#where does all the snot LIVE before it comes out?????

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

every time i swim i discover yet another corner of The Sinuses previously unknown to science

[princessbrunette]

john b was big. you knew it, he definitely knew it.

that never stopped you from trying to please him though. you were an inexperienced thing when the two of you first met, john b still thinking back on the first time you’d asked to go down on him. it was an affair of shy licks, doe eyes, the constant question of “am i doing it right?” followed by the demure command of “please show me how.” the whole idea was ditched pretty quickly, the lover boy hating the idea of putting any kind of uncomfortable strain on you.

you knew your way around the sack a little better now, could take his dick inside you like a champ even though the stretch was still prevalent and it left you bulging each and every time. however, sucking him off still often proved more difficult — your throat apparently just not cut out for it. you were frustrated, because john b was so good at eating pussy, it didn’t seem fair to not return the treatment to the same level of ability.

he can sense this frustration as your brow creases into a frown, dribbling furiously down his aching red tip until your mouth was drawing blanks, trying to lubricate him enough to help the process. he’s smiling softly at you like you were picking flowers or something totally innocent, a distant loved up look in his eye as he cups your face, coarse thumb stroking repeatedly across your cheek and temple to soothe you.

you try him again, taking him into your mouth and beginning to jerk off what you couldn’t reach. you bob your head and he hums, low and raspy in his chest. “good job, pup.” he praises, and something about it makes you stir. your boyfriend genuinely meant it — you were doing a good job, seeing you work to please him made him feel amazing as did your slick mouth and skilled hands… but you wanted to do better than that.

taking a deep breath through your nostrils, you clench one wet fist in your lap as you force yourself down on his length as far as you can handle. “e—easy… baby.” his brows jump higher as he sits up just a little, hands hovering over your head as you hold yourself down. you gag, hard and come back up — sucking in a loud shaky breath. “hey, okay, just go easy sweetheart. remember?” he comforts and you push his hands away, going back down and forcing him into your throat before you’d even fully recovered.

he winces, because yeah — the way your throat tightens around him with each wet gag does feel good. although, he was far too focused on your wellbeing to fully immerse himself. he says your name once, almost in warning before you feel bile rising and you pull off him quickly, aggressively coughing and spluttering. your throat, nostrils and eyes burn and you burst into tears — mad at yourself. he drops everything to scoot forward quickly, going to comfort you. your instinct is to shove away his hands in a slight panic.

“—no—” you gag.

“heyheyheyhey — nonono, sweetheart. breathe with me, yeah? in… and out… just like that puppy c’mon, show me those breathing techniques. remember the ones we did when you got upset? in… good girl…” he finishes silently with an exhale for you to copy and you try, but you’re still sniffling and choking.

“i’m terrible. i’m terrible at this.” you mewl and he shakes his head, cradling you where you kneel.

“who told you that, hm? my sweet girl just pushed herself too hard. thaaaats okay. we live and we learn, don’t we?” he hums in that low timbre that comforts you and you feel yourself calm slightly, your boyfriend swiping away at your tears, snot and saliva. “you don’t need to do all that, pup. you make me feel plenty good. it’s not worth… hurting yourself.” his forehead creases as he stressed this information to you, cupping your cheeks to get you to look at him, ensuring you understood.

you swallow, and make a screwed up face of discomfort at the ache in your throat from practically lodging him down there, possibly bruising your inside. your hand reaches up to touch your neck and his eyes follow.

“is that hurting?” he mutters in questioning and you nod, feeling a little bad for making such a fuss.

“wow, i really should have stopped you sooner. poor girl, huh.” he sighs, gently moving your hand aside to softly massage your throat with his fingers before bringing his lips to your forehead. “yeah i’m sorry the size of me is so…unmanageable… it’s uh— definitely not ideal.” he awkwardly apologises.

“s’not your fault, john b.” you whisper, hating that he blames himself.

“yeah, i know but… yeah.” he dismisses, tucking himself away to pull you up onto his lap. he knows you’ll wanna continue on with having your fun together soon, but for now he needed you to be grounded and feel safe.

[ddejavvu]

I don't know if you're taking requests right now so if you aren't just ignore this, BUT if you are...

Imagine Hotch getting a call from babysitter reader where Jack is in the ER cause he sprained his ankle and, obviously Aaron is a little upset and worried. But when he gets to the ER he sees that reader is an absolute wreck of tears and snot and she rambling on and on about how sorry she is and how she never meant to let Jack get hurt. And Aaron's looking at her like 'omg she's so adorable when she's a mess'. So he calms her down and they go to Jack and Aaron sees that Jack isn't even crying he's just sitting in the bed with a lollipop and a wrap on his ankle. And now Hotch is trying not to laugh at reader for so ridiculously overreacting.

And you can finish it. I know it's a long ask but it's been in my head for a while and it would be such a pleasure and honor for you to make the drabble come true. 😘 love YOU and all your work!!!!!

Aaron's been repeating the phrase sprained ankle in his head over and over since he'd gotten the call from the hospital, but now he's wondering if Jack has since been crushed by some wayward hospital machinery when he spots you hunched over in the waiting room, sobbing into your hands. Your shoulders are shaking and Aaron gravitates towards you rather than the door behind you, letting his shoes click audibly against the linoleum flooring to alert you of his presence.

"Y/N," He calls, and your head shoots out of your hands, your legs trembling as you stand to greet him. You're a wreck, eyes puffy and red and nose dripping obscenely despite the tissues in your hands.

"Mr. Hotchner, I'm so sorry," You gush, and he doesn't hesitate to take you into his arms, voice soothing as he shushes you, "I- I swear I was watching him, but he wanted- he wanted me to wait at the other end of the slide, so when he fell I wasn't close enough to catch him, and he- he- I'm so sorry!"

"I know," He hums, "It's alright. It's not your fault, he's a kid. He gets scrapes and bruises all the time. Where is he?"

"In there," You gladly accept his embrace, even if you don't particularly feel deserving of it, and you jerk your thumb towards the door behind you, "I'm not family, so they won't let me in. They need you to sign paperwork."

Aaron's mouth twists down in a displeased frown, and he makes a mental note to ensure you're on file as one of Jack's emergency contact. Jessica is the only person besides himself that he's added, but in case of any future incidents, he wants you to be able to stay with Jack.

"Come with me," He only withdraws one arm from around your shoulders, keeping the other draped across your shivering frame to keep you steady, "Let's go see him, honey. It's okay, I'm not upset with you, okay? It's not your fault."

"But- but I should have-" You press, but Aaron cuts off your babbling before you can whip yourself up into another tearful frenzy.

"Did you push him?"

You rear back, aghast, "No!" and Aaron has to bite his tongue to stop himself from smiling at the indignation in your eyes. For you to love his son so fiercely as to be offended by such a notion only reinforces his confidence in you as a caretaker.

"Well then, it's not your fault. He almost got a concussion on my watch, you know."

You swallow a sob, composing yourself as he walks through the doorway, pointedly dragging you along with him despite the nurse's suspicious look.

"Really?" You ask, and Aaron nods.

"I was making dinner, and I called him in from the living room. But I'd left my computer charging on the desk, and the cord was on the carpet, and he tripped over it and smacked his head against the wood floor."

You wince at the story, and Aaron internally does the same, remembering the sickening crack of his son's head against the flooring, "It was scary. And that was my fault, I left the cord out."

"But you didn't mean for him to trip over it," You muse, letting Aaron guide you through the hallway towards the room that the nurse had directed him to over the phone, "It wasn't your fault."

"And neither was this," Aaron concludes, stopping in front of door 208, "Ready?"

Your shoulders sag at his artful storytelling skills, and you nod, wiping your hands once more over your eyes. It doesn't do much for your runny nose, and Aaron takes his pocket square from his suit, holding the back of your neck and persisting even when you try to squirm away.

"Aaron- no!" You protest, trying to dodge his grip to no avail. Your words are muffled as he smears the fabric under your nose, "You'll ruin the material!"

"Jack gets macaroni and cheese fingerprints on my suits all the time," Aaron grumbles, his grip firm and tight on the back of your neck, "It's nothing my dry cleaners can't fix."

When he's satisfied that you're as cleaned up as you can manage, he tucks the square back into his pocket, unphased by the grimace you shoot him. The echo of his hand on the back of your neck is still present as he knocks on the door, and he's pleasantly surprised when Jack himself opens the door, his ankle wrapped with a bandage.

"Hi, Daddy!" He grins at Aaron, lips stained red with the remnants of a cherry sucker, "Hi Y/N! You look sad."

"I am sad," You supply feebly, eyeing his ankle warily, "Are you okay, buddy?"

"Mhm!" Jack nods, letting his dad push the door open and guide you inside the room, "The doctor says I can still walk on it, I just hav'ta rest a lot."

The doctor, perched on a stool inside the room, nods with a fond smile at Jack, "That's right. He needs to walk on it for it to recover, but he shouldn't overextend himself. thirty minutes to an hour of exercise each day should do the trick."

"Thank you, doctor." Aaron nods, "Is he free to go?"

"Yes, if you'll just sign these." The doctor pushes forth a modest stack of paperwork, maybe ten pages that Aaron hopes are mainly spots for signatures, "I need to attend to my next patient, so I'll send my nurse in to collect those in a few minutes."

"Thank you," Aaron nods, and you bid the doctor the same thanks as he takes his leave, lingering by the doorway until Jack takes your hand.

"The doctor said to give you this," Jack digs into the pocket of his plaid shorts, pulling out a green lollipop, "He said he saw you crying in the waiting room. Were you crying in the waiting room?"

"I was," You try to smile, but Aaron can tell with only a quick glance at you that you're fighting back tears again, "I was worried about you, Jack. It's okay, you can have the lollipop."

"No, it's for you." Jack insists, and Aaron watches your trembling lips pull into a smile as Jack pushes you over to a chair against the wall, herding you into the seat. You let him direct you into the middle seat, but he bypasses the seats on either side of you to climb right into your lap.

"Here," His tiny fingers pry at the plastic wrapping of the sucker, "I can open it for you."

Aaron doesn't have to look up again from the paperwork he's signing to know there's fondness written all over your face, he can hear it in your shaky, 'Thanks, buddy'. He knows it's there because he can feel the same thing in his own chest, and he doesn't bother trying to keep it off of his face as it flowers equally abundant for both you and his son.

[soobnny]

labyrinth — lee minho.

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

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

word count. 20k words

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

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

one.

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

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

You bruise yourself for your naivety. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There you go.” 

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

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

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

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

two.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was before. I’ve changed!” 

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is why I didn’t wanna say it!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

three.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want?” 

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

“I don’t want to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, whatever.” He scrunches his face. 

“And you’ll make it spicy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, you can’t do that.”

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

“Not good enough reasoning.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep eating.” You mumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a short pause after his response.

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

“What?”

“It’s nothing.”

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

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

“Right!” He grins.

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

It’s nice to be cared for.

four.

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

But what kind of heart doesn’t look back?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what did I just say?” 

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

Minho’s lips press into a line in response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you say it nicely, maybe I will.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is difficult to look at them without breaking.

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

“Ah, let’s go. I’m suddenly hungry.” 

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

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

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

“Have you eaten anything since lunch?”

You only shake your head in response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A little.” You mumble.

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

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

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

You scoff. “A good best friend.”

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

“Ah, miss. Your boyfriend already paid.” 

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Similarly, Felix and Hyunjin are cheering alike.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

five.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Crying over his minor subjects.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Si Papi!” 

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

Only you would ever say anything like that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, of course.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t be stupid. You’re not.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m misera—”

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

“How would you know?” 

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

“I just do.” 

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

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

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

six.

“Wake up.” 

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

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

“Wake up, or we’re going to be late.” 

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

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

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

“Drink this and go take a shower.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...You need to go to a psych ward.” 

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

“Do you really want me to tell you?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You merely laugh.

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

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

That surely makes your head spring up. 

“Homework?” 

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

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

“You didn’t do it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She dismisses his offer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

seven.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho scoots his seat closer to where you are.

“Like what?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Min?” 

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

eight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dude, I don’t know.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re a lost cause.” 

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

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

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

“Minhooooooo!” You whine.

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

“Maybe Seungmin can be my new best friend.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Minho!”

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

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

nine.

You hate that it hits you randomly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

“Have you eaten dinner?” 

You shake your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ten.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I say yes to everything though.” 

“Yeah, but like begrudgingly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh.

“Thanks for coming out with me.” 

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

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

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

“Can you stop saying stuff like that!”

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

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

eleven.

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

This is the most relaxed you’ve ever felt. 

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

The moment only unmutes itself when he pinches your arm. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Close your eyes.” He finally says. 

“Why?” 

“Just close them.” 

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

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

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

“Give me your hand.”

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

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

“Alright, open your eyes.” 

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

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

He still tries.

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

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

“The butterfly…” You start.

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

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

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

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

10…9…8…

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

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

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

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

7…6���5…

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

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

4…3…2…

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

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

1…

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

Oh no. 

You’re falling in love again. 

twelve.

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

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

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

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

“Something on your mind?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Minho, stop joking around.” 

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

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

“Now you’re just embarrassing me.” 

“Hmm, but I love you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[rubyclover]

Hear me out. Lucifer obviously has daddy issues (for 2 reasons) and a daddy kink. You can’t change my mind. I doubt he knows the kink exists but it wakes up after seeing Adam handle some rowdy hellborn children with finesse. The King is down bad. Wants nothing more than to lay his head between those pigeon pecs while being scolded and praised. He needs to be told where he succeeded at being a dad. Tell him how to do better. It would relax him so much to finally have some solid direction… and leave him horny.

The First Man was also The First Dad so he has all the tips and tricks after raising a herd full of kids with Eve.

Naturally Adam’s sinner ability is just DAD. The dude literally has a Dad Mode he snaps into. He looks 100% human; no horns or wings etc, just straight up disgruntled, plump, human rocker dad. The kind that teaches their kids swear words at age 2 to weaponize them and will fight the bully’s parents on no evidence. ‘These hands are rated E for Everyone! My snot nosed little rug rat said so!’

Imagine Adam arguing with Alastor when suddenly, without turning away from the roadkill eating prick, he screams-

Adam: ‘ANGEL DUST YOU TAKE THAT BACK OUT RIGHT NOW!!!’

*Angel Dust taking his bag full of drugs back out from the toilet’s water tank 2 floors up:* Holy shit how does he know?! I wasn’t doin’ nothin’!

*Adam now looking directly up at Angel Dust:* I have eyes everywhere (he does not) and can smell the disappointment from here (he can not). Fucking trash that shit or give it to the plants. I don't care which one but you're doing it NOW or so help me GOD I'll do it FOR you!

Half pint is just sitting on the couch trying not to pop a boner because his imagination is running wild. And it’s not even the vanilla daddy kink. It’s more like DILF kink mixed with daddy kink. It’s Adam’s surprising competency in an area that Lucifer struggles that gets him. He’s not looking to call Adam Daddy or anything.

How can Adam be such a cool Pa without flashy techniques? Able to pull trivia for getting food stains out of difficult fabric with random ingredients from the wild, how to tell when your kid has a crush years before they realize, know when to comfort teenagers and when to let them come to you, how to catch your kid in a lie? Magical!

Things like that.

Ok so yeah he wants to be called a good boy for trying to parent when everyone tells him he’s shit. Is that so much to ask? But Lucifer has competition from several powerful people in Hell because hello? The original DILF is in Hell now and he looks human. Nobody else looks close to that and rarity is scarcity in a depraved marketplace like Hell.

The problem is Dad Mode isn't a defensive or offensive ability. DM functions like the old fairytales surrounding parents supposedly having supernatural abilities. So Adam will just know things, appear suddenly when you're plotting mischief, vaguely see from the back of his head, cook food with mild physical and emotional healing properties and such. DM is funny but ultimately anyone can gank him.

So obviously the Big Bad King of Hell will have to watch over Adam so that no funny business happens. The new Sinner is practically defenseless. Exactly how Lucifer likes him because it's like Eden again. So Adam is living in The King's end of the wing, in his tower, and is rarely out of his sight.

Just low key daddy/dilf kink for Lucifer and Adam doing it for him.

[Note: Cain still killed Able but the majority of Adam and Eve’s time on Earth wasn’t as horrific as it could have been. The husband and wife mostly dealt with illnesses, ugly human emotions, sabotage, the wildlife and famine. Sin got worse after Adam's kids died because the angels stopped closely working with humanity. So while there is pain between Lucifer and Adam this version got lucky.]

[slutouttanowhere]

WIP of the week

Drew’s little princess

Pairing: Drew McIntyre x black!oc

Warning: phone sex, Drew talks you threw it, uses of the phrase “daddy” and lots of other pet names. Soft dom vibes

Special tag: @cardierreh15 (not a wrestling fan but loves Drew)

A/n: I literally finished this, this morning on my way to work, none of it was edited it, and it’s a wip. My friends encouraged me to finish so here we are, this is a nameless oc sorry for that. This will most likely conclude my wip of the week, I posted another one yesterday day go check that out it should be added to my master list by the time you see this one. I chose this picture of Drew because he really is just so sweet and adorable. This was really more so inspired by a Quinn audio that I was listening to, if you haven’t heard of Quinn (not sponsored) it’s an audio erotica app, I fucking live it worth every penny.

I’m standing in the hotel bathroom all fresh, clean, and ready for bed. Despite getting the snot beaten out of me hard enough to make me sleepy, I’m wide awake. A sensation stirring inside me, at my very core between my thighs. My mind flashed back to earlier that night when Drew had me pinned to the wall, his fingers teasing me, and how he refused to finish the job.

“Dick head.” I scoffed, and rolled my eyes. I try to put it in the back of my mind, and get some sort of sleep. I crawl into bed, to my credit I had tried each sleeping position at least once, but to no avail did it work. I laid on my back, one hand resting on my forehead, the other placed on my stomach. My fingers twitched at the thought of Drew, and I fought against it because I made some stupid unnecessary promise to myself that I’d wait for the real thing knowing damn well we’d might have a rocky re-start. I put the sex between Drew and I to a halt because “I wanted to be a mature adult, and have a healthy fresh relationship,” well look where that’s leaded you, you dumb hoe. My hand slowly slid down my body stopping at my navel to caress the exposed skin of the heart shape cut out in my sleep dress. The soft touch was decent enough to work me up, but not quite enough, and I was becoming impatient.

I spread my thighs slightly, just enough to fit my hand between, and I instantly come in contact with my own wetness. Not too much, but just a few drops from my excitement, I sigh out loud knowing that if I were to do this alone I’d have to work harder for it. My eyelids were already drooping, half of me wanted to just rest so badly, and the other half wanted to be fucked through this goddamn bed. Right when I pushed my fingers between my labia is when my phone rung.

“Ugh, you gotta me fucking—

I turn over to look at my phone on the night stand when I nearly choke on my spit. Drew is calling me. Stupidly I answer the phone, I swallow thickly, afraid that he’d somehow seen what I was doing.

“Hello princess.” His accent never ceases to excite me, granted he’s worked on his dialect over time so it doesn’t sound so much like gibberish. He’s mixed his English, and Scottish accent well. I’m convinced it’s only something he could pull off, I sigh in an attempt to cool my temperature, and slow down my thudding heart.

“Still with that nickname?” Not that I was opposed to it, it was something that started off as a stupid joke meant to get on my nerves for the time being. But as we got closer it took a life of its own, not to mention the way Drew says it in particular.

“If the shoe fits. ” He quips, I snort, and now I’m starting to wonder why in the hell he called me. Before I could speak, he cut in with a soft slow start, “And it does fit you, no matter how tough you think you are, I know the truth.” I could hear the smirk on his lips in his tone, that pitiful spark of sexual tension I had earlier was being stoked. His voice caressed around my ear as if he was right next to me. He knew how to trap me, even after all this time apart, he knew what kinds of games I liked to play.

I hummed in response, I was barely able to speak, at least not coherently. “Yea? What truth is that Andrew?” I asked, my voice unintentionally shrinking.

“That you’re not so aloof to your effect on people, especially the men in your life. They’re all wrapped around your pinkie” He claimed, a bit of frustration mixed with lustfulness in his tone.

“Yea?”

“Yea.”

“And what about you? Are you coming to my every beck and call?” It was a genuine question, I didn’t care about what anyone else wanted from me, his attention mattered the most to me.

His end went silent, if it weren’t for his heavy sigh, I would have thought he hung up. There was some shuffling before he answered, “Feels like it, but I’m not complaining. Who am I if not a loyal servant.”

His confession sparked me back to life, suddenly no longer feeling tired, and the excited bumping of my heart dared to jump out of my chest. “Just say you worship me then.” It was a joke mostly, I wasn’t sure if he was picking up on my mood from over the phone.

“Are you lying down right now? On your back?” He suddenly asked, my head tilted, but I answered anyway.

“Yes.” I confirmed, my hand rested lazily on my lower stomach.

“So you were thinking about me then?” He didn’t need confirmation for that, it was just a habit I fell into, and that’s what stupidly told him about.

My body answered for me, the ache between my thighs stirred, and my back was already arching up off the bed. He took my silence as the confirmation he needed, a deep chuckle could be heard from his end. I’m glad he found this funny.

“Where are your hands?” He asked, my fingers twitched, and began to make circles on my skin. Goosebumps rose on my skin, and sent a shiver down my spine.

“On my lower stomach.”

“Listen to me very closely sweetheart, I want you to be a good girl and do as I say. Can you do that for me?” He asked gingerly, and I had no choice but to obey, how could I be a brat when he’s being so sweet?

“Yes.”

“Take your fingers, the middle and ring finger. Put them up to those pretty little lips of your, and suck on them for me.” He instructed in a soft voice, I stared up into the dark, and just as the tips of my fingers touched my lips he spoke again. “Close your eyes angel.” I could hear the grin on his lips, he knew me too well, and I loved that for me.

I let my eyelids flutter close, now being totally enclosed in darkness, my middle fingers in my mouth as I was told, and Drew’s deep voice caressing me. “That’s my good girl, I love it when you listen. That’s how you get rewarded isn’t it?” He chuckled deeply at the sound of my airy sigh, I imagined these were his fingers, and that his hands were caressing my breast. Despite what others may think, Drew was truly a gentle giant. He’s a teddy bear, and I reveled in the fact that he’s all mine.

“Now, I want you to spread those thick, luscious thighs of your sweetheart, as wide as they can go.” He instructed quietly, his voice sounded euphonious, he could talk the pants off anyone. My hand rested on my inner thigh, it didn’t feel nearly as good as Drew’s large, warm hands. The feeling of the way he grabbed me made me weak in the knees; he had a way of making me feel strong and beautiful, while simultaneously making me feel small and dainty.

I could hear shuffling on his side of the phone before he settled, “you still with me angel?” He asked, I didn’t trust my own voice, but I mustered a response.

“Mmh, I’m here.” I mumbled,

“Good, I know you’re not wearing any fucking panties are you?” He didn’t wait for my response, because of course he was right in his assumptions. “I don’t want you to waste any time, I want to put you to sleep tonight.” My heart melted at the gesture, I always had trouble sleeping, but not since Drew and I got together. If he wasn’t fucking me to sleep, he’s singing to me, talking to me, or watching tv till I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore.

“Take your wet fingers and trace over that pretty pussy lips of yours.” He paused as my fingers slid over my luscious labia, the coldness of my fingers in contrast to the warm soft skin caused a slight throbbing that was hard to ignore. A chill ran over my body causing goosebumps, and hardening my nipples. The friction from the cotton dress made a sharp pain shoot across my skin, and right down to my core.

“Ah.” I moaned out, a tickle sensation arouse between my thighs, and all I wanted my Drew here with his hand wrapped around my throat telling me how pretty I was.

“I know baby, I know, but don’t touch your clit just yet. Slide one finger in, use the middle fingers just as I would have. Go slow, take your time, you’re gonna finish I promise.” I loved how I wasn’t expected to talk, he allowed me to enjoy the moment, but that’s all I could manage in this state regardless. I pushed my middle finger into my core, slowly at first, instantly I’m coated in my own slippery sap. This was Drew’s doing, “fuck you turn me on so much Daddy.” I whimpered, I pumped my finger slowly arousing myself even more, and when the throbbing started I lifted on leg back as far as it could go.

“Keep going sweetheart, I want both fingers as deep as you can go.” He encouraged me to continue, I paused for a second to put connect my phone to my AirPods so he’d be in both my ears. It took me a second to get back in rhythm, but soon I found my groove again.

My lips fell open, my eyes fluttering close as waves of pleasure ripples through me. Though it still wasn’t enough, the nagging throbbing from my brown glistening bud wouldn’t stop. “Ugh…fuck I need it, mmm.” I pouted, tears of frustration lined my eyes causing them to sting.

“I know, go ahead and take those fingers, and put them back in your mouth and taste yourself. Tell me how good it is.” He grunted out, the sound of his voice surrounding me, I laid there with my eyes hooded, half sleepy, half aroused. Honestly my favorite combination. “Damn, Im good.” I giggled sucking every last bit off my fingers, and letting them go with a pop of my lips.

“Why in the hell do you think I’m so feral about you.” He paused to instruct me further, “pull those gorgeous breast out princess. Just let them fall out naturally, don’t try and hold them together or anything. That’s it baby, I can see how comfortable you are, the way you’re laying with one leg back, spread wide for me as much as possible.” He inhaled deeply, “such a good girl for daddy, isn’t that right?” He cooed, a draft of cold air caressed my nipples, they tightened sharply.

“Ohh, Daddy please, can I come please.” I begged, he always had me feeling so sensual, yet animalistic. The way he talks to me, the way he touches me, it made me want to rip out of my clothes and let him have his way with me where we stood.

“You’re so sweet, I’d give you anything you asked, do it baby rub that pretty pink bud of yours. Fuck if I was there I’d suck on it, and wouldn’t let go tell you were a fucking mess in my hands.” He kept talking while I drew circles around, and around, slowly building myself to an explosive climax. I relaxed my body into the soft hotel cotton sheets, I didn’t wanna cheat myself by going too fast. I was trying to off my own greediness. “And oh my god how I love the feel of you in my hands princess, it’s all ever think about. That soft, warm cinnamon skin, god how do you always smell so good. I mean the fragrance mixed with your natural scent, and fuck that body.” I didn’t care if he was reading me the goddamn car manual, his voice was so mother fucking sexy I almost came right there.

“I know you don’t like talking about your body, but I swear every time I see your arse I just want to fucking take a bite out of it.” He groaned, I wasn’t sure if he remembered that I was here from the way he was rambling, but his high praises made me feel gooey. “Then those strong, yet squishy thighs…mmm makes me want to take my tongue, and run it over every inch of you.” He voice came out huskily.

“I’m so close.” I whispered trying not to disrupt my own flow by talking.

“Don’t stop princess, don’t you fucking stop, let me hear it baby. Let me hear how much of a good little slut you arm for me.” Still in the softest, yet gruff voice, Drew talked me into a climax more intense than I could have imagined. I knew for a fact it wouldn’t have been this good without him, my body convulsed, and that back of my head buried into the pillow as I arched my back as deep as I could. My thighs clamped close around my hand, my breaths deep, and shaky. I wasn’t sure how loud I was, but I couldn’t be bothered with something like embarrassment right now. All I could hear was Drew soothing me, I knew if he were here, he would have turned me over on my stomach, and rubbed my back till I passed out like a freakin baby.

The second my body relaxed I was falling asleep, and I didn’t even try to fight it. My tension had finally been released thanks to him, and he didn’t even have to touch me. “Get some rest princess, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Was the last thing I heard before the phone hung up, and I drifted off to sleep.

[demonbanisher]

Psssttt @impishtubist a gift for you based off of this

Newest Additions

Sirius walks into the kitchen to find Harry sitting in front of the oven with rapt attention.

“What are you doing kiddo?”

Harry looks up at him with watery eyes and sniffles as he wipes snot from his nose. “They needed to be warm.”

Sirius frowns and walks closer to discover that the oven is indeed on. He is a little bit terrified that Harry somehow knows how to use the oven at the age of five but he files that away for a parental breakdown at a later time.

“Who’s cold sweetheart?”

Harry’s eyes go back to the oven and Sirius steps close to tug the oven door open and proceeds to curse, trip over his own feet, and land squarely on his ass in response to what he sees.

He takes a deep breath to level the fear out of his voice. “Harry, darling, can you please tell me why there is a pile of baby snakes on a cookie sheet in the oven?”

“They were cold.”

“So you put them in the oven.”

“The oven makes things hot.”

“The oven cooks things darling.”

Harry shook his head. “They told me they’d let me know if it got too hot. I put it on reallllly low.”

He looks between his godson and the now ajar door of the oven. “Hazza, can you understand the snakes?”

Harry chews on his lower lip. “Don’t be mad. Auntie Petunia didn’t like snakes.”

Sirius also does not like snakes but he sure as hell isn’t going to make his godson cry over it. “Not mad. I just want to understand. Can you hear them?”

Harry nods nervously.

Okay. Add parseltongue to the list of parenting hurdles to tackle.

“Harry that’s very sweet of you to bring them in to keep them warm, but we need to put them back outside. I’m sure their parents are looking for them.”

Harry’s lower lip trembles and his eyes start to water. “They can’t. They’re like me.”

“What do you - oh.”

“Someone took their mom in as a pet but then got mad when she had eggs and threw them out. Their mommy got hurted.”

Sirius takes a deep breath processing that he can’t tell his godson that he has to put the orphaned snakes back outside without making him afraid that Sirius and Remus will one day leave him outside too.

“Do you know what kind of home they’d like?”

Harry beams. “Sand. They like when it’s warm so they can sleep like me with my blankies.”

“Okay. Let’s find somewhere safe to put them while we go to the pet store.”

“You mean I can keep them?”

“Of course kiddo.”

Harry promptly tackles his godfather in a hug. They walk down the street to the pet store and Sirius can see Bathlida smirking at him before they even get up to the counter.

“Brought in another stray?”

“This one was all Harry.”

“They’re snakes!” Harry proclaims excitedly.

Bathilda laughs as she rings things through. “Live mice come in on Tuesdays.”

“Live mice? Ah, right.”

“Might want to pick up a book on snakes while you’re out.”

“It’s okay,” Harry tells her struggling to pick up the big bag of sand. “I can talk to them so I’ll know if they’re sad.”

Bathilda raises one eyebrow at Sirius who shrugs in a way he hopes says ‘kids, huh?’

When Remus gets home later that evening Harry immediately grabs him by the hand and drags him to his room to introduce him to all his new snake friends. Slinky, Worm, George, Edwin, Slither, Slime, and Bartholomew the Third. He doesn’t ask where the other two Bartholomews went.

Bedtime is a struggle as Harry is too excited about his new friends to go to bed. It takes the promise of ice cream for breakfast to finally get him to sleep.

“So,” Remus says as he steps around the pile of dogs slumbering on the floor to crawl into bed, “snakes huh? How bad did you scream?”

“Only once at the initial shock but Remus we’re going to have to feed them live mice and watch their jaws do that thing.” He shuddered.

Remus chuckled. “Don’t worry love I’ll protect you for the big scawy snakes.”

“I hate you.”

Sirius climbs in on the other side and pretends to put up a fight as Remus cuddles into his side.

“You’re a big softie you know.”

“I know, but I haven’t seen him that happy in so long. How could I say no?”

“Mhm,” Remus mumbled. “I think the ten dogs, three cats, six bunnies, and two kneazles proved your inability to say no a long time ago. Not to mention the Niffler and hippogryph in our backyard.”

“Buckbeak and Swiper are bonded. I couldn’t possibly separate them.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the creak of the door as a small child entered their room.

“Everything okay Harry?”

“I opened the cage to give the snakes a kiss goodnight and now I can’t find Slither.”

Sirius was sitting bolt upright on the bed in a moment, turning the lamp on, and throwing the covers off the bed.

Harry’s little face scrunched up in confusion. “What’s wrong with Padfoot?”

“Nothing,” Remus says, putting his slippers on. “He just loves you too much. Come on, I’ll help you find your snake.”

“Slither.”

“I’ll help you find Slither.”

[loopyarts]

Here’s a sketchy drawing and a two panel comic that I did back in late January this year of an Au idea concept inspired by @crate-of-edges fic idea concept of them being turned into little kids with no memory of themselves as adults post and this is my Au idea and take on the concept idea of what if somehow Sanji brothers got cursed/de-age 10 years back to being 11-12 year old boys and now Sanji and Strawhats have to deal with them while also trying to find a way to reverse the curse/de-age effect inflicted upon them.

In this state, Sanji brothers are weaker because one they’re kids again and two their bodies can’t handle they own powers right now and they also seems to have a bit of memory loss at the moment but will regain them as time goes on. Yup, Sanji is basically having to babysit his brothers and play big brother to them, the only one that feels natural to him is Yonji because Yonji is his actual baby brother.

While with Ichiji, Sanji strangely finds that he starts to look after now as well and despite his age he acts like he’s 15-16 rather than a 11-12 year old boy although he does have his bratty and prideful moments and Sanji slowly starts to lose his mind whenever Ichiji decide to wonder off on his own or weirdly enough go fish diving.

Sanji feels like he has no idea what is going on in his older brother head and it doesn’t help that he also rarely talks which is fun but as time goes Ichiji began to open up more and more to Sanji to where he’s finds out that this Sanji is actually his little failure of a brother Sanji.

Niji is well Sanji living hell, an absolute brat of all brats. But as times go on Niji starts to respect Sanji and they both bond through kick combo training together and Sanji share some of his techniques to Niji to which the little gremlin absorbed like a sponge.

Also Niji a nightmare when it comes to food to point he refuses to eat what Sanji gives him, since he didn’t trust him yet. When Sanji does get Niji to try his dishes, he eats them up like no tomorrow and surprisingly asks for seconds. Niji also grows the closest to Sanji to where he wants to protect him and look after him just as much, that need to protect Sanji.

Which grew even more when he found out, this Sanji is his little brother Sanji.

Yonji is at first is very spoiled and entailed little chestnut, who acts like snot nosed brat to Sanji and constantly calls him stinky fish man. But Yonji bonded with Sanji the quickest and he loved that Sanji acknowledges his book-smarts and especially loves talking to Sanji friend Robin about the books and world, although he does get annoyed how Sanji treats like a little kid all the time.

When Yonji finds out, he not all that surprised by it but he surprised by how strong his big brother has gotten and is confused why they all tiny while he’s not.

After a while they found a cure for curse and let just say the brothers have had an experience while they still part ways. They surprised felt connected and didn’t let go of that experience they had together despite how odd it was for Sanji brothers to go through.

The comic kinda explains partly on how the boys got de aged. But to give a further more in depth rundown basically it takes place after Wano and they somehow encounter each other on another island before Egghead. The reasons the Sanji’s brothers are there is because they have a mission they carrying out which involves the person who cursed them to be 10 years younger. Who has been causing an uproar in town on the island due to their mending with age.

Basically they find her she kinda like a witch with feathered hat leak stick and has giant bag where she keeps her bottles and has the power to take memories and age take away or give age to a person and seal in a bottle.

Blah blah Sanji and his brothers start fighting and arguing giving her loads of time to quickly curse Sanji brothers and take away 10 years of age and memories away making them 11-12 year old kids again. Sanji was too shock to realise she escaped and went into hiding on another part of the island. Now Sanji is stuck looking after his de-age brothers along with strawhat crew and they now begin the journey of finding the age witch and reversing the curse done on his brothers.

Ichiji, Niji and Yonji basically got magic poofed into being kids again like an old fariytale. Also the time Witch thought it be funny because how childish they were all being and with how awful they being to Sanji, she decided to punish them and she hoping Sanji will give them a taste of they own medicine.

Also, Ichiji, Niji and Yonji will slowly regain parts of their memories as adults as they slowly put the pieces that this stranger is actually their twin brother Sanji. That’s all I got in my head for plot I basically was making it up as I draw the comics amd drawings for fun. OvO’

There a scene with Ichiji putting blanket on Sanji happens way later in the story in my head and it he also confirming to reader that he now knows that adult Sanji is his little brother and yes Ichiji will be first to figure it out because he a sharp cookie. Niji will figure it out last because he’s stubborn and take a bit longer to put two and two together. (Hint, hint I have a full oneshot comic based this idea that be posted soon hopefully. OvO’)

Oh I almost forgot to mention in my mind and headcanons Ichiji powers can hurt him outside of the raid suit. So if he uses his sparks as a child he will hurt himself despite not being as powerful he can still inflict damage onto himself. Also my version of Niji has low vision and cannot see very well without his goggles.

Anyway, that’s all my rambling on this idea. I will probably won’t do much more with this Au idea after I have finished doing that oneshot comic.

[weebsinstash]

Dunno if you watched SK8 the Infinity, but one important conflict is literally the protagonist Reki becoming extremly insecure and unmotivated in skating after seeing how his new friend Langa (a snowboarder) who has barely started skating is a prodigy and so much better at it than him, who has been skating since he was a child.

Langa is naturally talented at skating while Reki works hard and still cannot measure up to someone who just started, which makes him consider quit skating altogether and leads him to distance himself from Langa because of insecurity and jealousy.

Those type of scenarios just pull at the heartstrings, you know?? Like there is nothing worse than working hard and still feeling inferior to the people around you, which DOES make for juicy angsty scenarios :)(

No but literally those are the kinds of plots where you kinda immerse yourself in the grief and it can be empowering to see your underdog recover, but also GOD is that shit so depressing and hits close to home, for real the kind of plots I soak up and throw pity parties for myself for lol

You know I've been pretty open about it but like, every so often I get compliments on my writing that are very sweet, but ultimately I do have to acknowledge like 😅 I AM basically a self taught high school drop out. So especially when I personally start writing about these sorts of stories "lol what if Reader is a depressed fucking loser absolutely struggling through the mediocre machinations of life and has Strong Hot Person come save them" like. You know where that's coming from lmao 😂 extremely unsettle but I figure what I write is usually relatable enough that it's like why the fuck not be a little personal sometimes

God though I had initially considered that when I was talking about like the Spiderverse You vs YouTwo ideas, initially considered making YouTwo drastically superior to you, but the route I've decided on is, you're on equal footing and there are certain things you each do better than the other but, seeing them be better than you at anything is salt in your wounds since you're feeling replaced.

I also like obviously have mentioned it several times but like. Living with Damian Wayne specifically would be absolute awful for this scenario, especially if you make your yandere mean or whatever. Like you could be minding your own goddamn business doing your favorite hobby and have this snot nosed fucking 10 year old (this one, the nasty one, before he gets tamed down, potentially by you?) and he's just like "that's not how you're supposed to do it" and physically takes it out of your hands, does it for you, and explains to you what you were doing wrong the entire time

Like imagine platonic yandere Damian who can't communicate his feelings for shit and is still deep in his Little Hellion Phase so you think he's just constantly insulting you and trying to show how much better and smarter than you he is when in reality he's just like. Very Poorly being like, "oh, a chance to show my sibling how cool and smart I am, and then I can teach them and they'll like me :) and they like to learn new things so I should teach them as much as I know and they can feel smart too :)" and on your end you're thinking he's an egotistical MEAN little kid who's making you extremely insecure and feel worthless and stupid and maybe sometimes often he's, not always using the best language with you because he wasn't really raised with kindness. "Why would you think THAT'S how you do it?" With a tone like youre a fucking idiot, "I don't understand what you're not seeing, I've been doing this for years and I'm an actual child"

like genuinely it's all of those "someone else one upping you" ideas but WORSE because you can't leave this fucking house and he's TEN. Youve got a fucking TEN YEAR OLD physically and mentally one upping you CONSTANTLY with the mental abilities of like a fucking adult man. I feel like the entire family being trained in violence, you'd think they would understand having like a physical fight and have probably had many themselves, but the second YOU lose your temper and put a hand on any of THEM, SACRILEGE. Damian couldve been saying the cuntiest things to your face and the SECOND you swing on him, just absolutely lose your shit, suckerpunch that brat in his face, give him a literal black eye that he didn't block because he didn't expect his beloved sibling to hit him, Bruce is UP YOUR ASS about, "you know better than this! That's your brother!!" like straight up, I think messing with one of the Robins or members of his family is the fastest way to have yandere Bruce lose patience with you and do something less loving. Takes away privileges, grounds you, makes you do labor around the house or labor for him in the cave or Damian, forces you to apologize and also acknowledge "that my brother just wanted what was best for me 🙄"

He's the kind of overbearing calculating shit where he waits until everyone is at the family dinner table and he casually pauses in between spoonfuls of soup, "so I see sister has been sneaking out of the house. You didn't do a very good job of washing the cigarette smoke out of your jacket" ousting you in a double whammy combo for sneaking out without permission AND smoking, and of course you're responding something like "you little PRICK!!" and now Bruce is standing up, jabbing a finger towards the stairs as he demands you go to your room with the unspoken threat that's he's coming up there to speak to you about this after everyone eats

Like legit living in that house would be a nightmare because everyone is gifted and everyone's doing somersaulting backflips and it's like. Lmao my knees pop when I stand up :) you're all like insanely gifted in your fields and I'm like. Normal. Some would say a simple minded burnout, even. Like. Lmao. Imagine a scenario where you're still independent and doing your own thing bur Bruce is, you know yandere mode and keeping tabs on you, and he's constantly trying to like, nudge you towards better opportunities. You're in costume on a rooftop and suddenly he's asking you about your schooling. You're working a shitty day job and one day the in universe equivalent sends you am email "based on your qualifications, this employer is interested in your resume" and its a super well paying WayneTech job that you. Turn down because you'd either fail the drug test and don't think you're good enough lmao. Bruce just tearing his hair out as he decides "ok fine I'll make your life better by force" and just starts buying your apartment building and where you work or some shit so he can improve your quality of life from the outside

[mausoleum-letterbox]

Today, she wears beige and cream—spared, yet, from years of wear and tear.

Today, they're as new as the day she bought them, and February is a beautiful, frigid affair. Snow still sticks to the untrampled stones, not yet slush.

Pressed close to her hip, he holds to her hand—sticky child, with his fingers scrubbed free of grime. His own is barely just smaller, barely able to still be swallowed whole. His eyes watch the pendulum made by their movements ; a unit, together, a grandfather clock. It isn't until she speaks, voice muffled by the wind, voice muffled by his own distraction,

"Schavo," and he looks up.

He does not respond. His tongue is dry in his mouth, his cheeks whipped red in the blustery air. He won't respond, he thinks, in that childhood sort of stubbornness, until they're back in the cottage—tucked safely between the treeline and the shore.

Instead, he stares at her expectantly, wide eyes marveling at those that peer back. His are brown like newborn fawn, light and soft with all-seeing innocence.

Hers are tired. He doesn't yet know why.

At least her voice is lively, sing-song, in time with birds he'll grow to miss. "Schavo."

He's plenty far off from knowing how much he'll miss her, too.

Today, he turns nine, and he clings to the hem of her dress, letting her drag him about the market.

"What does my schavo wish to eat tonight?" She studies his face, dark eyes scrutinizing what pinkens in the cold. Studious, always, they betray the soft edges of her mouth. "Rabbit?" She nudges, like she's a youth all the same.

He blinks. He shrugs.

Another push, soft, her forearm or her hip. She's trying at humorous. "Maybe /hen,/ hm?"

He can feel his face contort, cold settled into browbone, creaking when he frowns. She laughs at his disgust, and he can feel the reverb burrow into his chest, leaving ache where it tunnels.

"This picky son of mine," she speaks to no one but herself—and him, who stands at her side, trembling with the weight of her judgement. A hand cards through his hair, the one not bound to carry bundles of fabric, and coils loose curls around her fingers. She'd only braided his hair this morning, and half-til-noon, it's already come undone.

He blinks back hot tears and focuses on her dress, on how he leaves marks that seep into the fabric. Sootlike, almost, as they cool with the air ; the ache in his chest drips into his gut and pools. Corrodes, then, into guilt.

"Oh, come, now," soft coo, when she realizes he's sniffling. She takes her hand from his hair, only to snake her arm around his head. Half-way hug, an embrace made all the more awkward by the way they stand by stall. "You needn't cry."

It's meant to be soft, he thinks—in the moment, relived, it's more of a chide. She presses her lips to the top of his head, but does not purse them ; settled, stitch-straight, against his crown.

She pulls away before he can bury himself in it.

"Do you want rabbit," she tries, again, as she shuffles them away from the weaver's stand, "or lamb? Sweet boy."

He blinks away what blurs her face, but fixes his eyes on the ground. He feels /brattish,/ like this, clinging to her, offering nothing.

/"Lamb,"/ He whispers, because nothing that comes from his mouth is anything but meek. Mousy boy, white as rat. "Please, dej," he adds, and buries his begging in her frock.

Again, she laughs, clucking softly as it trills. His face is hot with the shame of it.

He tries to wipe it off, the burning humiliation, tries to soften shame in the cotton on her hip.

She doesn't comfort him, this time. She turns, and he can feel cotton slip through his fingers, just as time will.

Stone-still, his little boots cemented to the road, he blocks plenty of traffic. His mother is swept away in the underbrush, or maybe she leaves with it. A dread bubbles as snot does, something he'll live day to day with, soon.

The folk that wash out all sight of her offer no kindness—glares spared, not glances, at the anchor sitting ashore. Everything blends together, people and faces, dresses and pants. Even his hiccuping, messy sobs are drowned out by the undercurrent, beat set not by the pound of his heart, but the gallop of their boots.

There's a hand in his, at some point, one that pulls him aside. The voice that must be connected to it chides a familiar word, as he struggles to shuffle in time.

"I'm sorry," he weeps, as she boxes around him, crouching to his height. Her lovely dress settles on the murky ground, and more apologies spill in time with the sway of dirtying hem. "I'm /sorry,/ dej, /I'm sorry,"/

His voice cracks, dropped porcelain, as she holds him in her arms.

/"Schavo,"/ she has to interrupt, as he presses his cheek into the crook of her neck. He seeks to hide in the warmth that she shields him with, but they both know she won't allow that. His shoulders are dwarfed by her hands. "My, Andrew, what has gotten into you?"

"I'm sorry." He's sniveling, pathetic child, as he presses the balls of his palms into his eyes. So that he might not see hers, so that he might only feel the softer side of her scorn.

This is not allowed ; she pulls his hands down, and watches, carefully, as his head lolls.

"My Andrew," her repetition is much more purposeful than his. "You were so excited to come with me, today." Her voice is sadder than it was ; he wishes he could say more than what breaks from his lips.

"I'm sorry, dej," her dress is dirty with snow, and now her shoes are painted in his tears.

She tuts, holds him, all angles and frail edges, close to her heart. "I know."

He knows he's mussing up her dress worse, even as she's fussing over his hair ; he leaves her apron stained and snotty, and she slicks his cowlicks down, toying with braids unbecoming.

"But what have you to be sorry for?" Her fingers seek to split them, undo, redo, by this stall. She doesn't, though, just lays her fingers against. "It's only supper, bakri, it isn't supposed to /scare/ you."

Just because she smiles—it doesn't wash his sour sadness away. She sighs, places palm against his cheek.

"I only want you to be happy today. It's such a /good/ day, too, all yours ; can't you do that, for this dej of yours?"

The shrug he gives is met with hardly-pitying snort. She rubs her thumb along what remains of baby fat. He grows thinner by the day, and they both know it.

"Oh, /please,/ sweet boy? Where's my happy schavo, who was so excited to come with me into town?

"Where's my sweet Selim, hm? The one who made his dej braid his hair?" She twists what remains of rowdy plaits, pushes bushy ends against his cheeks. When he laughs, a bit of shine returns to her eyes—or maybe he's blinking away what remains of his tears. He covers his eyes with his hands, again, to hide from ticklish onslaught.

"Could that son of mine gone off while I was talking to the weaver, hm? Run along to join the lambs, butting heads all the while?" Pointer taps against her chin, feigning daydream.

He snickers from beneath his fingers, peering out to see faux thought. Her smile seems more genuine, her eyes alight with a luster she loses much too often,

"No, no, my Selim is a good boy," her thumbs slip between the cracks against his face, yet she doesn't yank when she pries. "He's only hiding in plain sight!"

She scoops him up, giggling wild, and fixes him on the hip that doesn't hold bundle.

"There he is, my Selim—who doesn't have a thing to cry for, today! Too good a birthday to be ruined by some tears," a kiss to his temple, then to his cheek, until all that stings is the giddiness of grin, and his cheeks aren't stained salty any longer.

"Now, you help this mother of yours!" They're both brighter when she lowers him to his feet, and tucks tall wrappings into his hand. "You help me carry these, Andrew, and I'll carry our lamb."

And, after he nods a final time, eyes bright like the spring soon approaching, he's the one to drag her to the butcher's stall—

—

When he wakes with a startle, he finds his face is damp, his hair slick with sweat. His pillow is stained, already—

The sob that rips from his chest is violent, visceral ; the frame shakes as he does, too.

[anxiously-sidequesting]

okay wait stop. okay wait for me, okay just- (steps around my mountains of garbage and slime)

Listen we all love Malorn Ashthorn (as we fuckin' should) but I just realized. okay, just how much undeserved mess that poor blessed soul went through

Like okay think about it for a second. He's introduced early on in the first arc as Malistaire's former top student and now impromptu Death Professor at Ravenwood, okay so we all know that. But the implications man. The implications, I didn't think about the IMPLICATIONS.

He's like this 12 year old kid, okay. Already even BEFORE his official appearance in the game, imagine being a straight A student, one of the very best (to the point where it's noted and revered amongst the other professors AND your fellow students), under THE Malistaire Drake, who, even before his villain arc, was also one of the most esteemed and powerful Death professors ever. Like I couldn't even keep a C in school that shit must be wild

AND THEN. And then, your professor literally commits several war crimes, causes irreversible damage and trauma, and becomes a national criminal against.... the universe???? Like Malistaite commits heinous terrible shit, and sinks the entire Death School along with him. And then it falls to Malorn Ashthorn, once again who's like a teenager, to PICK UP THE METAPHORICAL PIECES because he had no choice. He was literally the only candidate to fill in Malistaire's place, a legend turned monster, to teach and guide GENERATIONS of new children that are HIS AGE or even OLDER THAN Malorn is.

And then the actual changes in the school. Malorn, former student, now has to learn how to become a professor with his limited knowledge of Death Magic. Like imagine filling in for the college astrophysicist teacher when you've only graduated 6th grade. He has to change his SCHEDULE, from waking up early as a student to get up and get ready even EARLIER as a professor to prepare the classes HE comes up with. Not to mention late nights grading hundreds of papers from multiple students??? AND he either is the ONLY tutor (which means more overtime and work for him, to personally help individual students with different Death lessons), or he has to actually call upon help from other students to help him get his job done.

And then there's like the relationship aspect of it. Malorn is literally just a child, like any other student, but adopting a role as a professor, an adult, means that he also has to adopt a certain mindset. Malorn literally HAS to be patient, HAS to be guiding and nurturing, HAS to be the adult in every situation in order to be a GOOD professor. Malorn has to train hard not only in magic to be ahead of the others in order to teach them properly, but has to retrain his mindset to be ABLE to handle to teach properly. Like you can't be a regular tween teaching other tweens.

And then it's just the pressure after that. The PRESSURE GUYS, of not only living up to one of the most talented and accomplished the school has ever seen, but deal with the fact that the very same person also became a tyrant and war criminal and left Malorn, his most promised student, in his place. Like I could easily imagine the rumors, the judgement, and the fear surrounding that boy, wondering if he would ever turn out to be the same as Malistaire.

No one asked for this. This soap opera I mean, nobody asked me about Malorn Ashthorn or this long ass post but I don't care because I'm crying. Girls I'm crying my entire bed is wet with tears of despair and snot. Malorn is literally a sweetie oh my God he does not, and never will deserve this shit I'm so sorry honey. Sweetie Malorn baby I'm so fuckign sorry, i'm so so sorry,

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

HERE, KITTY, KITTY (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Aizawa x Black!Catgirl!Reader

Synopsis: In which you find yourself in the weirdest predicament after you’re scooped up and taken to a cat cafe after you decide to take the streets to fight some crime, and you’re adopted by your very anti-social and hot coworker Aizawa aka Eraserhead.

Story Warnings: Smutty Smut, 18+ (MINORS GET AWAY), Swearing, Adult!Reader, Ear and Tail Stroking, Light Degradation, Spanking, Exhibitionism, Multiple Positions, Creampie, Unprotected PIV Sex, Facial, Scent Play, Collaring, Deepthroat, Cunnlingus, Begging, Edgeplay, Power Play, Rope Play/Shibari, Master Kink, Some Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Some Action

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer’s Note: Just came down off a stomach virus. Lemme tell you...whoever had this virus first in Philly, FUCK YOU!! Enjoy the chapter! -Jazz

Read on AO3 here!

Other Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-One. Twenty-Two. Twenty-Three. Twenty-Four. Twenty-Five.

*********

TWO.

Aizawa has always had trouble sleeping.

Whether it be because of stress over his students, haunted memories of villain attacks, or the memory of his beloved childhood friend Oboro.

But tonight, and for the past few nights since September when the school year began, his sleep troubles can be contributed to you and your damn cute ass self.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, practically slamming his hand down on his phone to stop the sound of ocean waves.

This usually does wonders to help him sleep, but all he’s been envisioning since he laid his head down to sleep hours ago is fucking you on an island, your luscious thighs spread and cute little tummy exposed as his dick strokes the inside of your wet, tight, utterly amazing pussy, your cute little ears and tail twitching as he strokes those with his hands, making you dumb with the pleasure.

“Fuck!” He growls, frustrated. He sits up in his bed, soaked in sweat despite the cool spring air coming through the window to his apartment. He looks at the clock: 12:23 AM. At this rate, he’ll be up until 6. Thank God it’s the weekend though.

But sleep is very important to Aizawa. He needs it to function, which is especially needed to deal with the public, his coworkers, and his snot-nosed students. He can’t do that if he’s here lying awake in bed, wondering why he’s still alone and not in your bed instead.

So what does he do when you’re running through his mind like this? He takes a walk.

He rises from his messy bed with the covers askew, clad in his briefs. He walks over to his clothes closet where he changes into a simple, black tracksuit. He doesn’t wear his usual jumpsuit for fear of dirtying it up, but he does pack his scarves and goggles since, as Mic put it, “a hero’s job is never done”.

After gathering his phone and keys, he meanders in his living room for a while, eyeing the closed bedroom door covered in painted pink flowers and cats that Mirio insisted on doing for his “little buddy” when they set up her bedroom. That was a year ago. How time flies when you’re a single dad, a professor, and a pro hero at the same time.

Aizawa smiles at the door before locking up his apartment and heading down the quiet hall to the elevator to take him downstairs. Once there, he swipes himself out with a key card given to all UA staff to get in and out of campus buildings and heads out into the quiet, spring night.

Before he heads off on his walk, he plugs his AirPods into his ears and chooses his R&B playlist. He begins nodding along to Troop’s “All I Do Is Think of You” as he begins to walk… probably not the right song choice because he instantly begins to think of you.

The campus is quiet. All are either asleep or out in the city, enjoying this nice Friday night. Spring is in full bloom, though the early chill is still in the air and the cherry blossoms that surround the area are still budding.

He walks along the walkway leading towards one of the many entrances to the UA campus, walking away from the apartment complex that houses many of UA’s teachers and staff.

Including you. He hasn’t seen you much around the building since you live on different floors and have such different schedules, but while in school, he runs into you in the elevator, stairwell, or hallway from time to time.

And each and every time, he’s dumbfounded by your attractiveness. His mouth waters every time he gets a look at your plump lips as they form the words “good morning” and your pretty, brown eyes he wants to stare into forever. Not to mention your gorgeous skin his fingers itch to feel, but not as much as they do your ears and tail that, unfortunately for him, go along with your quirk.

Goddamn, your ears and tail! He has to duck into empty classrooms every time he sees you down the hall because his hands start aching to stroke the adorable little things coated in fine, black fur.

His cock takes the worst of it though. It seems to have a mind of its own that you control. Every time he gets a glance at you in some cute little skirt with your ears relaxed as you sit in your office, he’s so tempted to find a nice, quiet place somewhere and bust several nuts at the thought of you…and he has.

At first, he wasn’t sure how he felt about you working here because of your cat quirk. Not because he disliked any person with an animal quirk (he isn't a prejudiced dick), but because you were so goddamn cute and knew he would never be able to focus. Throw in your compassion for the UA kids, your sweet and genuine personality, great taste in fashion, and your general niceness, and he’s ready to jump you.

He’s a fucking mess for you. Why the fuck did God or your parents’ genes have to make you so goddamn cute, pretty, and nice?

He’d never tell you any of this though. He knows logically, that someone as pretty and as sweet as you would never return the same feelings to someone as awkward and as rough around the edges as him. You deserve someone who doesn’t scurry off when they see you and isn’t a complete introvert. Someone who doesn’t have secrets or a chip on their shoulder. You deserve so much better.

But fuck, does Aizawa want to be that “better”. He wants to be your man so bad, he can barely think straight. But that’s all it can be: want. Nothing more.

“Nothing more,” he whispers to himself, his breath fogging slightly in the chilled air.

As if validating the state of his complicated life, his phone begins to go off. He checks the caller ID, finding the number of the MPD aka the Musutafu Police Department hitting him up. Principal Nezu cut a deal with the chief a year ago for pro teachers to volunteer to do nightly patrols to clean up on street crime around campus and in the city. Aizawa volunteered since he’s got nothing else better to do.

Plus, kicking some ass certainly beats grading papers and stroking his dick nonstop at the thought of you. “You rang, chief?” he answers.

“Good, you picked up,” the chief sighs in relief. “Sorry to bother you so late. Were you sleep?”

Aizawa nearly laughs. “Nope, you caught me at a good time. What’s up?”

The chief gives him the rundown: “We just got a report in from an overnight staff member about a robbery at the International Pro Hero Museum. According to him, there are four individuals in black jumpsuits and ski masks who broke into the place and took the overnight staff hostage. The one who put in the report managed to escape and called 911, but these individuals have their own quirks they’re using to their advantage to rob the place.”

“Did the staff member mention anything about what kind of quirks they have?” Aizawa asks, switching into gear. The wheels in his mind begin turning, already analyzing the situation.

The chief lets out another exasperated sigh, which is a no. “None at all, so just be careful, Eraserhead. We know you’re highly skilled in this department, but it doesn’t hurt to say it.”

Aizawa smirks to himself, already moving behind a building to change. “Thanks, but I think I’ve got this,” he chuckles. “I’ll be right there.”

After hanging up, he immediately straps on his goggles and winds his scarves around his neck. Without another thought, he shoots one arm out and loops his scarf around a street lamp before latching on and leaping onto it.

He does this with every street lamp, traffic light, and building he sees, the world darkened by his goggles. He likes doing nighttime missions because he’s not noticed nearly as much as in daylight, but he gets the occasional “Hey, it’s Eraserhead!” yelled at him from a window or a car. He usually spares a wave or a nod, but this time, he’s too focused on his mission to pretend to like the attention.

He manages to make it to the museum quicker than he thought, but he doesn’t immediately act. He first crouches on the neighboring building, looking out at the museum. He doesn’t see a vehicle of any sort, which means the robbers came on foot. What he does see, however, is a broken window. At least they were smart to not try to break through the front door, meaning there is also an alarm that they probably disabled.

After analyzing the distance from the building he’s perched on to the museum, Aizawa wraps his scarf around a nearby tree and swings from the branch, like Tarzan. Then he latches himself onto the branch and, after securing his goggles, leaps from the tree and through the open window.

He lands perfectly on his knees, using a hand to steady himself on the ground into what Mic calls “a superhero landing”. He then asses his new environment: a dark storage room filled with dusty supplies, hero posters, and a group of museum staff gagged and bound against the wall. The hostages.

He quickly springs into action to help them, taking the makeshift rope and gags off of them. As he does, he looks down and finds tiny thorns in his gloves that protrude from the textured, green rope that tightly bound the hostages together. ‘Vines,’ he realizes.

“It’s Eraserhead!” one of the hostages shouts in glee. Another, wearing a janitor's uniform, hushes him.

“Hush, stupid!” he whispers harshly. “They might come back for us!”

Aizawa helps each of them stand on their feet. “It’s alright, I’m here to help,” he calmly says. “How did you all get here?”

“Those four fuckers put us in here!” the janitor angrily replies. “I was just cleaning the floor in time for tomorrow’s shift and next thing I knew, I was being shoved to the ground and tied up in these damn vines.”

He kicks at the vines that lie on the ground. Aizawa stares at them questionably. “So one of them has a plant quirk,” he realizes. “Anybody know about the other three?”

Another hostage–a young security guard–steps forward. “One of them has webbed feet and can walk on walls,” he answers. “He jumped on my back and attacked me. Scared the shit outta me.” A sudden crash pierces the air, making the hostages freeze in fear. Aizawa quickly gears into action.

“Nobody move from this spot,” he orders firmly. “I’ll come back for all of you. The police are on their way.” Before anyone can say anything more, he quickly leaves the storage room and slinks through the dark museum as quietly as possible.

Each room he stalks through is dedicated to its own hero according to each part of the world as well as dark and empty. Nothing seems out of place until he makes it to the front of the museum where he finds broken glass littering the tiled floors. Warning signals blare in his head, his body warm with adrenaline as he carefully walks on the glass, using the fox walk technique.

His eyes trail over the glass to the broken case of All Might’s first hero outfit. Obviously, the robbers were trying to snatch it. What he doesn’t expect is to see three of them tied together near the door, back to back and unconscious. “What the fuck?” he whispers in bewilderment.

He gets a little closer and inspects the work: they are wrapped in one of the robber’s own vines with bruises and black eyes ruining their faces and slight tears in their black clothes. Someone seriously fucked these guys up.

‘But who?’ he thinks, confused. ‘Who the hell was here before me?’

He suddenly freezes, sensing something. Something that feels like danger according to his twirling gut.

With a deep inhale, he shoots his hand out to the right, earning a strangled gasp in response. He turns, finding a kid with unruly, burgundy hair and black clothes in his grasp, his bare, webbed feet dangling like a rag doll.

He gives Aizawa a toothy grin. “Eraserhead,” he croons. “I should’ve known you bein’ an old fart wouldn’t have fucked with your sense of hearing.”

Aizawa glares at the kid. “First of all, I’m thirty-one,” he deadpans. “Second, what are you doin’ with these fools? Shouldn’t you be at home sleep, kid?”

The kid’s wolfish grin drops, replaced with a look of rage. “Don’t call me that!” he snarls, wriggling around in Aizawa’s tight hold. “I’m not a fuckin’ kid! And I do what I want!”

Aizawa tightens his grip on the kid. “Jeez, anger issues much?” he huffs. “Something tells me your dad never spanked you when you were younger.” He tries to get a look at the kid’s face, preparing to wipe his quirk for a few hours so he’s easier to handle.

The kid surprises him by looking right at him suddenly. “What, you gonna do it for me?” he taunts before giving him a smile. “You could try!”

Suddenly, he pulls out a canister ball and slams it against the ground, causing a burst of smoke to explode from it. Aizawa drops the kid and begins to cough as the smoke fills his lungs, his vision now obscured by the fog. He tries to look for the kid, tapping into his senses to find him. When the smoke finally clears, the kid is gone.

“Hey, old man!” someone shouts from the ceiling. Aizawa looks up and finds the kid hanging from the ceiling with his webbed feet. “Shit!” he growls, but he’s not quick enough. The kid jumps from the ceiling with a shout and lands on Aizawa’s shoulders.

“Perfect distraction,” he snickers. “Now you can say this “kid” is the reason to meet your end. Goodnight, Eraserhead.”

Before Aizawa can try to rip him off, the kid wraps his arms and legs around his neck and begins to squeeze hard. Suddenly, Aizawa can’t breathe. He grunts, trying in vain to rip the kid off of him, but he has a fucking koala grip on him.

‘Air,’ Aizawa thinks. ‘I…need…air!’ He drops to his knees, desperate to get some air in his burning lungs.

But the kid just keeps on squeezing, desperate to kill the pro. Aizawa can feel his eyes fluttering shut, the darkness beginning to eat at his vision.

Suddenly, the strangling sensation stops and the kid lets out a grunt as he falls from Aizawa’s back. Aizawa sputters and coughs, gulping down as much air as possible. “That could’ve ended very badly,” an unfamiliar voice says behind him.

He turns, finding someone equally as unfamiliar to him. She stands above the now-unconscious kid, an All Might paperweight from the museum’s gift shop in her hand.

Aizawa’s eyes trail over her form, beginning at her black knee-high boots to her black bodysuit, the leather, and slashes of glittered silver glinting in the flashing lights overhead. The black mask she wears over her head obscures the top half of her face from him, only showing him her nose and her glossy, plump lips where he just sees two fangs jutting out. Her braids hang at her waist where her hands are, placed confidently on her hips.

Aizawa notices the same glittering, claw-like slashes there too along with some across her thighs he knows could crush someone’s head.

He wouldn’t mind being in between them himself.

He continues to gape at her for a moment, wondering where the fuck she came from. “You alright?” she asks, concern in her voice. She puts a gloved hand out to him where he can see long, makeshift claws attached to the tips of her fingers. Snapping back to reality, he refuses her hand.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, standing. “Who the fuck are you?”

The stranger blinks at him with those yellow, feline-like eyes. “Well, nice to meet you too,” she scoffs. “I thought you would’ve already seen me in the newspapers, but I suppose cameras can only work so well in the dark.” She juts a hand out, giving him a fanged smile. “Night Claw. Nice to meet you, Eraserhead.”

Aizawa blinks at her. Her name sounds familiar to him. “You know me?” he questions, raising a brow at her. Night Claw giggles, moving her braids behind her shoulder. “You’re kiddin’, right? Anyone who’s anyone knows you.”

His eyes trail up to her mask, noticing the two pointed ears poking out of it. Now he knows why her name sounded so familiar. “I know you too,” he says, earning a wide-eyed stare from her. “You’re the new vigilante who’s been going around at night fighting street crime. I’ve seen your name pop up on Twitter.”

Night Claw grins with pride. “I’m her, exactly,” she chirps. “I was around, so I figured I’d stroll the streets. Then I came across the museum and saw them tryna make a hustle out of a steal.”

She nods at the kid and his three partners. “The hostages okay?” she asks worriedly. “I couldn’t get to ‘em fast enough. Needed to make sure these dumbfucks didn’t steal nothin’ else.”

“Yeah,” he grumbles, still sizing her up. Who is this girl? Where did she come from? “You know, I would’ve handled that myself. And them.” He nods at the robbers.

Night Claw just laughs, irritating him. “Oh, yeah,” she replies sarcastically, “‘cause it looked like you were doin’ a great job, to begin with. Ya know, being that I saved your narrow behind, I think I’m deserving of a thank you.” She crosses her arms over her ample chest that Aizawa has to force himself to look away from.

Aizawa clenches his fists, feeling incredibly pissed that she’s mocking him and that she ruined his mission. This was his arrest, not hers. And he certainly didn’t need any help from someone who isn’t even an official hero. He despises nothing more than people who feel like just because they have quirks, they have every right to become a hero without putting in the blood, sweat, and tears to do so.

But he doesn’t say all that. He only looks at the bright-eyed vigilante and sucks his teeth at her. “You’re not gettin’ one,” he growls. “And my ass isn’t narrow.”

Night Claw just smiles at him, almost taunting him. “I’m guessin’ you don’t have a license for this?” he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets. Night Claw’s smile doesn’t falter. “A girl never tells her secrets,” she hums, which he takes as a no.

“You know, I have every reason to take you into custody and hand you over to the cops for impersonating a hero,” he cooly states, fixing the vigilante with a hard stare. But even with the possibility of going to jail, Night Claw’s confidence never wavers.

She instead raises her chin and looks at him through the eye slits of her mask. “Are you though?” she purrs.

The air around them grows tense and thicker than fog. Before either of them can say anything more, the sound of police sirens begins to fill the air. Night Claw looks startled all of a sudden, but quickly bounces back and gives Aizawa a playful smile. “Guess that’s my cue to leave,” she announces briskly. “They’re all yours.”

Aizawa watches in silence as the vigilante turns towards the front doors of the museum, her ass looking way too good in her bodysuit. As if forcing him to be a good person, his throat burns from the kid’s attempt on his life. “Hey, Night Claw,” he says in his deep, baritone voice.

Night Claw stops and turns to him, the moonlight illuminating her skin and braids, making them appear like twined silver. Aizawa swallows down the strange lump in his throat at the sight of her. “Nice boots,” he mutters.

She gives him a joyful smile. “You’re welcome,” she giggles. “I’ll be seein’ you around, Eraser.”

Then, without another word, she struts out of the museum and into the darkness, leaving Eraserhead alone, confused, and very, very aroused.

[soobnny]

labyrinth — lee minho (teaser)

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

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

estimated word count. 20k words

release date. mid or end of july

taglist. open (send an ask hehe)

note. i am so so very excited for this one so please look forward to it perhaps. i hope this doesn’t disappoint !!!! i am continuously working on it and will try my best to put it out as soon as i can

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

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

You bruise yourself for your naivety.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There you go.”

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

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

“Thank you.” You say through the clatter of your teeth.

He doesn’t say anything, only squeezes you in his arms.

It’s two in the morning now, and Minho can hear your quiet snoring. It’s prominent, sitting louder than the few honks of cars outside. You must’ve barely gotten any rest these past few days.

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

[sillyguy99]

Pray that you will not fall into temptation (Mafiafell | Sans x Reader)

Chapter 1: Night Visit

Notice:

(The reader has a nun name, meaning: a holy name given to be used by others in place of a real name, such as “Sister Magdalene” instead of just “(Y/N)”, in this specific case.)

~ • ~ • ~ • ~

               Blood drips from the remnants of the bottle.

               It stains the carpet, as does your robe when you kneel and reach out for the victim.

               He lies on the ground, what he'd worn to hide his appearance now gone from his face. What confirms him to be the same man you'd helped recently is the medicine vial he's clutching, and which he saves in his pocket as he groans and rubs at where you've hit him. His jaw is clenched, and there's the faint scent of smoke emanating from his body.

               “I'm so, so sorry,” you whisper, crouching before him and leaning in.

               You've never seen a skeleton bleed before.

               In fact, before last week – when this same monster man had shown up at your door begging for human medicine – you had not seen a living, breathing skeleton at all.

               Your hand presses on his trembling shoulder, and you try not to recoil when you feel a faint warmth emanate from his body.

               “I didn't think you would-”

               You're cut off by laughter, and you look back to his skull to see he's opened his eye sockets.

               He places a palm on his injury as he pushes you aside and stands up.

               “my fault, i'll admit,” he says, grinning. “i’ve seen ya pour that sparkling wine before like it's been sent to you by god himself. the last thing i expected was you goin' for my head like you're a professional baseball player aimin’ for the world record.”

               He laughs louder, so you have to stand up, rush back to him, and press a palm against his teeth.

               And – wasting no opportunity – he immediately licks it, though you don't recoil.

               “I've had snot smeared on my robe, vomit spilled on my chest and lap, and grubby hands cup my face just to say something to me,” you state, pressing harder. “I can assure you a little saliva won't-”

               A hand grabs your rear, and the other holds the wrist of the hand you'd intended to smack him away with.

               You still don't set his mouth free, and that seems to flash amusement into his gaze.

               “Stoop that low, and I won't hesitate to shove my crucifix into your eye socket.”

               His hand removes itself from your rear.

               At that, you set his mouth free and step back.

               “i came to say thank you,” he says, again reaching for his injury as he walks to your bed and sits in the middle. “frisk's been alright, no – more than alright, since they took that medicine you gave them.”

               “They're the Monster Ambassador, are they not?” you comment, arriving at your dresser, where you fetch a first aid kit. “I assume hospitals want little to do with them, if they are the reason for people's anger toward… your kind’s integration into our world.”

               You take it, sit next to the monster, and retrieve some salve, alcohol, and cotton balls.

               “If you ever need more, you can gladly visit, but…" You douse the cotton with alcohol and wipe it across the injury. “But not like this. It is late in the night, and you've sneaked into my room… as if you're a teenage boy looking for some action in a highschool flick.”

               Next comes the salve and a gauze with two strips of tape.

               “And then, to make matters worse, you show up in a disguise.”

               You remove the coat over his shoulders and fold it, placing it on the bedside table when you're finished.

               “I can hardly see you as is with the dim candlelight. What do you think was going to happen – You showing up at my bed like we are roommates with scarce living accommodations? I was not going to say:  ‘Welcome home, darling!’, nor was I going to softly embrace you.”

               When you look up to make eye contact again, you see he's grinning from ear to ear.

               “Tell me what's so funny,” you ask, placing your palm over his chest. “My veil… Is it crooked?”

               Instead of answering, a hand holds your chin, and his thumb traces over your upper lip.

               “all this time,” he replies, trailing off with a fit of chuckles. “you've…”

               Horror cascades onto your body when you see he wipes something white off your face and licks it clean.

               “you've been talkin’ to me with a milk moustache.”

               It's your duty to cover his mouth once more, his laughter further booming – giving you no time to shrivel up with embarrassment in a corner of your room.

               “Why didn't you say so sooner?”

               He shrugs, then licks your palm again.

               “And please, stop that. If you want me to find it gross or arousing, it is neither.”

               Be that as it may, the word ‘arousing’ flickers prominent brightness into his irises.

               And now, you've come to the conclusion you've taken a terribly wrong step.

               His hands reach for your hips, pulling you forward and onto his lap.

               It's there that he faces an obstacle: the length of your skirt impeding him from parting your legs. He grabs a handful of the fabric and lifts it to your knees, then brings you close until you're straddling him. Your refusal to let his mouth free for the second time declares it more difficult to do anything against him, and yet you'd rather endure this than risk having him be loud and your Sisters finding someone unknown in your room.

               He kisses your palm.

               And after, his hands move toward your veil, slipping under it and stopping on the back of your neck.

               “What do I need to do for you to stop that?”

               You pull your hand back, though you keep it close – just in case.

               “i wanna spend time with you.”

               Before you can shut him up again, he grabs your wrists and tugs you closer, until you're nearly pressed against his chest.

               “...Why?”

               “i think i like you.”

               He lets go, then places his hands back on your hips.

               “i’m curious about you, and i wanna get to know you better.”

               “Is that all? It doesn't sound like you genuinely mean what you say.”

               Knock-knock.

               For the third time, you press your palm against his mouth.

               And he does the same, muting both the words you planned to respond to the person behind the door with and the gasp his actions draw out from you.

               “shut up,” he whispers, after brushing your hand off. “don't say a thing, and they won't find out.”

               Another set of knocks is heard, and footsteps fade when receiving no answer.

               He pulls his hand back and removes your veil.

               “if anyone asks, tell them ya don't know nothin’, and-”

               Footsteps sound once more – quicker now.

               “-and fake you've been sleepin’.”

               The doorknob rattles.

               He lifts you off his lap, straightens out your skirt, and the rest happens too quickly for you to take it all in.

               His hands roaming your body as he puts you to sleep, and the whoosh of the wind as he's gone with the blink of an eye, messes caused by his abrupt presence and your reaction towards it cleaned right as the doorknob ceases rattling. A dresser once littered with a variety of items you’d set aside while searching for first aid is tidier than how you'd left it. The few items scattered on the bed have been put away, as well. Similarly, the wrinkled carpet has been fixed, and the glass shards from the broken wine bottle have all been picked up. Everything’s in its rightful place, and the only objects out are the empty mug of milk on the bedside table and your veil folded next to it. Evidence of there being anyone else before would be complicated to find for someone as skilled as a detective.

               When it rattles again, an unknown force pushes you back to bed and closes your eyes.

               “Sister!” a familiar tone calls out, accompanied by the sound of the door slamming against the wall. Are you alright? We all heard a man's voice, and Sister Gabriel said that she…”

               Her footsteps come closer.

               “She…”

               Try as you might, you can't move an inch.

               Something impedes from acting upon your thoughts. 

               “Sister Magdalene?”

               There's the sound of her walking closer, along with the fabric of her robe shuffling.

               Soon after, she rests her palm against your forehead.

               “Oh, dear,” she exclaims, removing her hand and placing it on your cheek. “You're burning up!”

               You can't move.

               You can't speak.

               You can barely open your eyes.

               “Sister Gabriel, come- come quickly!”

               There's the sound of more footsteps – incredibly rushed and clearly panicked as the one called bumps against the door, clattering whatever she carried into the room and sending it all to the floor.

               “Forgive me, b- but we saw a shadow outside, and I… I can't seem to control my shaking.”

               “Nevermind that. We need to take care of all this first!”

               There's the sound of the two Sisters picking up the mess of broken shards while you drift off, fatigue forcing your slumber.

               “What is this strange-looking garment?” is the last thing you hear as you lose the remainder of your consciousness.

~ • ~ • ~ • ~

(Testing posts on Tumblr by publishing the 1st chapter of PTYWNFIT!)

[circusgoth-dotcom]

Safehouse

Ship: Gabriel Chandler & Jason Dean (platonic)

Word Count: 723

Summary: J.D. shows up on Gabriel's doorstep late at night. CWs for themes of physical abuse, brief mentions of food and death.

Gabriel was startled from half-sleep by his doorbell ringing incessantly. He peeled himself away from his couch, glancing at a clock as he went to answer it, and was startled to find a teen boy on his porch. Even in the dingy light of the porch lamps, Gabriel could tell something was wrong.

“What-- it's eleven at night… Jason Dean, right?” Gabriel asked exasperatedly. J.D. nodded.

“Can I come in?” He responded evenly, almost coolly, as if he wasn't visiting a stranger's house in the middle of the night. Gabriel floundered for a moment before sighing and stepping aside.

“I guess. How did you know I lived here, anyway?”

“Well, your sister gave Veronica your information, as a show of trust or something, and in turn, Veronica gave it to me…” J.D. paused, peering into the living room from the entrance hallway. “Who’s that?”

Gabriel pushed past him as another man began to rise from the couch. “No one and nobody, and he's leaving.”

He handed the man his shoes and ushered him toward a back door. When the man had gone, Gabriel turned to J.D., who kept his face partially turned away. Gabriel held out his hands. “Let me see.”

Reluctantly, J.D. moved so his face was illuminated, looking directly at Gabriel, who gasped as a freshly blackened eye was revealed. They moved to the kitchen, where Gabriel quickly retrieved an icepack and a bottle of painkillers. Gabriel didn’t know much about J.D. He knew he was dating his sister’s close friend and that he was the son of “Big Bud Dean,” the owner of Bud Dean Construction, whose billboards were plastered from one end of the continent to the other, and that was all.

“You’re not going to ask what happened?” J.D. prompted after taking the painkillers and sitting on Gabriel’s kitchen table, holding the icepack to his swollen eye. His voice cracked slightly as he spoke.

“I didn’t think it was my place… could’ve been anything, you’re the one who came to me for help. Somebody you barely know.”

J.D. smiled tightly. “I just had a good feeling about you. Tell me who your guest was first.”

Gabriel exhaled shakily, leaning back against his counter. “He’s a cop. We have a little arrangement… I do good by him, he does good by me. You understand?”

J.D. nodded slowly. “Alright. You could say my pops… popped me.” He shrugged and Gabriel’s heart twinged. He moved to hold J.D.’s hand.

“You don’t need to joke,” he hissed absently. “Oh, Jason…” Instantly, J.D. began to tremble, leaning against Gabriel’s arm. Gabriel half-hugged him, squeezing him tight. “You’re safe here, go ahead and let it out…”

Though he tried to present his tough persona through the pain, the dam burst quickly. Tears and snot poured out of J.D.’s face as he let Gabriel hold him, ugly sounds squeezed from his throat. He felt like he hadn’t been comforted by an adult since his mother died. As his sobs subsided, Gabriel handed him a tissue box. Weakly, he wiped down his face and blew his nose.

“Stay as long as you like,” Gabriel insisted seriously. “Come as often as you like.”

“Thank you…” J.D. croaked. “Who knew Westerburg High’s queen bee had an ounce of kindness in her bloodline…”

Gabriel shook his head as he led J.D. to his guest bedroom. “I know Heather can be abrasive, but nobody knows her like I do… I think she’ll get better as she grows up. But you don’t need to think about her right now, you don’t need to worry about anything. Just rest. Do you want anything to eat?”

J.D. shrugged and laid down, still holding the icepack to his eye. “I’ll eat whatever…”

“Alright… do you want me to stay here…?” He shook his head. “I understand. I’ll be in the room across the hall, I’ll go get us something when I wake up.”

“7-Eleven,” J.D. suddenly said as Gabriel was leaving the room.

“What was that?”

“Would you get me some things from 7-Eleven? Whatever looks good to you.”

“Sure thing, champ.” That single word made J.D. want to cry again, but he wouldn’t let the tears drop until Gabriel had closed the door behind him.

[klausinamarink]

One Kid Gone, Another Up and Vanished (part 15)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 | ao3

not gonna give any excuse for the update delay uhh but massive thanks to @panicatthediaz for helping me out with the adults’ dialogue!

Eddie’s really sick so cw for gross descriptions of vomit, flu-like symptoms, urine, etc.

For the first time in days, Eddie is running hot aside a few spots where the coldness still lingers. He would like it better if his stomach could stop trying to bust itself out of his withered-tasted mouth.

He moans pitifully. His head is pounding fiercely like a pair of hammers banging together inside a pot and it’s getting worse, barely helping with the nausea. Squeezing his eyes just makes the pounding worse but opening them does nothing to make the blurriness vanish.

Somewhere in the house, Will is running around like he’s in the track and field team. Eddie has no idea what the boy might be doing but he wants to yell at him to stop stomping his feet so loudly unless they want to attract another monster and it’s making his headache worse. But he can’t because every time he opens his mouth, his throat constricts painfully and the sickness comes back at full force.

Eddie grips tighter at the blanket around him, but it’s too thin to stop his shivering. Every few seconds, it seems the fever stops just to let the cold sink in before it returns and sweats up his entire body. His bladder feels full too, ready to burst at every violent shudder.

He tries to move his ankle. As expected, it spikes up in agony but doesn’t black him out. He moves it again because he’s always been a masochist while sick, but he doesn’t feel himself trying to wiggle any of his toes. 

A sense of panic suffocates Eddie. If his ankle is bad enough that he can’t feel anything below or above it, then it might have to be amputated. That’s what happens to the really bad injuries, right? And wouldn’t that be a crazy story that Eddie would galvant to the rest of the world once he’s out of this hell? “Oh, this leg? Well, I lost it to a terrifying monster with dozens of teeth that had dragged me into a horrendous landscape!”

Laughter sputters out of his cracked lips. Eddie can’t help it. He laughs and laughs until his throat feels like it’s breaking glass from the inside and then he’s hacking his lungs out. Then he’s throwing up again because his stomach hates him, his body hates him, everything in this fucking Vale of Shadows hates him. And then he’s sobbing because he wants to just get out of this place and take a long hot shower and pretend this is just another realistic nightmare. But then he remembers that if by some miracle he and Will find that precious exit, Eddie’s going to be alone again. 

He’ll be left with nothing to his name anymore except his renewing cycle to fend himself from the world that wants to shred him with its teeth. 

As his sobs start to tighten his chest, Eddie hears (or rather feels, with his face pressed against the floor) Will loudly returning before his footsteps pause.

“Oh, Eddie.” Will says quietly. His tiny arms loop around Eddie’s neck and his fingers start combing through his tangled dirty hair. For the first time, Eddie wants to smack Will, push him away, and tell him to just leave him alone. He doesn’t get why Will still bothers to be so nice despite throwing up on his pants and forcing him to drag Eddie around like a sack of flour. But the pang of guilt strikes him as quickly as that thought. If he really were to tell Will off, then the kid will listen and then die somewhere and Eddie would be the only living human in this world. Another wail burns from his mouth as Eddie further stains the kid’s already-filthy pants with snot and tears. 

After some time, Will carefully moves over to his injured leg. Eddie hears him shuffle the blanket back. “I’m changing the bandages.”

“The mummy cast not good enough, doctor?” Eddie tries to say but all that comes out of his mouth is an unintelligible string of “mmmuuggkaaa…” Apparently it’s funny enough that it makes Will snort.

Eddie winces when Will has to tear off the last layer, the blood sticking painfully to his skin. He thinks he smells something but his sinuses are blocked, which is great. His eyes start drooping, more than ready to fall asleep, only to fling open when Will pours something on the wound. It’s less painful than the first time right after the demogorgon attack, but it still stings badly enough that Eddie shouts. Will cries out, ‘sorry, sorry!’ as he hurriedly wraps it up.

After it’s done, Will returns to Eddie’s side. “You gotta sit up. I’ll help you.” Eddie barely nods back when Will’s hands dig into his shoulders and starts pulling him up. Eddie tries to move on his own but his whole body is sunken lead. He just groans as Will positions him against the wall, nudging him so Eddie wouldn’t fall over. It feels nice not to lay on his back anymore, but his head disagrees. 

A dizzying spell comes over him and Eddie tips forward, but Will catches him in time, hands pressing against his chest, gently shoving him back. Eddie tries to thank him, but the dizziness turns into nausea and he heaves again. Nothing comes out this time. 

If he starts throwing up blood next time, then Eddie will just accept his doom right there and then. 

While he attempts to steady his breathing and ignores how it feels like glass shards, Will asks, “Do you want some soup? I managed to heat up a can with my lighter.”

Soup. Yeah, hot soup always helps when he’s sick. Wayne usually makes chicken and wheat.

Eddie nods gratefully, his eyes drooping shut again. It feels like a decade passes when Will pokes his cheek and then at his chin. Eddie automatically opens his mouth and a warm spoon enters his mouth. It only takes a second to recognize the taste of thick mushroom broth before the texture immediately disgusts him that he spits it out. A bud of vomit catches in his throat and Eddie can’t help but retch again. 

Collapsing on his side, something warm passes right through his groin and- oh. He literally just pissed himself, did he?

Will’s at his side again, his cold small palm cupping the side of his head. “Eddie?!”

Eddie-

Eddie laughs.

Or at least, he makes an intimation of a laugh. It comes out just as broken as he feels. His throat is clogged up and rusty with the muscles scraping at each other like nails on chalkboard. Every part of his body hurts. He definitely smells gross like the trailer trash he is, which is why Will is back to wearing the cloth mask again. He can’t stop vomiting no matter how concave his stomach is. He’s burning and freezing. He-

He wants his uncle Wayne to scoop him up in his arms and hold him tight, murmuring gruff words that are always full of safety and love. 

But Wayne’s not coming for him. All he has is a tiny kid who already has a loving mother and brother waiting on the other side. Even then, Will Byers would leave too. 

When Will tries to lift him up again, Eddie refuses to budge. Even when he starts pleading because what is the point?

Finally, Will stops shaking him. Sighs in clear frustration. Sits down, pulling Eddie’s head onto his dirty jeans again. Eddie wishes to hug the kid but his arms are weak as shit.

Moments pass in loaded silence. Tremors rake through Eddie’s body. He’s getting cold again. The fever momentarily settles, allowing his brain to start crushing itself from the mushy pressure that’s now residing somewhere between his left ear and the top of his head. Bile laps around the middle of his throat.

“We have to go to the hospital.” 

Eddie makes some kind of disbelieving noise because Will starts rambling, his hands flapping in the air just like Eddie does. The motions spark a small warmth in his cramped chest. “I know there won’t be any actual doctors there, but it’s the general hospital! There should be much more medicine than in this house or other places in this neighborhood. Maybe going there will make you feel better!”

That’s… not really a bad idea. It would be fantastic to move to a building that is literally equipped to make sick people better. Eddie’s surprised that he and Little Byers made it this far without thinking of going downtown. 

However, Hawkins General Hospital is over an hour’s walk. And if Eddie had to take more than two steps on his injured leg, he probably wouldn’t move ever again.

“G-gonna bike ‘s there?” Eddie rasps, feeling proud of himself for speaking coherently without throwing up.

“Yep!” Will chirps excitedly.

It takes a few moments for Eddie to register his answer. He slowly turns his head up towards Will. It takes a long time before his mouth finally spits out a flat, “What?”

—

“But the lab is right there!” Joyce says, throwing her hand up to a vague direction. “We could walk inside like you did, Hop-”

“I did that by pure luck and the fact there weren’t any people in the lobby.” Hopper counters back with a tired tone. “Not to mention I was tranquilized.”

“When they took you back home and bugged your house?” Wayne asks, getting a nod of confirmation in response. He bites the inside of his cheek, thinking. If those laboratory folks and their state friends had given Hopper a kinder approach to let him go after seeing their secrets, then would it guarantee they would do the same to Wayne and Joyce? 

His immediate gut instinct says no.

“Which means they’re definitely hiding something!” Joyce insists, “And if it’s our boys they have there, we should go now!” 

Hopper takes a deep breath and presses his hands together, pointing them towards Joyce. “I looked around the basement before I got to the ‘gate’. It was just a few corridors without any doors except for the one that I had walked inside.”

”But you went to the lab’s basement, Hop! How many floors does that building have? How many rooms are there that they are keeping Will and Eddie for god knows I don’t want to even think about!” Joyce falls back down on her chair, hands anxiously pulling through her hair before stopping herself and letting out a weary sigh.

After Hopper had shaken out of his stupor, he was quick to share what else he had learned about Hawkins Lab and quicker to join the next course of action (though he still looks a bit weary of Wayne and Joyce being now official graverobbers. Too bad because Wayne has no regrets and neither does Joyce). However, he and Joyce have been arguing back and forth about the possibility of just breaking into the lab and making demands with whatever suited devil held Eddie and Will for about a good hour now.

Wayne’s tempted with that idea - his trusty shotgun is in the truck, ready to be used. But with the overwhelming presence of the state folks and the odds that they could just shoot at anyone, tranqs or not, who gets too close. Even to go so far to create dead dummies, one of whom would eventually look exactly like Eddie just to make Wayne grieve- 

Hopper continues, “Even if we just march ourselves in, without weapons, and make peaceful demands, do you really think Brenner would allow that?”

“If we-” Joyce starts, but Hopper cuts her off.

“They’re practically the government, Joyce! They wouldn’t let us live!” 

The room falls silent. Hopper rubs his hands over his face and Joyce stares at him agape. Her gaze turns over to Wayne. For a moment, it almost feels like he’s a child stuck between a nasty parental argument, forced to pick sides. Wayne takes in a deep breath, keeping the nerves that have chanting find Eddie, find Eddie at him all week into a quiet buzz. 

“So we can’t go to the lab because they have something underground that’s worth knocking us out.” Wayne starts slowly, “Even if we pretend that we don’t know anythin’, the best they would do is just ignore us. But we can’t pretend that everything is fine and that the boys will be back home any minute.” He looks at Joyce, “And we’ve seen those lights and heard their phone calls. Wherever they are, they’re not here where we can’t find them easily. And the fact we haven’t heard from them for over a day is concerning.”

Wayne turns back to Hopper and locks eyes with him, spreading his palms out, “So enlighten us, chief. What can we do?”

Hopper chews on his lip, quiet for a moment. Then he says, “There is one lead that I’ve been meaning to check. It might be a stretch and probably a waste of time but-” He stops, waiting for Wayne or Joyce to interject. When neither of them do, he continues, “Terry Ives. She was the one who had a case against Brenner in court and lost. Apparently she still lives somewhere close to Hawkins.”

“Do you think she can help us?” Joyce asks, her face hardened with skepticism. Hopper shrugs. 

“If she hears us out with our story of Eddie and Will being missing, then it’s up to her.”

“Would it be worth a trip even if she may not be somewhere close to Hawkins?” Wayne crosses his arms. 

 Hopper shrugs again, “All I need to do is call a buddy and ask her address. If she’s too far out of state, then maybe a phone call would do. Can’t waste anymore time.” 

“Then we can’t waste it.” Wayne agrees.

“And then after that?” Joyce asks, looking between them. “Whether or not Terry Ives gives us help, how would we even rescue our boys?”

Hopper stands up, “To be honest, I’m starting to agree with your plans, Joyce. But for now, let’s go.”

——

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