40 chapters, like long ones) it was a wild ride the whole time and I enjoyed it. Sometimes morbid fascination is the best part. (I mean, most fucked up books before modern times didn't have trigger warnings and they didn't complain))

If you clicked on and read a fanfiction that had tags or a description that upset you and you were upset by it, that's your responsibility, not the author's responsibility.

If you were reading a fanfiction and you got to an unexpected part that disturbed you and you kept reading after you were disturbed, that was your choice and your responsibility, not the author's.

No one is forcing you to read fanfiction that upsets you. The back button is your friend.

If you are reading a piece of fanfiction it's because it interests you. Horrified fascination counts as interest. No fanfiction is holding you hostage and forcing you to read it.

[scarletwinterxx]

LOVE YOUR FICSS AHHH got me kicking my feet🥰 could i req for a bestfriends to lovers with dino! maybe where the members keep teasing him lol tyyy if you take this🫶🏼

hiiiii ~ so.... i got.... carried away?? hahah i was suppose to make it a cute short scenario but i loved it way tooooo much ugh i'm a sucker for bff to lovers trope so here we are😅😅 it's like if you combine mary's song and the alchemy (by tswift), that's how i would describe this fic

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

The neon glow of Seoul’s streets reflects off the café window as you stir your latte, the warmth of the cup pressing against your palms. Across from you, Chan is slouched in his chair, one hand lazily swirling his iced latte, the other casually flicking a stray sugar packet at you.

“You good?” you ask, nudging his shin under the table.

He grins, that boyish smirk you’ve seen a thousand times. “Yeah, just thinking about Wonwoo-hyung. He said something dumb again.”

You snort at what he said making Chan chuckle, shaking his head. “He said everyone’s just waiting for us to realize we’re in love.”

You almost choke on your drink. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Yeah. Apparently, Wonwoo-hyung, Seungkwan, and Vernon-hyung are betting on when it’ll happen.”

You blink at him. “They need new hobbies.”

“That’s exactly what I said!” Dino exclaims, looking far too pleased that you’re on the same page. “But it got me thinking”

“That’s dangerous”

“Shut up,” he laughs, bumping his foot against yours. “I just don’t get why they think that. I mean, we’re best friends. That’s it.”

“Right?” You lean back, crossing your arms. “It’s not like we’re that close.”

He scoffs. “Exactly! I mean, sure, I always make sure you eat and never let you walk home alone, and you always text me to remind me to bring an umbrella when it rains—”

“Yeah, and we always share food and buy each other coffee without asking…” you mutter, looking at the toast you were sharing moments ago, he called dibs on the strawberries and you let him have it. You hate strawberries.

“And I always know what you’re thinking just by looking at you,” he adds.

You frown. ��Okay, that’s normal, though.”

“Super normal.”

“Totally platonic.”

“Exactly.”

Silence settles between you, the sounds of the café humming in the background. Dino is staring at you, and you’re staring at him, and suddenly you’re both squinting like you’ve just tried to read the fine print of a sketchy contract.

“…Do we sound like a couple?” you ask hesitantly.

Dino tilts his head, considering. “Nah.”

“Right?”

“Right.”

Another beat of silence.

“…But if we were a couple, I’d totally be the better half,” he says, grinning. You kick his shin under the table

“Oh, please if anything, I would be the better half.”

Dino just laughs, shaking his head, and you both go back to your drinks like the conversation never happened.

The university field is still buzzing with excitement after the match, but your attention is on one person—Chan. He’s grinning, sweaty, and full of energy as he jogs toward you, clearly eager to hear your praise.

“You saw that, right?” he asks, eyes sparkling.

He plays for the university's soccer team. And you being bestfriend, has never missed a single game. ever.

“You think I didn’t?” You cross your arms, pretending to be unimpressed. “You were alright, I guess.”

“Alright?!” He gapes at you like you’ve just insulted his entire existence. “I carried this game.”

Before you can react, he reaches out and flicks your forehead his usual way of showing affection. You swat at his arm, but he just grins wider.

From behind you, Seungkwan sighs dramatically. “Seriously, how do you both not see it?”

You ignore him, focusing instead on the way Chan’s hand lingers on your wrist a little longer than necessary.

The restaurant is buzzing with life, the scent of sizzling meat filling the air as you, Chan, Vernon, and Seungkwan settle into your seats. Chan is busy grilling, as usual, because he claims he “doesn’t trust any of you with the meat.” You let him, happily reaching for a side dish while Vernon sips on his iced tea.

“You were a little too into the game today,” Vernon comments, glancing at you

You shrug. “I always cheer for Chan.”

Seungkwan snorts. “Yeah, and only for Chan.”

You’re about to argue when someone steps up to your table. You glance up, only to see a guy in a jersey from the opposing team standing there, smiling at you.

“Hey,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh, noticed you cheering during the game. You seemed really into it.”

Chan’s hand pauses mid-air, chopsticks still holding a piece of meat

“Oh, uh, yeah,” you reply, not sure where this is going.

“I was wondering,” the player continues, shifting on his feet. “Would it be okay if I got your number?”

Silence.

Vernon raises an eyebrow. Seungkwan’s mouth falls open slightly, clearly ready to cause chaos. And Chan? Chan sets his chopsticks down very slowly.

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh. Um—”

“She’s good,” Chan says before you can even process an answer. His voice is light, but you know him too well. There’s something sharp underneath it.

The player looks at him, then back at you. “Oh—are you guys…?”

“Nope,” Seungkwan answers way too fast. Then he smirks. “But go on. I wanna see how this plays out.”

Chan shoots him a glare before turning back to the guy, forcing a smile. “She’s not interested.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Excuse me?”

Chan doesn’t even look at you. “Right?” he prompts, acting like this is a completely normal thing to do.

You open your mouth, then close it. Then look at the player, who is now shifting awkwardly under the weight of whatever weird tension is happening.

“…I mean, I guess I’m not?” you say, though you’re still trying to figure out why you let Chan answer for you.

The player sighs, nodding. “Got it. Well, it was worth a shot. Enjoy your dinner.”

As soon as he walks away, Seungkwan loses it.

“Oh my GOD,” he cackles, slapping the table. “Did you see yourself, Chan? You looked ready to throw hands.”

“I did not,” Chan grumbles, picking up his chopsticks again.

Vernon hums thoughtfully. “Interesting.”

You turn to Chan, arms crossed. “Care to explain what that was?”

He shrugs, not meeting your eyes. “I just saved you from giving your number to some random guy. You’re welcome.”

Seungkwan whistles. “Possessive much?”

Chan glares. “I’m not possessive.”

“Dude, you almost turned that meat into charcoal the second he walked up,” Vernon points out.

You smirk, leaning closer. “Chan… were you jealous?”

He scoffs, eyes flicking to yours before quickly looking away. “Eat your food.”

You don’t push it, but as you take a bite, you notice his ears are very, very red.

Later when the four of you are done you leave the restaurant, full and still giggling from Seungkwan’s dramatic reenactment of Chan’s “alpha male” moment. Especially you. You're having way too much fun with this.

“So, Chan,” you drawl, walking beside him with a mischievous grin. “You never answered my question.”

He sighs, already looking exhausted. “What question?”

“The one about you being jealous.”

“I wasn’t jealous.”

Vernon snickers. “Sure, man.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “So, if I had given that guy my number, you would’ve been totally fine with it?”

“Yep,” Chan replies too quickly, staring straight ahead.

Seungkwan gasps dramatically. “Liar.”

You smirk, stepping a little closer. “So if he had asked me out, you wouldn’t have cared at all?”

Chan exhales through his nose, his patience clearly wearing thin. You think you’ve won until he suddenly stops walking. Before you can react, he reaches for the hood of your jacket, yanks it over your head, and pulls the strings tight until only the tip of your nose is peeking out.

“CH—MMMPH!” You flail your arms, completely trapped in your own hoodie.

Vernon straight-up wheezes. Seungkwan is on the ground.

Chan steps behind you, places his hands firmly on your shoulders, and starts pushing you forward.

“There,” he says, smug. “Now you can’t tease me if you can’t see me.”

“LET ME OUT!” you shout, voice muffled.

“Nope.”

“I WILL END YOU.”

“Good luck with that,” he chirps, steering you like a malfunctioning shopping cart.

You struggle but Chan keeps a firm grip, easily guiding you down the street while you helplessly stomp forward.

“You’re such a child,” you grumble.

“And you’re annoying,” he replies. “So this is fair.”

You huff, but underneath it all, you’re grinning. Because no matter how ridiculous he is, no matter how much he denies it—Chan absolutely, definitely cares.

A couple of days passed and now you’re not speaking to Chan.

It started over something ridiculously small—so small that, if you really thought about it, you couldn’t even remember the exact reason it escalated. But what mattered was that it did.

One minute, you were bickering over something dumb, like him eating the last piece of tteokbokki when you clearly had your chopsticks ready to grab it. The next, you were snapping at each other, stubbornness clashing until you finally said, “You know what? Fine.” And then you stopped talking to him.

And because Chan is just as stubborn as you, he decided, Fine. Two can play that game.

So now, you’re both ignoring each other.

It’s been three days.

At first, it was just a cold shoulder situation. Him sitting on the opposite side of the group when you all hung out, you pretending he didn’t exist. But then, it turned into avoiding each other altogether. You didn’t text him. He didn’t text you. You saw him walking into a café the other day and literally turned around.

And now, everyone else has definitely noticed.

“Okay, what is going on?” Seungkwan asks, throwing his hands up.

You sip your drink calmly, acting unbothered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Vernon raises a brow. “You and Chan haven’t said a single word to each other since we all sat down.”

“And?” you say, playing with your straw.

Wonwoo, who’s been watching silently, smirks. “Oh, this is fun.”

From across the table, Chan scoffs. “Maybe I just don’t have anything to say.”

Your eye twitches. Oh, so he does want to play this game?

“Same,” you reply smoothly. “Silence is peaceful.”

Seungkwan fake gags. “I hate this. I hate this. Fix it.”

“Seriously, what happened?” Vernon sighs, looking back and forth between the two of you

Chan shrugs, avoiding eye contact with you. “Nothing.”

You mimic his movement. “Nothing at all.”

Seungkwan claps his hands together. “Okay, I don’t know what kind of pride battle is happening here, but I hate being collateral damage. Fix. It.”

You ignore him, grabbing a fry from your plate. But as you do, Chan—who is apparently also reaching for a fry at the same time—accidentally brushes his fingers against yours.

It’s quick. Barely a second.

But it feels like a moment.

You both freeze.

Your brain says, Move your hand. But your hand? It stays right there. Chan pulls away first, clearing his throat. He grabs his drink and takes a very forced sip. The others are watching.

Wonwoo exchanges a glance with Vernon, who just shakes his head like he can’t believe this is happening. Seungkwan is straight-up vibrating with frustration.

“Are you guys seriously fighting over something dumb?” Seungkwan finally asks. “I swear to God, if this is about food—”

“It’s not about food,” you snap.

Chan scoffs. “Well, technically, it started with food.”

You glare at him. “I knew you did that on purpose.”

He crosses his arms. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Oh, so it was just a coincidence that you stole my tteokbokki right before I grabbed it?”

“Yes?”

The table erupts.

“OH MY GOD,” Seungkwan yells. “THIS WHOLE THING IS ABOUT FOOD?!”

Vernon leans back in his seat, covering his face. “This is a nightmare.”

Wonwoo actually laughs. “So, neither of you broke the silence first because of that?”

You huff, crossing your arms. “It’s the principle of it.”

Chan nods. “Exactly.”

Seungkwan groans, dragging his hands down his face. “You two are so dumb. Just apologize and move on.”

Silence. You glance at Chan. He glances at you but neither of you speaks.

“Oh, this is gonna take forever.”

Another day has passed. The silence is definitely something you're not used to but you went on with your life.

Today you had gym. The moment your gym professor announced that today’s class was going to be track, you felt impending doom settle in your bones. You were not built for this.

Running? Sure, in an emergency. But sprinting laps for fun? Absolutely not.

And of course, because life is so kind to you, disaster struck right when you were about to finish your second lap. One second, you were focused on not dying. The next, your foot caught on absolutely nothing (because the universe simply hates you), and you went down hard.

Pain shot up your ankle instantly, and you barely had time to process the embarrassment before your professor and a classmate rushed over.

"Are you okay?" your professor asked, already kneeling beside you

You winced, testing your foot. "Uh… no?"

Your classmate, a guy from your department, helped you up while you tried not to cry at how much your ankle hurt. Your professor sighed, already pulling out his phone. "Let's get you to the clinic."

So that’s how you ended up here.

Sitting on the clinic bed, holding an ice pack to your now-swollen ankle, wondering how you were going to get home later. Then, just as you were about to doze off from sheer exhaustion...

BANG!

The clinic door slammed open so hard it rattled on its hinges.

You nearly jumped out of your skin. The nurse at the desk let out a startled yelp. And standing in the doorway, panting like he’d just fought for his life, was none other than Lee Chan.

His hair was a mess, his hoodie was slipping off one shoulder, and he looked wrecked.

"Where is she?" he demanded between ragged breaths.

The nurse blinked. "Uh—"

Then he spotted you.

His eyes locked onto your ankle, wrapped in ice, and his whole body stiffened. In the next second, he rushed to your side, grabbing onto the edge of the bed as he caught his breath.

"What the hell happened?" he demanded, voice still breathless.

You blinked at him, momentarily stunned. "Chan?"

"Yeah, it's me, obviously!" he snapped, still trying to breathe properly. "I ran across campus! Ran. For you. So start talking—why are you hurt?!"

You stared at him. "How did you even—"

"Vernon," he answered immediately. "Somehow, he found out before I did and called me, and now I’m here. So explain."

You hesitated, suddenly feeling… weird. The two of you were still ignoring each other. You hadn’t spoken in days. And yet, here he was, looking like he’d just sprinted a full marathon with zero hesitation just because you got hurt.

Your heart did something stupid.

"... I tripped."

Chan deadpanned. "You tripped?"

"Yes."

"On what?"

You cleared your throat. "...Air."

"You tripped on air?!" He dragged a hand down his face. "Oh my God."

You scowled, crossing your arms. "Look, it happened, okay? You don’t have to be so dramatic about it."

"Dramatic?" He gaped at you. "You injured yourself! Of course I’m dramatic!"

You rolled your eyes but couldn't ignore the way your chest felt warm. The nurse cleared her throat. "If you're done yelling at each other, she just has a mild sprain. No fracture. She just needs to rest it."

Chan let out a breath, his shoulders sagging in relief. "Okay. Good."

Then, without hesitation, he gently grabbed your ankle, adjusting the ice pack like it was the most natural thing in the world. You stiffened, watching him.

"You idiot," he muttered, shaking his head. "Who gets injured running on a track?"

"Me, apparently," you mumbled.

He sighed. "Of course it’s you."

Silence.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was, how he hadn't hesitated to come running for you even after all the ignoring.

"...You didn't have to come," you muttered.

Chan scoffed, finally looking up at you. "Don't be stupid. Of course I did."

And just like that, your stupid heart did another stupid thing.

After that, Chan refuses to leave your side. The moment the nurse gives you clearance to leave, he slings your arm over his shoulder and practically carries you out of the clinic before you can even protest.

“Chan, I can walk,” you grumble, trying to wriggle out of his hold.

“Oh, really?” He looks down at you. “Go on, then. Walk.”

You press your lips together. Your ankle still throbs, and you know if you put weight on it, you’ll probably just collapse. But admitting that out loud? Never.

Chan smirks, already knowing. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You scowl. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he sing-songs, leading you toward the front of the campus.

You don’t know when he did it, but at some point, he called Wonwoo. Because by the time you both reach the parking lot, Wonwoo is already waiting by his car, arms crossed.

He looks between you and Chan, then sighs. “Do I even want to know what happened?”

Chan grins. “She tripped on air and almost died.”

You groan. “I did not almost die.”

“She has a sprained ankle,” Chan tells him, ignoring you completely. “So, obviously, we need a ride.”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “We?”

Chan just nods like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. I have to make sure she gets home safe.”

You snort. “You just don’t want to go to your next class.”

Chan gasps, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. “How dare you? I am a devoted best friend who—okay, yeah, I also don’t want to go to class.”

Wonwoo sighs. “Unbelievable.” But despite all his complaints, he still opens the car door for you, because at the end of the day, Chan is his not-so-secret favorite.

As Chan helps you into the car, you glance up at Wonwoo, smirking. “You know you can say no to him, right?”

Wonwoo shuts the door and deadpans, “No, I can’t.”

From the driver’s seat, he glares at Chan. “And he knows that.”

Chan just grins, victorious. “I absolutely do.”

By the time Wonwoo pulls up in front of your apartment, you’re still trying to process the absolute insanity that is Lee Chan.

“You are not staying over,” you say firmly, already reaching for the car door handle.

Chan, completely ignoring you, hops out of the car and immediately rushes to your side to help you out because, despite how annoying he is, he still refuses to let you walk on your own.

Wonwoo rolls down his window, smirking. “Have fun dealing with him.”

You scowl. “You could stop him, you know.”

Wonwoo shrugs. “I could… but I won’t.” Then he turns to Chan. “Don’t burn her place down.”

Chan grins. “No promises!”

Wonwoo sighs like he’s questioning all of his life choices, then drives off, leaving you stuck with the human disaster next to you.

Chan slings your arm over his shoulder again, walking you toward the door. “Alright, let’s get you inside. Do you have food? Should I order something? Do you need pillows? A wheelchair? Life insurance?”

You groan. “Chan, you are not my nurse—”

“Yet here I am,” he says smugly, guiding you into the apartment. The moment you sit down on the couch, Chan kicks off his shoes and makes himself at home like he’s lived here his whole life.

Which, to be fair, he practically has.

He starts rummaging through your kitchen. “Okay, so what’s for dinner? Do you have anything edible?”

You glare at him. “How about you go home and eat there?”

He gasps, offended. “Wow. This is how you treat the person who ran across campus for you?”

You throw a pillow at him. “GO HOME.”

He catches it easily, tossing it onto the couch before coming over and sitting next to you. “Nope. Not happening.”

You sigh, leaning your head back. “Why are you like this?”

Chan shrugs. “Because you’re injured, and someone has to make sure you don’t do anything dumb again.”

You narrow your eyes. “You love calling me dumb, huh?”

He grins. “It’s because you are.”

You reach over to smack him, but he dodges, laughing.

Then, without warning, he stands up and claps his hands together. “Alright, let’s get you some food and then ice your ankle again.”

You stare at him.

And this is why everyone thinks the two of you are dating. Because, despite the relentless teasing, despite the arguing and the chaos that follows wherever you go—Chan is still Chan.

Caring. Attentive. There, always.

You sigh, finally giving up. “Fine. But you’re ordering.”

Chan grins, already pulling out his phone. “Knew you’d cave.”

You roll your eyes, but as he starts scrolling through food options, you can’t help but smile. Maybe having him around isn’t so bad.

Just as you’re about to get comfortable in bed, you hear Chan’s voice from the living room. At first, you assume he’s talking to himself—because honestly, he does that sometimes—but then you hear your mom’s name.

Your stomach drops.

Oh, no.

You push the door open just in time to hear him say “Yeah, she totally wiped out during gym class—sprained her ankle and everything.”

You gasp. “Chan, what the—”

He turns, holding up a finger to silence you while grinning like the menace he is. “Uh-huh. Exactly. She’s way too clumsy, Auntie. I keep telling her to be more careful, but does she listen? Nope.”

You limp toward him as fast as your injury allows. “Hang up! Right now!”

Chan dodges your grab like a trained professional and keeps talking. “No, no, she’s fine. I made sure of it. I called Wonwoo hyung to drive us home, wrapped her ankle properly, even made her eat dinner—” He pauses, then smirks. “Yeah, I am the best, aren’t I?”

You groan, flopping onto the couch in defeat. “I cannot believe you called my mom.”

Chan finally acknowledges you, holding out the phone. “She wants to talk to you.”

You glare. “I hate you.” You snatch the phone from his hand, pressing it to your ear. “Mom, I’m fine. I don’t know why Chan is making it sound like I barely survived.”

Your mother scoffs. “Because you’re you. Of course, I’m going to worry!”

You sigh. “I was going to tell you. Eventually.”

“Eventually?” she repeats. “If it weren’t for Chan, I wouldn’t have known at all!”

Chan smirks, leaning back on the couch. “You’re welcome.”

You glare at him, but your mom keeps going.

“You better listen to Chan and rest, okay? No unnecessary moving around!”

You groan. “Mom—”

“Promise me.”

You sigh. “Fine. I promise.”

“Good. Now give the phone back to Chan.”

“What? Why?”

Chan immediately reaches for the phone. “Because she likes me more.”

You slap his hand away but hand it over anyway. The moment he takes it, his entire tone changes. “Yes, Auntie? Oh, of course! I’ll make sure she rests. No funny business, I promise.”

You stare at him in horror. “You are such a suck-up.”

He waves you off, still charming your mother over the phone. “Yeah, I’ll stay over tonight just to make sure she doesn’t do anything dumb—”

“CHAN!”

He laughs but eventually wraps up the call, you scowl at him “I cannot believe you just did that.”

Chan shrugs, looking way too pleased with himself. “What can I say? Your mom adores me.”

You cross your arms. “You’re lucky my ankle is sprained, or I’d kick you out.”

A few days pass, and your ankle is mostly healed, which means Chan has finally stopped hovering like a mother hen.

Mostly.

(He still side-eyes you every time you walk too fast, but hey—progress.)

Now, though, you have another problem. Chan’s birthday is coming up. So is Valentine’s Day and because the universe apparently loves to make your life difficult, they’re only a few days apart.

You groan, flopping onto your bed as you scroll through your phone for ideas.

Something soccer-related? Too predictable.

Something music-related? He already has everything.

Something sentimental? Absolutely not.

You don’t even realize you’re pouting until you hear a familiar voice.

“What’s with that face?”

You jolt up. Chan is leaning against your doorframe, arms crossed, a very smug grin on his face.

You blink. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to see you looking miserable.” He tilts his head. “What, you failing a test or something?”

You scoff. “Excuse you, I don’t fail tests.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

You scramble for an excuse. “Uh—thinking about what to eat.”

Chan snorts. “Wow. Must be so hard for you.”

"Fine I was thinking about what to get you for your birthday, what do you want?" You ask him

“A new soccer bag?”

“No.”

“Sneakers?”

“Nope.”

“A lifetime supply of banana milk?”

Chan actually pauses at that one, looking tempted. But then he shakes his head. “Nah.”

You groan, flopping onto his couch dramatically. “Chan. It’s your birthday. You have to want something.”

He smirks. “I do.”

You sit up immediately. “Okay, what? Tell me.”

He hesitates, then sighs, looking almost embarrassed. “You’re gonna laugh.”

“Oh, I’m definitely laughing now.”

Chan glares. “Never mind.”

“No, no, c’mon! Tell me!” You poke his arm. “What do you want?”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. Then, finally—after a ridiculous amount of dramatic silence—he mutters,

“Your brownies.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

He shrugs, suddenly very interested in his hands. “Your brownies. The ones you bake sometimes.”

You stare at him, waiting for him to say more. That’s it? That’s what he wants? Not some expensive gift, not some rare collectible—just… brownies?

You snort. “You’re such a loser.”

Chan glares. “See? I knew you were gonna laugh!”

You grin. “I am laughing. But also—seriously? That’s all you want?”

He shrugs again. “Yeah. They’re my favorite.”

And okay, fine. Maybe that makes your heart do a tiny stupid little somersault. Instead, you stand up, stretching.

“Alright. If the birthday boy wants brownies, then the birthday boy gets brownies.”

Chan blinks. “Wait, really?”

You smirk. “Obviously. You think I’d deny you your wish for your birthday?”

“…Kinda, yeah.”

You grab a pillow and whack him with it.

Chan shows up at your place way too early for someone whose only birthday wish is brownies. You open the door, squinting. “Didn’t we agree on noon?”

He grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Yeah, but I got excited.”

You cross your arms. “You’re acting like I’m baking you a five-star gourmet meal and not just brownies.”

Chan gasps. “How dare you undermine the greatness of your brownies?”

You roll your eyes but step aside to let him in. He immediately makes himself at home, plopping onto the kitchen counter like he belongs there.

You narrow your eyes. “What are you doing?”

He shrugs. “Watching.”

“…Why?”

“Because I want to.”

You scoff. “Chan, it’s just brownies.”

“Exactly. My brownies. I need to make sure you don’t mess them up.”

You pick up a wooden spoon and point it at him. “You’re this close to getting kicked out.”

He grins. “No, I’m not.”

You sigh, shaking your head, and start gathering ingredients. The entire time, Chan stays glued to the counter, swinging his legs like an actual kid.

At one point, he even starts narrating. “And here we see the great baker in her natural habitat…”

You throw a marshmallow at him. “Shut up.”

He just laughs, completely unbothered.

But, honestly? The way his eyes light up every time you mix something, or pour the batter, or literally just exist is… kind of stupidly cute. You shove that thought way down.

Finally, after what feels like forever, you pull the brownies out of the oven.

Chan immediately tries to grab one.

You smack his hand away. “They’re hot, idiot.”

He pouts. “But it’s my birthday.”

You arch a brow. “And?”

He sighs dramatically, leaning back. “Wow. Some best friend you are.”

You roll your eyes but grab a fork, cutting off a tiny piece and blowing on it before holding it out.

Chan blinks. “Wait, you’re actually—?”

“Shut up and eat.”

He grins, leaning in to take the bite, and the second he does, his entire face lights up.

“Oh my God.” He looks so happy it’s ridiculous. “I forgot how good these are.”

You smirk. “Told you.”

Chan hums in satisfaction, still chewing. “Best birthday gift ever.”

And just like that, your stomach does that stupid flip again.

You ignore it. Instead, you grab a brownie for yourself and take a bite, leaning against the counter. “Happy birthday, loser.”

Chan, still grinning, nudges your shoulder. “Thanks, loser.”

You grab the brownies again, sticking a couple of candles in one. “Alright, birthday boy,” you say, lighting them up. “Make a wish.”

Chan chuckles but nods, clasping his hands together. He closes his eyes, his brows furrowing just slightly in thought. But then right before he blows out the candles his eyes snap open and land directly on you.

Your breath catches.

It’s only for a split second—just a moment of lingering eye contact—but it feels like something shifts.

Like maybe, just maybe, his wish has something to do with you.

And then the candles are out, the moment gone, and Chan is grinning like nothing happened. Chan leans back, watching the faint trail of smoke disappear from the extinguished candles. Then, with that smug-but-soft look of his, he says,

“This is the 26th birthday I’ve spent with you.”

You snort. “I mean, yeah. We’ve literally known each other since birth.”

Chan grins. “Exactly. That means I’ve never had a birthday without you.”

You roll your eyes. “That just means our moms were too obsessed with each other to celebrate separately.”

But Chan just shrugs. “Or maybe the universe knew I needed you.”

And just like that, your brain completely short-circuits.

You blink at him, your stomach doing that stupid flip again, and suddenly, you don’t know where to look. The worst part? He says it so casually. Like he isn’t out here dropping the most casually sentimental thing you’ve ever heard.

You clear your throat, forcing out a laugh. “Wow. That’s so cheesy. Who taught you that?”

Chan smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You grab a brownie and shove it into his mouth. “Stop talking.”

He just laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners, and chews happily.

And while he’s busy enjoying his food, you are left trying to process the very inconvenient warmth spreading through your chest.

After that moment with Chan, you tried to bury it in your mind and distract yourself with something else. So, naturally, you bury yourself in schoolwork.

Not that you want to—your professor kind of forces your hand when they assign a massive research project. But the only silver lining? You get partnered up with Mark Lee.

Yes, that Mark Lee.

The one who’s absurdly well-known on campus. The one who’s nice to everyone, always willing to help. The one who somehow juggles being an honor student, an athlete, and a musician all at once.

Basically, if people were ranked like K-pop idols, Mark would be in an A-list group with an unbreakable fanbase.

And now? He’s your project partner. Which is… fine. Great, even. Because Mark is cool, easy to work with, and always has some idea of what’s going on.

Somewhere across campus. Somehow Vernon found out maybe because he’s friends with Mark, but also because Vernon has a way of accidentally collecting information he never planned on having.

So, when he casually brings it up to Chan, he doesn’t expect a reaction.

“Yeah, I think they started their research today,” Vernon says, sipping his drink. “Mark was telling me they’re doing something on—”

“What?”

Vernon blinks. “Huh?”

Chan is frowning. “What do you mean they started their research?”

“I mean exactly that?” Vernon tilts his head. “Why?”

Chan crosses his arms, eyebrows furrowing. “She didn’t tell me about this.”

Vernon shrugs. “Maybe she forgot.”

Chan scoffs. “She doesn’t just forget things like this.”

Vernon watches him for a moment, then—because he is Vernon—he smirks. “Why? You jealous?”

Chan glares. “Shut up.”

But the way he immediately shoves a fry in his mouth—pointedly avoiding eye contact—tells Vernon everything he needs to know.

Meanwhile, you’re completely unaware of the conversation happening behind your back because, while Chan is sitting there having internal drama, you’re busy at the library, actually doing your work somewhere on campus with Mark.

Mark is surprisingly fun to work with. He’s got this easy-going energy that makes it impossible to be awkward around him. He listens, offers ideas, and never once makes you feel like you’re carrying the whole project alone.

At one point, while you’re deep in discussion, he suddenly grins.

“You know, I was kind of hoping I’d get partnered with you.”

You blink. “Wait, really? Why?”

Mark laughs. “Because you’re, like, insanely good at research. Plus, I figured it’d be fun.”

You tilt your head. “And how do you know I’m good at research?”

He shrugs. “Vernon”

Later Chan is walking around campus after his last class finished. Too lost in his own thoughts.

Chan is not the jealous type. Really, he isn’t.

But the second he hears Vernon say—so casually—that you and Mark have been spending time together, something in his brain just… short-circuits because why didn’t you tell him? You tell him everything. Even the stupid, mundane stuff like how your coffee order was wrong or how your neighbor’s cat was staring at you weirdly again.

So why didn’t this come up?

It’s not that he’s mad. He just… doesn’t like it and now, thanks to Vernon, he’s stuck thinking about it all day.

By the time you meet up with him after your classes, he’s already decided: He needs to casually bring it up.

(Casually.)

So, as you walk beside him, he tries to sound as neutral as possible.

“Sooo… how’s the research going?”

You glance at him, unaware of the ridiculous amount of effort he’s putting into sounding normal. “It’s fine. Why?”

Chan shrugs. “Just wondering.”

A beat.

Then, as if completely unaware of the landmine she’s stepping on, you say—

“Mark’s actually really nice. I get why Vernon’s friends with him.”

Oh, come on.

Chan swallows. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah. He’s easy to work with. He’s, like… I don’t know. Just a chill, friendly guy, y’know?”

Chan forces a smile. “Right. Chill. Friendly.”

You glance at him, frowning slightly. “Are you okay?”

“Me? Yeah! Totally!” (Lie.)

You squint. “You’re making that face.”

Chan panics. “What face?”

“That face you make when you don’t like something but don’t wanna say it.”

Chan scoffs. “What? No. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You just stare. Chan sweats. Then... because he’s actually losing this battle... he finally gives in and mutters,

“…Why didn’t you tell me you got partnered with Mark?”

You blink. “Huh?”

Chan shrugs, too casually. “I mean, usually you tell me about this stuff.”

You tilt your head, genuinely confused. “I dunno. I guess I didn’t think it was a big deal?”

Chan scoffs before he can stop himself. “Right. Totally not a big deal.”

You narrow your eyes. “Okay, what is your problem?”

Chan exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t have a problem.”

“Really? Because you sound like you do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t!”

A few seconds pass before you smile at him, “Oh my God. That’s what this is about?”

Chan scowls. “What do you mean ‘that’s what this is about?’”

You laugh. “You’re jealous.”

Chan chokes. “WHAT?!”

You grin. “Oh, this is amazing. You’re actually jealous.”

“I—no! I’m not!”

“You so are.”

“I’M NOT!”

You just keep grinning and Chan just keeps suffering. Because, yeah. Maybe he is a little jealous. Maybe he doesn’t like the idea of someone else getting your time and attention.

You nudge him playfully. "Chan, it's just schoolwork."

He scoffs, still not looking at you. "Still."

You grin. "Okay, okay, from now on, I solemnly swear to tell you about every single homework, every test, every research project I have."

Chan rolls his eyes. "You’re so dramatic."

You smirk. "Oh no, I'm serious. Next time I get assigned a two-page essay, you will be the first to know. If I have a pop quiz, you will hear about it immediately. If I even think about studying, I’ll text you."

Chan groans. "I regret saying anything."

You laugh. "Nope, too late. You signed up for this."

He shakes his head, finally glancing at you with the smallest smile. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” you say, looping your arm through his, “you’re still here.”

Chan sighs, letting you drag him along. "Unfortunately."

But the way his fingers lightly squeeze your arm?

Yeah. He doesn't mind one bit.

The next day, you meet up with Mark at the library as planned. He’s already there when you arrive, flipping through research papers with that easygoing, friendly energy he’s known for.

“Hey,” he greets with a grin. “Ready to be academically tortured?”

You laugh. “Oh, absolutely.”

The two of you get to work, sifting through sources, bouncing ideas off each other. You’re making solid progress when, about an hour in, your phone buzzes.

Chan: Having fun with your new research husband?

You snort so loudly Mark looks up. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, typing back a response.

You: Wow, someone’s checking in? Cute. Chan: I’m not checking in. I’m just making sure you didn’t forget your REAL best friend exists.

You roll your eyes, but your smile lingers as you turn back to work.

By the time you finish and say goodbye to Mark, it’s dark outside. Your legs are stiff from sitting too long, and all you want is food and maybe a nap.

You check your phone—no new messages from Chan since earlier.

Weird. Usually, he at least texts about what he’s doing. Without thinking too much about it, you head toward your usual café. And sure enough there he is.

Chan is sitting by the window, a drink in front of him, scrolling through his phone. He looks normal. Unbothered. But when you walk in, his eyes immediately flick up to meet yours, like he was waiting.

You grin, sliding into the seat across from him. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Chan raises an eyebrow. “Wow. You survived the date.”

You laugh. “It wasn’t a date.”

“Sure.”

You roll your eyes. “It was schoolwork, oh jealous one.”

“I am not jealous.”

“Mmm.”

Chan glares. “Didn’t you say you were busy tonight?”

“I was,” you say, “but now I’m free. So lucky you, I can spend the rest of Valentine’s Day with my real best friend.”

Chan blinks. His grip on his cup tightens for a fraction of a second. Then, casually, he mutters, “So you do care.”

You snort. “Obviously. I can’t let you wallow alone on the most romantic day of the year.”

He sighs dramatically. “And here I thought I’d finally be free from your annoying presence.”

You grin. “Never.”

Chan just shakes his head, but he gestures toward the counter. “Go order. I already know you’re gonna steal my food.”

You laugh and head up to order, feeling lighter. What you don’t see is the small, almost relieved smile Chan has as he watches you go.

After ordering you slide back into the seat, but instead of sitting across from him you plop down right beside him. Close enough that your arm brushes against his.

Chan pauses mid-sip of his drink, side-eyeing you. “…What are you doing?”

You blink up at him innocently. “Giving you attention.”

His eyes narrow. “Why?”

You grin. “Because I know you’ve been sulking all day.”

Chan scoffs, setting his cup down with an unnecessary amount of force. “I have not been sulking.”

You hum. “Mmm. And denial is river in Egypt” You shake your head, resting your chin on his shoulder dramatically. “Well, since my not-jealous best friend has been neglected all day, I’m here now.”

Chan rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss the way his body relaxes slightly. “…Took you long enough.”

You nudge him. “Aww, you missed me.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I really didn’t.”

You grin, lifting your head. “So, what are we doing for the rest of the night? I assume you have no plans with some mystery Valentine?”

Chan gives you a look. “If I had one, I wouldn’t be here with you.”

“Ouch.”

He snickers, nudging your knee with his. “You’re the one who ditched me today.”

You sigh dramatically. “And I have seen the error of my ways.” You gesture to yourself. “That’s why I’m here now, making up for it.”

Chan hums, pretending to think. “…Alright. I’ll allow it.”

You giggle. “How gracious of you.”

He smirks, leaning back against the seat. “You do owe me, though.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Chan tilts his head toward you, eyes glinting. “Yeah. For every hour you spent with Mark today, you owe me double in quality time.”

Your jaw drops. “Double?!”

“Yep.” He stretches his arms behind his head smugly. “You better clear your schedule.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Chan, you’ve been hogging my time for the past 26 years and no one’s complaining.”

“That’s different.”

“Oh? How?”

Chan shrugs. “I have dibs.”

“Dibs?! On my entire life?”

He nods, completely serious. “Obviously.”

You laugh, nudging his shoulder. “You are ridiculous.”

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “You know, I could’ve had plans.”

You give him a look. “Chan. If you had plans, you wouldn’t be sitting in our usual café, waiting for me to show up.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Then he sighs, slumping in defeat. “…Okay, fine. Maybe I was waiting for you.”

You smirk in victory. “Knew it.”

Chan rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans back against the booth, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

“You know,” he mutters, “26 years is a long time.”

You nod. “Yep. And you’ve had me all to yourself.”

He hums. “Guess that’s why it felt weird today.”

Your smirk falters slightly. “…Weird how?”

Chan shrugs, playing with the lid of his cup. “I dunno. Just—off. Like something was missing.”

You stare at him, heart doing something stupid. Again. Because it’s just Chan. Your best friend. The person who’s always been there, in sync with you like it’s second nature.

But right now, under the dim café lights, with his fingers absentmindedly fidgeting and his voice softer than usual…

It feels like something else.

Like something more.

You clear your throat, forcing a grin. “Well, lucky for you, I’m here now.”

Chan glances at you, then smiles. Small, but warm.

“Yeah,” he says. “You are.”

Chan is dying.

Okay, maybe that’s dramatic, but come on.

Coach ran them extra hard today, and his legs feel like lead. He barely had time to grab his stuff before running out of the locker room—because the moment he saw your text saying, “At the café near campus,” he was already out the door.

And now, standing outside the café, sweaty and exhausted, he immediately spots you through the window. You’re at a small table, sipping on an iced drink, scrolling through your phone.

And sitting across from you?

Mark.

Chan stops dead in his tracks.

Oh. It’s him again.

His grip tightens around the strap of his sports bag. He tells himself to be rational. You and Mark are literally just research partners. You even told him that but that doesn’t stop the annoyance bubbling up in his chest as he watches you laugh at something Mark says.

Taking a deep breath, Chan pushes the door open.

The little bell above the entrance chimes, and when you look up, your face immediately brightens.

“Chan!”

Mark turns to glance at him too, offering a polite nod.

Chan doesn’t even acknowledge him.

Instead, he plops himself into the empty seat next to you—not across, because that would leave Mark sitting across from both of you, and he refuses to make this feel like some group bonding activity.

You blink at him. “Wow. You look rough.”

Chan exhales heavily, dropping his bag to the floor. “Gee, thanks.”

You giggle, pushing your drink toward him. “Here, you can have some”

Chan takes a long sip, shooting a triumphant look at Mark over the rim of the straw. Mark, to his credit, looks completely unbothered.

Chan hates him.

“So,” you say, turning back to Mark, “you were saying?”

Mark nods. “Yeah, I was thinking we should finalize our thesis outline by this weekend.”

Chan immediately cuts in. “Oh, this weekend?” He tilts his head. “Didn’t you say you were busy this weekend?”

You frown. “Did I?”

“Yes.”

“No, I didn’t?”

“You definitely did.”

You stare at him for a second before realization dawns. “Ohhh. You mean your game?”

Chan shrugs. “Well, yeah. You always watch.”

That was not meant to sound like an accusation, but it kind of came out like one. Mark raises an eyebrow, but wisely chooses to sip his drink instead of commenting.

You sigh. “Chan, it’s just research. I can do both.”

Chan hums in response, taking another sip of your drink. He knows he’s being a little ridiculous. But the thing is Mark is too nice. Too polite. Too unbothered by Chan’s presence.

And for some reason, that pisses him off.

You, completely oblivious, nudge him. “Why are you acting weird again?”

Chan scoffs. “I’m not acting weird.”

Mark snorts.

Chan glares at him.

Mark glances between you and Chan, his expression unreadable. Then, casually, he tilts his head and asks, “Should I go?”

You blink. “Huh? Why?”

Chan, who was mid-sip of your drink, almost chokes. Yes, Mark. Please go.

Mark shrugs. “I mean…” He gestures vaguely at Chan. “Seems like I’m interrupting something.”

You frown. “What? No, you’re not—”

Chan, at the exact same time, goes, “Yeah, maybe.”

Silence.

You whip your head around to stare at Chan while Mark raises an eyebrow, amused.

Chan clears his throat, suddenly realizing he’s about to get murdered. “I mean, you know,” he backtracks quickly, “if you have to go, I wouldn’t stop you.”

Mark just grins, sipping his drink like he didn’t just blow up Chan’s entire existence.

Mark stands, grabbing his bag. “Well, I’ll head out then. See you in class.”

You nod, smiling. “Yeah, see you!”

Chan leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Yeah, bye.”

Mark pauses just before turning away, glancing back at the two of you with a very amused expression. “Oh, by the way—if I don’t reply later, it’s ‘cause I’m picking my girlfriend up.”

Silence.

Chan blinks.

You blink.

Mark just smiles and gives Chan a little pat on the shoulder. “Take care, man.”

Then he walks off, leaving devastation in his wake. You slowly turn to look at Chan, eyes wide. “Did he just—”

Chan stares blankly at the table. Processing.

“…You were sulking,” you say, voice shaking with laughter. “You were jealous—”

“I was not,” Chan says immediately.

You cackle. “You were so jealous—”

“I was not!”

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, grabbing his arm. “And for what?”

Chan groans, dropping his head onto the table. “I hate him.”

You pat his back, still dying of laughter. “At least now you know you were literally competing with nobody.”

Chan lifts his head just enough to squint at you. “Shut up.”

You grin. “Make me.”

Chan groans again, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m never living this down, am I?”

You shake your head, beaming. “Not a chance.”

The walk home is quiet—well, mostly quiet, aside from your occasional giggles at Chan’s expense. He pretends not to hear them. It’s fine. He deserves this but as the two of you turn onto your street, you suddenly stop walking.

Chan takes a few more steps before realizing you’re not beside him anymore. He turns back and sees you standing there, arms wide open.

He squints. “What… are you doing?”

You tilt your head, like it’s obvious. “You looked like you needed a hug.”

Chan blinks. “What?”

You wiggle your fingers at him. “Come on.”

Chan stares at you.

It’s not like you’ve never hugged before—you guys grew up together. But something about you standing there, arms stretched out just for him, makes his chest feel… weird.

And maybe it’s because of how stupid he feels about the whole Mark thing. Or because you’ve been making fun of him all day.

Or maybe it’s just because you always know exactly what he needs.

Chan sighs. “This is dumb.”

You grin. “And yet, you’re already moving.”

He grumbles under his breath but steps forward anyway, letting you wrap your arms around him. Maybe he did need this.

Your warmth seeps through his hoodie, and without thinking, he buries his face into your shoulder, exhaling softly.

You squeeze him a little tighter. “See? Was that so hard?”

Chan rolls his eyes but doesn’t let go. “Shut up.”

You laugh, resting your chin on his shoulder. “Never.”

And just like that, the weight in his chest feels a little lighter.

Chan barely makes it through his front door before he’s pulling out his phone. He flops onto his bed, staring at the ceiling for a moment before dialing Vernon.

It rings twice before Vernon picks up. “What’s up?”

Chan sighs, rubbing his face. “I think something’s wrong with me.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, in the most casual, bored tone, Vernon goes, “So you finally realize it.”

Chan frowns, sitting up. “Wait, what?”

Vernon hums like he’s not just blowing up Chan’s entire world. “Took you long enough.”

Chan blinks. “Took me long enough for what?”

Vernon sighs, like this is painfully obvious. “To realize you like her, dude.”

Chan chokes. “I—what?!”

Vernon laughs. “Oh, come on. You sulked over Mark for days. You act like she’s your entire world. You’re literally on the phone with me right now calling me out of nowhere because don’t know what to do with yourself.”

Chan freezes.

Vernon keeps going, completely unbothered. “You like her, man. Have for a while, probably. Honestly, it’s funny you’re only figuring it out now.”

Chan stares at the ceiling. His brain is short-circuiting.

“Chan?”

Chan swallows. “...Holy shit.”

Vernon chuckles. “Yup.”

Chan groans, collapsing back onto his bed. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

Vernon hums, like he’s thinking. “I don’t know… maybe do something about it?”

Chan groans again. “This is the worst day of my life.”

Vernon laughs. “No, man. This is just the beginning.”

The stadium lights cast a bright glow over the field, illuminating the players as they jog back toward the sidelines for halftime. The crowd is buzzing with excitement, but Chan?

Chan is looking for you.

He spotted you the second you arrived—rushing into the stands, slightly out of breath, still in your meeting outfit, clearly freezing because of course you forgot your jacket.

Chan huffs, running straight past his teammates and into the locker room.

“Yo, where are you going?” one of them calls after him.

“Be right back!” he shouts over his shoulder, already digging through his locker.

He finds his jacket in a heap with his other stuff, grabs it, and runs back out before anyone can say anything. You’re sitting on the bleachers, rubbing your arms, trying to look like you’re not turning into a popsicle.

“Are you serious?” Chan says as he reaches you, already draping his jacket over your shoulders.

You blink up at him. “What?”

He sighs, crouching down in front of you so you’re at eye level. “It’s freezing.”

You grin sheepishly. “Yeah, but I made it.”

Chan scowls, zipping the jacket up for you. “You could’ve at least brought something.”

“I was in a rush!” you argue. “Didn’t wanna miss your game!”

Chan pauses.

He’s so busy being annoyed that you forgot your jacket, he almost forgets that you ran here straight from your meeting, just so you wouldn’t miss this.

His lips press together, and instead of scolding you again, he just pulls the hood up over your head, gently adjusting it so it covers your ears.

“…Just stay warm, okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, smiling. “Okay.”

He rolls his eyes but jogs back onto the field, suddenly way more determined than before.

Because now?

Now he’s really got something to win for.

You see it happen—one second, Chan’s dribbling up the field, focused, quick on his feet. The next, an opponent slams into him way too hard, sending him crashing to the ground.

Your heart stops.

“Hey!” you shout, already moving before you can think.

Chan's tough. He knows how to take a hit. But that was too much. your hands ball into fists as you march down the stands, ready to do God-knows-what to the other player, but before you can get very far, two hands clamp down on your shoulders.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Vernon says, physically holding you bac

You struggle against his grip. “Did you see that?!”

“Yes,” Vernon sighs. “And so did the ref, so sit down”

“Let me go, I just wanna talk,” you lie, glaring daggers at the guy who knocked Chan over

Wonwoo, sitting beside Seungkwan, lifts a brow. “Yeah, I don’t believe that.”

Seungkwan nods solemnly. “She’s about to ruin that man’s career.”

“Or his life,” Wonwoo adds

“I should!” you snap. “Did you see the way he slammed into Chan?! He didn’t even go for the ball!”

Vernon grunts as you try to lunge forward again. “Okay, nope, that’s enough violence for today.”

You huff, crossing your arms as you watch Chan sit on the bench, stretching his legs. He doesn’t look hurt. More annoyed than anything

“Relax,” Vernon mutters, finally loosening his grip on you. “Chan’s fine. He just needs a minute.”

You sigh, watching as Chan gets back up, shaking out his arms. He glances toward the stands, spots you, and gives you a little nod like he knows exactly what just happened.

You nod back.

He smiles.

Yeah. That guy is lucky Vernon was holding you back.

The game ends with a win, and as soon as the whistle blows, you’re already making your way down the stands. By the time you reach the field, Chan is grinning, sweaty, and very pleased with himself.

But before he can say anything, you grab his face, squishing his cheeks between your palms

“Are you okay?!” you demand, inspecting him like he’s a fragile antique.

Chan blinks at you, lips puffed from how you’re holding his face. “Mmmf—I’mm ffine—”

“Are you sure?” You narrow your eyes, turning his face side to side. “Nothing hurts? No bruises? No internal injuries?”

He pulls your hands off his face, laughing. “I promise, I’m fine.”

You scoff, unconvinced. “I almost fought someone for you, you know.”

“I know.” Chan grins. “I saw Vernon holding you back.”

Vernon, who’s just approaching with Seungkwan and Wonwoo, smirks. “Yeah, she was this close to committing a felony.”

Chan snorts. “I believe it.”

“I should have, honestly,” you mutter. “That guy slammed into you for no reason.”

“He’s just bitter we were winning,” Chan shrugs, tossing his arm over your shoulder. “Doesn’t matter now.”

“You matter,” you grumble, still clearly not over it.

Chan freezes for a fraction of a second.

Then, with the smuggest grin, he nudges you. “Aww, you care about me.”

You roll your eyes. “Unfortunately.”

Chan just keeps grinning, pulling you closer as the five of you walk off the field. “Let’s go eat. I think our future convict here needs to blow off some steam.”

You sigh. “If I ever do fight someone for you, you better appreciate it.”

Chan just laughs, squeezing your shoulder.

“Oh, I would.”

After the game and grabbing dinner with the others. You and Chan walk side by side, the night quiet except for the occasional passing car and the sound of your footsteps on the pavement. You can’t help but glance at him again.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you ask for what has to be the tenth time.

Chan lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You really don’t believe me, huh?”

You shrug. “I just… I worry.”

His laughter dies down a little, replaced by something softer. Something fond.

“You’re cute when you do that,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Your face warms. “Shut up.”

“I mean it.” He grins. “But I promise—nothing hurts, I’m all good. Really.”

You study his face, searching for any sign of discomfort, any hidden pain he’s trying to play off. But there’s nothing. Just Chan, looking at you with that annoyingly charming smile.

“…Fine,” you mutter, finally giving in.

Chan tilts his head, watching you for a moment before he asks, “Do you need a hug?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“You’ve been worrying all night,” he says with a knowing smile. “Do you need a hug?”

You huff, crossing your arms. “I don’t—” nut before you can finish, Chan steps closer and wraps you up in his arms. Warm, solid, him.

Your face immediately finds his shoulder. “I didn’t say yes.”

He chuckles, his chest rumbling against yours. “Yeah, but you also didn’t say no.”

You stay like that for a second, the cold forgotten, the streetlights casting a soft glow around you. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.

“…Okay, maybe I did need a hug,” you admit, voice muffled.

Chan laughs again, his chin resting lightly on your head. “Told you.”

Chan’s arms tighten around you just a little, like he knows you need this, even if you won’t say it out loud. The night air is cold, but he’s warm—steady in a way that makes your shoulders finally relax.

He leans down slightly, voice soft, just for you. “I’m okay,” he whispers.

You feel it more than you hear it—the quiet reassurance, the way he’s always quick to put you at ease. Your fingers tighten slightly on the back of his hoodie. “…You better be.”

He smiles against your hair. “You really like worrying about me, huh?”

You sigh dramatically. “I don’t like it. You make me.”

Chan chuckles, and you swear you feel his laugh more than you hear it. “Noted.”

He doesn’t pull away just yet. He lets you hold on, lets you breathe. And when you finally do pull back, he’s looking at you with that same too-soft gaze.

“Better now?” he asks.

You roll your eyes, but the small nod you give him doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Good,” he murmurs.

And just like that, with the weight of the night feeling a little lighter, you keep walking—Chan’s hand brushing against yours the whole way home.

“I’m fucked.”

Vernon, who had been peacefully scrolling through his phone, barely glanced up. “Uh… why?”

Chan opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.

Then he groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Because. I like her.”

Now, that got Vernon’s attention. He locked his phone and turned fully to face him, eyebrows raised. “You just realized this?”

Chan threw his arms up. “I didn’t—I mean, I did, but not like—like this.”

Vernon stared. “Like what?”

Chan looked completely distressed, gripping his hair like the weight of the universe had just crashed onto his shoulders. “Like—I see her all the time and it’s normal. It’s us. But last night, when she hugged me—” He cut himself off, inhaling sharply.

Vernon’s lips twitched. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Shut up!” Chan groaned again. “It’s different now. I felt different. And I keep thinking about it and—” He turned to Vernon, his expression so genuinely confused. “Why the hell does my chest feel weird?”

Vernon gave him a look. “Chan.”

“What?”

Vernon sighed, shaking his head. “You’re so late to your own love story, bro.”

Chan frowned. “What—”

“Everyone knew,” Vernon continued. “Seungkwan, Wonwoo, me. Your moms, dude. Everybody saw this coming.”

Chan looked genuinely offended. “No one told me?!”

Vernon deadpanned. “Told you? You grew up with her. How did you not know?”

Chan was still reeling, sitting there like his entire life had just been rewritten in real time. His best friend. The girl who had been by his side for 26 years. The person he’d trusted more than anyone.

He liked you. No—he was in love with you.

And then, like the universe was out to personally ruin him, you appeared. Literally skipping across the courtyard, beaming like the happiest person alive, your eyes instantly finding his like they always did.

And just like that, the world slowed down.

Chan swore he stopped breathing.

The way the sun hit your face just right, the way your hair bounced with every skip, the way you waved like you hadn’t seen him in years when in reality, it had been less than 24 hours—

He was so done for.

"Chan!" you called, finally reaching them, breathless and so effortlessly beautiful it made his head spin.

And suddenly, all he could think about was—

How had he not noticed this before?

How had he been so blind?

You grinned, practically glowing. “Guess what?”

Chan blinked. Right. Words. He needed words.

Vernon, still beside him, smirked knowingly. That traitor.

“Uh—what?” Chan finally managed, his voice a little too tight.

You rocked on your heels, still smiling. “Mark and I finally finished our research paper! I am so free.”

Chan was barely processing the words. He was too busy looking at you, at the way your nose scrunched when you were excited, at how you were standing so close, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He swallowed hard. “T-That’s… great.”

You tilted your head, squinting at him. “You okay?”

Vernon snorted.

Chan stiffened. “I—I’m fine.”

Lies. He was not fine.

Because now, standing there, looking at you like this—like he was seeing you for the first time—one single, undeniable thought hit him like a truck:

He was completely in love with you.

And he was absolutely doomed.

He didn't say anything. He was still your Chan. Your bestfriend. But there are moments when he makes your heart skip a few beats, leaving you all flustered.

You’re standing between the tall shelves of the library, flipping through the pages of a book, when you feel it. Someone standing just a little too close behind you. Before you can turn around, a weight settles on your shoulder.

Chan.

His chin rests there like it belongs, his voice low and lazy in your ear. “Whatcha reading?”

You nearly drop the book.

“Jesus, Chan,” you hiss, pressing a hand to your chest. “Do you have to sneak up on people like that?”

He chuckles but doesn’t move away. If anything, he shifts just slightly, his warmth pressing against your back. “It’s not sneaking. You just weren’t paying attention.”

You glare at him over your shoulder. “I was focused.”

“Same thing.” He tilts his head, glancing at the book in your hands. “So? What’s got you so absorbed that you didn’t even notice your best friend coming to find you?”

You swallow, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is.

“This,” you say, holding up the book between you.

He hums, reaching around you to take it, his fingers brushing against yours. Your breath catches.

“Boring,” he announces after a quick scan, grinning as he hands it back.

You scoff. “You didn’t even read it.”

“Didn’t have to. Your face says it all.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart is hammering. This is just Chan, you tell yourself. He’s always been touchy, always been playful.

But lately, it feels… different.

You clear your throat. “What are you doing here anyway?”

He shrugs. “Saw your text that you were studying, figured I’d come keep you company.”

You glance up at him, and for a second, something warm flickers in his gaze before he schools his expression back to his usual easygoing smile.

Chan doesn’t say much after that hr just follows you back to the table, plopping down beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You try to focus on your work, but it’s impossible when he’s right beside you, radiating warmth.

“What?” you finally ask, glancing at him.

He blinks, as if he hadn’t even realized you were looking. “What?”

“You’re just… sitting there.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. You said you were finishing up, so I’m waiting.”

You narrow your eyes. “And that’s all?”

He grins. “What else would I be doing?”

You don’t have an answer for that, so you roll your eyes and turn back to your notes. There goes your heart doing that thing again.

You keep it to yourself for a while. You don’t know how to bring it up, or if you even should. It’s just… a mess in your head—your best friend, your always-there person, and now this whole new feeling you don’t know how to deal with.

But Chan? He’s really not helping. He does things like when you’re crossing the street together, and he just grabs your hand. Or when you’re walking home late, and you don’t even get a chance to complain about the cold because he’s already draping his jacket over your shoulders. Then, without asking, he zips it up for you, tugging the collar up so it shields your neck.

“There,” he says, satisfied. “Better.”

You nod dumbly, gripping the sleeves.

You’re trying so hard to act normal, but he’s making it impossible. Because every time he does something like this, you feel it—the way your heart jumps, the way warmth pools in your stomach, the way you suddenly have to remind yourself to breathe.

And the worst part?

He does it so casually, like he has no idea what he’s doing to you.

That was one of the most intense matches you’d ever sat through.

Your fingers are still clenched into your jacket sleeves, your heart still hammering from the last few minutes of the game. It had been a close one—too close. The score had been tied until the very last moment, when Chan made the final play, twisting through defenders with the kind of sharp, practiced movement that had the entire crowd holding its breath.

And then—goal.

The stadium erupted. Cheers, chants, the entire team practically tackling each other in celebration. The air was electric, filled with so much adrenaline you could feel it buzzing under your skin.

But Chan?

He didn’t care about the noise, or the people, or anything else happening around him. Because the moment the whistle blew, the moment victory was secured he turned. His eyes searched the stands, frantic and determined, scanning every face, every row—until they found you.

And then he was running.

Your breath caught as he sprinted toward you, weaving past teammates and coaches like they weren’t even there. You froze for half a second—then melted.

His body was warm, even through his jersey damp with sweat, his heartbeat still racing under your cheek. He smelled like the field, like grass and effort and something distinctly him. His arms stayed firm around you, like he had no plans of letting go anytime soon.

“I knew you’d be here,” he murmured, his voice slightly breathless, and you felt his smile against your hair.

“Where else would I be?” you mumbled back, your hands gripping the fabric of his jersey.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the intensity in his gaze made your stomach flip. His eyes were shining, excitement and relief and something else swirling in them, something you couldn’t quite name.

You just stood there, still feeling the ghost of Chan’s hug around you, your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

You had no idea what just happened but you knew one thing for sure. It was getting harder and harder to pretend you didn’t feel the same.

Just as the team was pulling him into their celebration, just as you thought he’d be too distracted by the victory, Chan did something that completely knocked the air from your lungs.

He turned back.

His eyes found yours again, cutting through the chaos like nothing else mattered. He took a step closer, placed his hands on your shoulders then, softly, gently, he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

The world stopped.

His lips lingered for a second longer than necessary, like he wasn’t in a rush to pull away. And when he finally did, he rested his forehead against yours for the briefest moment, eyes still closed, his breath warm against your skin.

Then, with a small smile, he whispered, “Thank you for always being here.”

And just like that, he was gone—yanked back into the mass of his teammates, laughter and cheers swallowing him whole.

But you?

You were frozen in place, gripping the front of your jacket like it could somehow hold you together, like it could somehow stop the way your heart was pounding against your ribs.

Chan had taken his time in the locker room, letting the adrenaline from the game settle. He changed into a fresh hoodie and sweatpants, ran a towel through his damp hair, and finally slung his bag over his shoulder.

He expected the field to be empty when he walked back out, expected the stands to be deserted and the night to be quiet—everyone had left by now but you were still there.

Standing alone in the middle of the field, arms wrapped around yourself against the chilly night air, looking up at the sky.

He took a deep breath and walked toward you.

“You’re gonna catch a cold standing out here,” he called out, his voice cutting through the quiet.

You turned at the sound of his voice, your expression unreadable. But when he got closer, he noticed the way your fingers were gripping your sleeves—the same way they did when you were nervous, or thinking too hard about something.

“You didn’t go with the others?” he asked.

You shook your head. “I… just wanted to stay here for a little while.”

Something was different.

The way you were looking at him—the way you weren’t looking away.

The way the silence between you wasn’t awkward, but heavy, like something was waiting to be said.

And then you took a small step closer.

“You really meant it, didn’t you?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Chan swallowed. “Meant what?”

You gave him a look—one that told him you weren’t going to let him play dumb.

“Everything,” you said. “The way you look at me. The way you act around me. The way you kissed me—” You stopped, visibly flustered, then corrected yourself. “—kissed my forehead.”

Chan felt his heart trip over itself.

“I—” He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah. I meant it.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you. The girl he’d grown up with. The person who knew him better than anyone else. The one who had always been by his side, no matter what.

And suddenly, he felt like an idiot for ever thinking he could hide it. The world could’ve ended right then and there, and he wouldn’t have noticed.

Because you—you—were looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

And he knew, without a doubt, that he had never, ever been happier.

You took a small breath, looked at him, and softly said,

“I need a hug.”

His stomach flipped, he didn’t even hesitate he closed the distance between you in a second, arms wrapping around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head as he pulled you in.

Chan exhaled slowly, resting his chin against the top of your head. He felt you sigh against his chest, your arms tightening around his waist, like you weren’t planning on letting go anytime soon.

One second, he was looking at you, heart racing, the realization sinking in that this was real, that you were real, and the next—

He kissed you.

It was instinctive, like muscle memory, like something he was always meant to do. His lips barely brushed yours before he pulled back, eyes wide, breath shaky, as if he was waiting for you to push him away, to laugh it off, to pretend it never happened.

But you didn’t.

Instead, before he could say anything—before he could even process it—you grabbed the front of his hoodie and yanked him right back in.

Chan barely had time to gasp before your lips were on his again, firmer this time, more sure, like you had been waiting for this, too.

And God, if that wasn’t enough to completely wreck him.

His hands found your waist again, fingers gripping tightly as he kissed you back without hesitation, letting himself get lost in you, in the way you fit against him, in the way your lips moved with his like you’d done this a hundred times before.

Like you should have done this a hundred times before.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathless, foreheads resting against each other, the only sound between you the quiet hum of the night and the pounding of your hearts.

Chan let out a shaky laugh. “So… are we still pretending we don’t know what this is?”

You huffed, rolling your eyes, but the small, breathless smile on your lips gave you away. “Shut up and kiss me again.”

Chan grinned. “Gladly.”

BONUS SCENE:

“Pay up,” Seungkwan whispered, holding out his hand expectantly.

Vernon groaned, fishing out a few bills from his wallet and slapping them into Seungkwan’s palm. “I really thought they’d take another year.”

Wonwoo, leaning casually against the bleachers with his arms crossed, smirked. “Nah. Chan’s been a goner since middle school. This was inevitable.”

Seungkwan grinned, smug. “Told you. The universe had this scripted ages ago.”

Down on the field, completely oblivious to their audience, you and Chan were still lost in each other, exchanging quiet words and stolen kisses under the stadium lights.

Vernon shook his head with a sigh. “Do we tell them we’ve been watching?”

Wonwoo gave him a flat look. “Do you want to die?”

Seungkwan snorted. “Exactly. Let’s just let them have their moment. We can make fun of them after.”

Vernon sighed again but nodded. “Fine. But just so we’re clear…” He glanced back down at you and Chan, who were still completely wrapped up in each other.

“…We are never letting them live this down.”

[crybabydoni]

anyone else hate those “bimbo” reader fics??..

i feel like it perpetuates that “all women r dumb and need help !! blah blah blah!!” stereotype.. -don♥︎

[sprintingficcommentator]

The phrase "Liu Qingge breaks containment" is the best thing I've read all week

[anths-girl]

For all the twats out there, this is how it works:

On AO3, if you want to "dislike" something...FUUUUUCK OFFFF!!!!! 🖕🏻🖕🏻🖕🏻🖕🏻🖕🏻🖕🏻🖕🏻

'ao3 needs a like and dislike button'

what you need, my algorithm-rotten minded friend, is a grip

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Make You Mine 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, age gap, possible abuse, alcoholism, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your father is strict but his authority is challenged by the boy in town and the man at his door.

Characters: Arvin Russell, Lee Bodecker

Note: dirty old man vs. nasty young man

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

The radio blares as you enter the front room, a plate in each hand. You hand one to the sheriff as he smirks and offer the other to your father. He doesn’t look at you as he cups his chin and slumps. You’re not sure he’s even awake. 

“Daddy,” you say. 

He doesn’t answer. You set the dessert on the round table next to his chair. You back up as Bodecker catches your eye. You bite back a frown. 

“I’ll get that rum,” you utter. 

You retreat and hurry off to the kitchen. You find two short liquor glasses and pour the rum. You return to them and place one glass by your father before giving the other to the sheriff. He examines the dark liquor. 

“Fine brand,” he drawls, “and a fine dessert. Hard to enjoy without a fine woman.” His blue eyes flick up to yours. The silver strands in his brown hair glimmer in the lamp light. “Where’s yours, then, baby?” 

“Mine, sir?” You fold your hands and step back. 

“You put all this work in, you should enjoy the fruits of your labour,” he tuts. “Ain’t that right, Jack?” 

You father grumbles as he leans toward the radio. It’s got an arched top, one of the ones back from before the war. Your grandfather’s. You don’t dare touch it. 

“Come on, then, you gotta have a bite,” he puts the drink down and lifts the plate off his lap, “here ya are, girl.” 

He cuts into the pastry with his fork and chisels away a creamy bite. Your purse your lips as he offers it to you. You gulp. 

“Sheriff, that’s for you. Really, dinner was more than enough--” 

“Go on,” he hovers the fork, the cream about to drop. “I’m sharin’, like a gentleman.” 

You nod and push your hands behind you. You ball them up tightly and bend forward. You're overly aware of his gaze as you close your lips around the tines and suck off the cream. You keep your mouth sealed as you pull back. 

You chew thoroughly before you swallow. He chuckles and balances the plate on his thigh. He curls a finger to beckon you down, “come here, baby girl, you got something...” 

You crinkle your brow but obey. Your father garbles senselessly as the commentators call an out. You wince as the sheriff drags his thumb across your lower lip. 

“Made a mess,” he purrs and pushes against the center of your lips. “Best clean it up.” 

He forces his way into your mouth and rubs your tongue, wiping the sweet cream on your tastebuds. He pets your chin before he pulls away. Your saliva glistens on his thumb. He puts it to his mouth and licks. 

“You’re just as sweet, baby girl,” he winks. 

You waver and look at the floor, “sheriff, there’s a real mess in the kitchen. I best clean it up.” 

“You always do what’s best, don’t ya?” He teases. “Go on, then. Be a good girl.” 

His words send chills over you. He's not saying anything wrong but his tone suggests otherwise. That look on his face too. You flit away, your breath constricting from the breath trapped inside. 

You exhale as you enter the kitchen. You focus on cleaning up. You wash the dishes meticulously, hoping to waste the time until the sheriff leaves. 

A sudden crash rings through from the front room. You wring the dishcloth and rush through the door. You’re daddy’s on the floor, his plate and glass around him. The radio continues to buzz. 

Bodecker stands over him, hands on his hips. 

“Told him to slow down,” he clucks. 

“Daddy?” You scamper forward. The sheriff looks at you and lays a hand on your shoulder. 

“Don’t you worry, baby girl. I’ll get him. He just needa sleep this off.” He squeezes and rubs with his thumb, reluctantly letting you go. “You lead the way, huh?” 

He bends and scoops up your daddy. You pout but can’t argue. You wouldn’t be able to move him on your own. You turn and guide the sheriff. You take him to the stairs and up to your father’s room. You open the door but stay outside. You’re not supposed to go in there. 

You watch from the door as he lays your daddy on the mattress. You rub your palms together nervously. He grips his lower back as he steps back. 

“Ah, sittin’ in that cruiser, no good on me,” he grits as he crosses the room. He shuts off the light as he gets to the door. 

“Is he alright?” You ask as he closes you out. 

“Should be,” he brushes his fingertips long your hip. “Don’t you worry. Seems you do too much of it.” 

“Oh... uh,” you step away from him. He looks past you and heads down the hall. 

He stops by your bedroom and spins back to you. You trip to keep from colliding with him. “This yours?” he taps on the door. 

“Um, yes, sheriff.” 

He spreads his hand on the wood, “really?” 

He grabs the handle and twists. You don’t have a chance to stop before he struts inside. You gasp and follow him. 

“Sheriff? What--” 

“I’m just lookin’,” he says as he heads for the bed. “It’s nice. Got a lady’s touch, ain’t it?” 

He admires the shelf clock. Your mom painted it. You teeter on your toes. 

“I guess, but...” 

“I’m gonna need the guest room,” he says. “Ain’t in no state to be drivin’. You got a heavy pour on ya, girl.” He turns and strides up to you. “That rum sure is strong.” 

“Oh, I'm sorry, sheriff--” 

“’Sides,” he stops before you, “should be sure your daddy makes it through the night. He’s a lush.” 

You look away guiltily, “I’ll make up that spare bed.” 

“You do that. I’ll clean up the mess he made.” 

He dips his chin and squeezes past you, so close you feel a tug in your skirt. You wait until you hear him on the stairs before you move. You go to the linen cabinet and take out some new sheets. 

You make up the bed, crawling over it to tug a corner tight. You don’t often have company. A whistle cuts through the air and you quickly back up off the bed, embarrassed at having your bum right up in the air. The sheriff leans in the doorway, grinning. 

“That’s a nice skirt. Fits ya real good,” he purrs. 

“Thank you, sheriff. All done,” you sniff and fix the collar of your blouse. 

“Now, you hear anything, be sure to come get me. It’s a big house, ain’t it?” 

“Yes, sheriff. I will.” You near the door but he doesn’t move. 

“If’n ya scared, you can always bunk with me,” he raises his brows and licks his lips. 

“I’m alright, sheriff. I hope you sleep well.” 

“You too,” he finally moves, just inside the door frame. “Sweet dreams.” 

“Yes, good night, sir,” you scurry out. 

“I know I’ll be havin’ nice dreams,” he slithers. 

🥧

You’re restless. Sleep doesn’t come easy as the winds whistle and the panes shake in the window frames. It’s more than that keeping you awake. 

The sheriff’s just on the other side of that wall. Sleeping, but still there. It was only ever you and your  daddy. Company feels strange. 

You toss and turn. You roll around enough to agitate your bladder. You sigh. You won’t sleep with the urgency pressing. You get up and tiptoe to the door. 

You go into the hall and creep down the bathroom. You close yourself in and flip on the light. The release is not much of a relief. You’re tense and uneasy. You wash your hands quickly and open the door. Your hand pauses before the light switch as a shadow greets you. 

You yipe at the sheriff as he stands in only his white briefs and undershirt. He yawns and scours you with he droopy eyes. His lifts his head and bats away the sleepiness. 

You hug yourself. Your nightgown feels thinner under his gaze. He presses his hand to his chest and hums. 

“Funny runnin’ into ya. Lookin’ mighty scrumptious, ain’t ya?” He drawls. 

You clasp your hands over the neckline of your nightie, “sheriff, I was just--” 

“What was you doin’?” He leans in, his hand on the door frame. “Was you thinkin’ of something fun?” 

“No, sir, just had to... go.” 

“Mm, mm, mm,” he looms over you, “you wasn’t thinkin’ of openin’ my door, was ya? Sneakin’ into the bed, keepin’ warm?” His eyes drift down to your chest and the fabric bristles against your hard nipples, “cold in here.” 

“No, sir, I wouldn’t--” 

“You wouldn’t? Is it ‘cause you such a good girl, hm? You tellin’ me a girl like you ain’t been with no boys?” 

“Sheriff?” You nearly shriek. 

“Well, look ya, baby girl,” he growls and lumbers closer, backing you into the bathroom. “You’re mighty fine. Might fine.” He grabs your hips and pens you in. “Any man’d be lucky to get you.” 

“Sheriff,” you whimper and push against his chest. “Please, I’m tired. I want to go back to bed.” 

“Why? You gonna go hide and touch yourself? Gonna think of me?” 

Is this a nightmare? It’s too distorted not to be. 

“I don’t do that, sir.” 

“You don’t?” 

“N-no, sir, and I don’t want to talk about that--” 

“You should,” he growls. “You should try it least once. Know what ya like.” 

“Please,” your voice quavers. “You’re scarin’ me.” 

“I’m scarin’ ya? How so, baby girl? You know I wouldn’t hurt ya.” He sucks his teeth. “I’d be real gentle.” 

You nearly choke. Silence curdles as you stare at him in horror. You know what he means. He’d be gentle while he—while you-- 

You push him and elbow by him. Horror keeps you moving. You won’t look back. You can’t. He chuckles. 

“Y’ain’t got now humour, you youngins,” he taunts.  

You get to your door as the trickle of his stream hits the toilet water. The door is open, shining into the hallway. He’s so blatant, so unafraid, you can’t help but wonder what you did to encourage him. 

🥧

You spend the rest of the night awake, watching the door. You don’t think Bodecker would let himself in but you also never expected him to corner you like he did. Each time you close your eyes, you see his. That shine in them; that darkness. 

No, he wouldn’t do anything. He was just messing with you. Your daddy always says he has a strange sense of humour. 

You can’t lay in bed all day. Even if you want to hide. After last night, you have to make sure your daddy is okay. 

You make yourself get up and get dressed. You don’t hear the sheriff. You sneak to the bathroom to go through your usual routine then emerge at last, ready but not. 

You go to your daddy’s door and knock. He doesn’t answer. You don’t expect he would. Especially after last night. 

Hinges creak and you lock up. You knock again. You should just go in. 

“Mmph, baby girl, you’re awake?” Bodecker says. 

You turn, pressing your back to the door. “Just checking on daddy.” 

“Such a good girl,” he is unkempt as he emerges. 

Again, he has only his briefs and his undershirt. Now that it’s brighter, you’re agape to notice the tightness in his lower half, the tension of fabric draw over his... part. You keeps your eyes up. A shake of hair juts up and his eyes are puffy with fatigue. 

“I’ll just have a look then go start breakfast,” you say. 

“Now, now, baby girl,” he charges toward you, “you go and start now. I’ll see to the old man.” He drags his knuckles up and down your arm. “I dreamt of you.” 

You blink, “you did?” 

“Sure did, but don’t compare to the real thing. Can’t,” he grins. “You got bacon? I like bacon.” 

“Yes, sheriff,” you gulp and back away. “Thanks uh... for checking him. But, er, he gets real mean in the mornings.” 

“All the better I should deal with him.” 

You sidle away, cautious. You turn at the stares and keep yourself from barreling down. You stop at the bottom to gather your wits. He’s not going to hurt you. He’s playing around. 

You go into the kitchen and get started. Eggs, bacon, bread. You light the stove and a hear a thumping. You pause and listen to the house. You hope your daddy isn’t causing too much trouble for the sheriff. 

That noise comes again. You only realise then it’s not upstairs, it’s the front door. You leave the pan on the burner and go into the entry way. You open the door sheepishly and peek out. It’s that man from the day before. The one that carried your bag. How’d he find you? 

He says your name and smiles. His brown eyes are warm and deep. You blink at him. 

“He-hello,” you murmur. “What, er... Arvin?” 

“You remember. Yeah, I was just passin’ by and I saw the cruiser out front.” 

“Huh? You mean—you need the police?” You ask. 

“No, no, I can take care of myself. I was just... concerned. Thought maybe you were in need of help.” 

“No, um, but... how... how did you know I'd be here?” 

“Yesterday, when I walked ya. I could go until I was sure you were back safe,” he explains. “That’s all. Long as you’re good, I'm good.” 

“Oh, uh...” 

“Who’s that then?” Bodecker asks as he comes down the stairs heavily. 

You wince and back up. You can’t close the door, that would be rude, but you don’t know that you should let the sheriff know that this man followed you home. 

“Sheriff?” Arvin calls through. “That you?” 

Bodecker sighs and comes down. You’re thankful he put his pants on at least. He grabs the door and rips it out of your grasp. You shuffle aside. 

“Russell, whatcha botherin’ her for?” 

“Not bothering, sir,” Arvin grins. “I was just confirming our planes. She’s comin’ with me to the soda shop this afternoon and I was making sure she don’t forget.” 

The sheriff growls. “Is that so?” 

“Sure it is,” Arvin sets his stance. “Gonna get her a cherry soda float. Right?” 

He looks at you. You don’t know what to say or do. If you say no, then you have to explain that you led him back here. Plus you’d have to reject Arvin and he’s been so nice. If you say yes then... then you have to go out with him and you don’t know him very well. 

“Yes,” you eke out. “Yes, I like cherry.” 

“Well, it’s not even eight in the mornin’ so you be off, boy,” Bodecker swings the door shut and faces you. “Where’s that bacon at?” 

[spicycinnabun]

@118dailydrabble for day 83 prompt abnormal ⚙︎ rated: t ⚙︎ pair: buck/tommy ⚙︎ tags: part 7 of android au

“Have we become f-friends, Firefighter Kinard?” EB600 asked. His firemark—an abnormal characteristic for an android—had darkened to indigo under the strain.

He was holding on like a champ.

Tommy was holding on, too—to EB’s scorching hot wrist. His biocomponents were vibrating, overheating. He was close to shutting down.

“Maybe my deduction is wrong, but risking—”

“You're not wrong.” The big robot puppy had grown on him, clearly. “Also, just call me Tommy.”

“Tommy.” EB repeated it as if he were saving it to his hard drive, sounding softly awestruck. “It makes me very happy to be yours.”

God. EB was going to kill him before the slab did.

Tommy managed a smile, squeezing EB's wrist. “Me too, pal.”

⚙︎

tag list: @brassm @leashybebes @thesuspiciousflyingjellyfish @setmeatopthepyre @bibuckeroo @station18908 @hmg621 @buffaluff @disastardly @figuringitoutaloud @bblouleelou @ambernotember

just let me know if you want to be added/removed

[m4iya]

hq characters reactions to you failing a DIY haircut

multiple characters

request

.⋆𝜗𝜚

The type to - obviously - burst out laughing. Like, physically uncontrollable. As soon as you send that photo of your hair, its over and he absolutely wont drop it. It comes up in conversations multiple times after that, and you have to actually stop him from mentioning it in front of other people. Would probably send you a voice message of him laughing as well. Bonus: he might Facetime you so he can laugh even more.

"AHAHAHA THATS VILEEE"

SUNA RINTARO, kuroo tetsuro, lev haiba, takahiro hanamaki, akira kunimi, sugawara koushi, tanaka ryunosuke, HINATA SHOYO, tendo satori, kanji koganegawa

.⋆𝜗𝜚

The type to be utterly disappointed - would probably tell you off as well. You'd try to laugh it off, saying it's only hair, that it'll grow back eventually, but he's not having any of it. If he wasn't embarrassed of being around you when you had such a messed up haircut, he'd take you to a hairdresser. Would eventually stop picking on you.

"Just go get that thing fixed already."

oikawa toru, kenma kozume, kageyama tobio, eita semi, kiyoomi sakusa, IWAZUMI HAJIME, kenjiro shirabu, yaku morisuke?

.⋆𝜗𝜚

The type that couldn't tell if you were being sarcastic or serious at the beginning. Either laughs it off and tells you to try again another time or warns you to never take scissors to your hair ever again. Would tell you to go get it fixed and would come with you for 'emotional support'

"Is that, um.. a new style? No, you don't look stupid"

or

"Oh.. thats not.."

akaashi keiji, USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI, nishinoya yu, chikara ennoshita, takanobu aone, tadashi yamaguchi, tsutomu goshiki

[keouil]

if our demons cannot dance neither can we

when it's time, it's zayne who picks her up. 2k. zayne/mc/caleb. angst. also on ao3.

And dearest, can you tell, I am trying To love you less.

ADA LIMÓN

氷

She stumbles on the first step. 

Zayne acts on instinct, borrowed from a braver version of himself a decade ago, at least he’d like to think: the intuitive way his hand reached out to grasp her elbow—not harsh, just guiding—to help right her back upward. She sputters a little. She blinks. She comes back to herself. She barely registers the touch, he notes; the way her eyes glaze over the autumn leaves peppering the rest of the sidewalk as she stared idly down at her snagged heel she didn't notice walking right into.

They parked his car a few streets away born from her suggestion of walking the rest of the way over and he wonders if she regrets it now. Notes of accusing make it’s way into her voice when she lets out a small noise of indignation, and his heart unsprings a little of the tension inside of it, because if she still had the capacity to be mad: then maybe it can’t be all that bad. She curses down at her heels softly, before seeming to remember her corporeality, before trusting in his hold as she shifts on her feet to try and spring it free. All the while his presence is pliant, stable, and supportive.

Zayne waits.

When she finally manages to unbound herself she coughs once, twice. “Sorry,” she says, a little sheepish, still not looking at him. “I — I guess I’m just not very used to these heels.”

Zayne nods and waits a beat before letting go. “No problem.”

They continue walking in silence the rest of the way. The smell of mildew has unfurled from the earth this late in the afternoon, dousing everything just a touch misty and a little softer than their already quiet footsteps filtering in through the cobblestones. Auburn leaves petal down in their wake, with pale hues of sunlight mellowed out just enough everything is a little more golden than it probably should be. Zayne keeps some distance away, just enough to be able to still grab onto her elbow in case she misstepped again: otherwise just enough of a breath away, just enough not to overstep himself.

It’s only been a month after all.

⊹

Hysteria is something Zayne has been too privy to given his line of work: patients on their death bed screaming bloody murder at his staff in an effort to stave off the immoving crush of the end, soldiers on near-death psychosis bleeding and rambling their throats off at their makeshift medtent at Mt. Eternal; the ravaging cries of the humans turned wanderers he makes nightly visits to in his dreams. 

Zayne is used to—and even expects—the savagery. 

⊹

The day she got the call, however.

That wasn’t hysteria. 

⊹

There are cries that start slow at the eyes, just a pool of never-ending streams quickly trickling it’s way down your face. But it’s not assaulting. It’s not uncomfortable just yet, quiet and somber and non-invasive as it was. There are cries that then grow in crescendo, that marry hiccups and wheezes and the occasional whimper with it. It’s not accosting, too, not just yet: just a very real display of human vulnerability that comes with being confronted of your mortality.

But then—

Then there is a cry so bad that it spikes up the protocore levels in your heart, that it takes a seasoned cardiac surgeon and researcher who has dedicated his entire life’s work to cataloging every minute shift of spike in your energy levels, to throw all of those warning signs away and just hold you: despite and in spite and because of all you are. He lets go of science. He lets go of everything. He had to.

Because her cry then, thought Zayne, was a war cry.

⊹

“...Do you need someone to go with you?” 

A pause. A sniffle. An unanchoring. An orphan only child having to violently confirm her worst nightmare. 

And then: 

“Would you please?” 

⊹

Zayne spots a small line for a flower stall and asks if she’d like to pick some up. Her eyes clear their way through enough haze to get a confirmation out, and when he tries parking her on a bench to wait, she just shrugs him off and insists on coming with to pick out the arrangement herself. He’s never had much practice in telling her no, not a decade or six months or a week or a second ago. 

He wouldn’t start now.

The florist—Jeremiah, the name tag reads—eyes her in a way that had him eye him himself. He looked fresh out of college, painfully young and naive looking, but the familiarity in which he was assessing the way her eyes roamed over the day’s selection spoke of genuine curiosity.

Zayne gets in his line of vision before any of it morphs into interest. “How much for 2 wreaths?”

Jeremiah stares up at him, and he can see the mental gears shifting on his head, noting the fine line of his shoulders that imposed unmoving stability and no room for coercion. The knife-level precision of a surgeon that sharpened when needed.

“If it’s for the miss,” he says instead, surprising Zayne. “It’s on the house.”

⊹

The painter gave her an oil portrait of their last family picture that would never wither, not even if it sunk to the bottom of the ocean. The hunter traveled to another planet to procure especially rare star fragments of their birthdays, it’s luminescence always shining no matter if they were in Linkon or sitting on another fabric of time altogether.

Zayne, though: he could be here. He could happen here. With her, for her, by her. 

⊹

They get to the graveyard to no fanfare. There had been an earlier funeral that day it seemed, the smell of ash in the air and barren soil marrying with the rose beds lining up the path of the entrance. She is quiet. Zayne is, too, but: he’s never known her to be quiet. Her black slip dress wove it’s way with the wind with each step, but it felt papery and wispy, like the rest of her dull eyes going over some of the gravestones they passed by on the way.

He feels—more than sees—each step growing heavier for her. She won’t reach for him, not of her own accord, he’s always known this; and so he has to meet her where she was at. And where she was at right now was someone not in a position to do any of that if it meant complicating things.

The click of her heels and the patter of his shoes stop under the shade of a willow tree. Under it lay two silver-grey tombstones, freshly cleaned and laid out.

Zayne holds his breath. His hold on the wreaths, even tighter. Little autumn leaves drop feather-light kisses on their bodies, and the sun is starting to hide beyond the horizon, but through it all they paid no mind.

She inches a step closer. Then another. Then another. 

Zayne thinks she starts saying something as she carefully kneels over the first grave, but he doesn’t move closer to confirm. Instead he plucks a single rose out of their bouquet and perches it on her tombstone just delicately so. As he does, he feels her eyes on him. The first probably since. He feels her remembering, probably, the mint candy he gave both of them at every check-up and how accustomed—maybe even expectant—they’d both grown to it. 

He remembers more than that though.

A warm meal on sudden nights his parents were called in for emergency surgeries. A warm bed when she refused to make him leave and sleep on the chill of an empty home. Another emergency contact on his file, too, on the off chance neither of his parents could make it to his earlier flare-up episodes at school. A kind compliment thrown his way when he graduated highschool at the top of his class, Caleb grinning ear-to-ear next to her with a camera ready. A stern but firm reminder to not skip his meals when he should be the one doling those out being on the physician's end. A plea this time—real and raw and urgent—to take care of her, once she’s long passed, once she felt her days start getting even more numbered and how she’d trust her life with his and Caleb’s and no one else.

Zayne remembers all that as he deposits the single red rose.

After, he backs away and leans over just enough to ghost a kiss on the top of her head as he says gently, “I’ll just be here,” before giving her all the time in the world.

⊹

Caleb got a hero’s funeral just two days after they confirmed the bodies. 

Zayne was there with her, too, in big and bright and sunlit Skyhaven: he saw the way her eyes walked themselves farther and farther away from her soul as they lit up the jets and blew smoke on his coffin. It was grand and she just needed to be small. Zayne supposes it was hard for her to feel like Caleb was hers when she had to share his last moments with the Fleet, and harder, thinks Zayne: to remember who he was when they insisted on decorating him like a war hero when she just needed her best friend.

During the procession, as his commander doled on and on about his achievements and they had someone named Gideon recount some of his academy days and she wasn’t even processing much of anything, Zayne put a hand to her knee. It never left the entire ceremony, not even when they were flown back into Linkon that same night and he made her warm tea and she asked if he could stay the night and he couldn’t find enough compartmentalization in his heart to say no.

“I do not know,” sighs Zayne, eyes roaming over the next tombstone over, “exactly what to feel now that you have driven her to tears again for probably the last time, Caleb.”

⊹

“I’m sorry.”

When the words tumble themselves out of his mouth, Zayne is surprised to find the tang of it unfamiliar. They’re back in his apartment and he’s fixing her a meal and he wishes they were doing this under different circumstances, and wishes he had her without the doubt of whether her pain was the only thing binding her to him. Belatedly, he realizes he’s never said those words to her. Not when it happened and not during. There’s a bit of bile pooling around the bottom of his stomach, an internal alarm system warning him he was crossing over dangerous and uncharted territory. His relationship with her was a study in boundaries, he the enforcerer even with all her efforts to gun him down. 

She looks at him though, and for a beat, his world just stops. “For what?”

“For losing both of them,” Zayne says. “There is no greater pain.”

The corners of her eyes are an ocean with piranhas. It’s drowning in itself. Only Zayne, Zayne: he thinks he can’t do the saving for her. Not for this. There’s a clear demarcation line between loss and love and he wasn’t sure he was necessarily in a position he wouldn’t be tempted to cross over some of those himself if only to get her to stop crying. She just lost her grandmother and bestfriend and if what she needed of him was to mold himself into insurance, he’d be the best goddamn security blanket there was.

But then—

“Thank you,” she says, and then: “And I’m sorry too.”

Now it was Zayne’s time to look puzzled. “For what?”

She looks at him—properly looks at him—with the predators in her eyes and the toxic waste in his stomach that had him realize maybe she wanted some lines crossed herself. “I’m sorry because you lost them, too.”