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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 4 years

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(Un)Wanted: Part 2

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(Un)Wanted Masterlist

A child that sees demons in every dark corner is not a child that is wanted.

A child that cries and freezes and mumbles of terrible things is not a child that is wanted.

A child that jumps and startles and hisses is not a child that is wanted.

Unwanted things are purged from the Earth.

So Virgil runs.

In other words: Virgil is an outcast, ostracized and shunned for how he was born, forced to flee an angry mob only to stumble right into a fae garden.

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Warnings: Implied/Referenced torture, child abuse, and self-harm, nothing super explicit. Sympathetic Deceit and Remus. Panic attacks, anxiety attacks.

Word Count: 10,227

Mortals have always been fascinating creatures for Patton.

They have so many…quaint little ideas about what they can do about things and such interesting ways of thinking about it. Some of them believe that they float in this strange grey area, using that to defend choices that harm or hurt other people. Some of them believe they were sent here with a purpose and they must fulfill it. Some of them don’t think at all.

It’s fascinating, but then…when your life is confined to a mere century, Patton supposes everything must seem so…heavy.

A shriek interrupts his thinking and he barely has time to step aside before a blast of magic swirls past him.

“Watch where you’re pointing that thing!” He puts his hands on his hips. “Now, who threw that?”

He rolls his eyes fondly when the prince and the duke point at each other.

“Kiddos, not that I don’t appreciate your enthusiasm,” he says, creating a quick shield between them and the portal so anymore, um, ‘misfires’ don’t accidentally get through, “but do you even know what you’re doing?”

“You ask as if they ever know what they’re doing,” L mutters.

“Oh, please,” the prince huffs, “I am always in complete control.”

“Falsehood.”

“That’s right,” the duke grins, “sometimes it’s my turn.”

“We are not making the mortal live at the bottom of the lake!” The prince smacks his forehead with his hand. “The furniture would be absolutely positively destroyed!”

“And mortals cannot breathe underwater.”

“That too!”

“Ugh, you guys are so boring,” the duke huffs, “that’s the point! Then no one else would be able to get him! Plus,” he adds with a grin, “we could have so much more fun.”

“I find it highly unlikely that the mortal’s definition of ‘fun’ and your definition have significant overlap,” L says.

“Well, then we’ll just have to change that.” The duke claps. “The bottom of the lake it is!”

“It is not!”

“Is too!”

Patton and L quickly step back as the twins start squabbling again. L shakes his head disparagingly as the prince summons a sword. “We aren’t going to let them do this, are we?”

“No,” Patton agrees, “but they’ve got a point.”

“Well, the prince does make an effort to sharpen his blade on a regular schedule.” When Patton opens his mouth to clarify, L continues. “But I do not believe we have a grasp of how to create a residence for a mortal either.”

“I know.” Patton absentmindedly rubs his wrists, still feeling the aftershocks of the visions pushed into their bond.

It hurt. It had burned in a way that nothing ever had for a long time. And for a fae, that can be a very long time indeed.

Dropping his work to clutch at his chest, hunched over from the weight of what he’d felt had been agony on its own, and he’d dashed out to find the others, needing to know what hurts, what happened, please, tell me so I can fix it, only to find none of them, fearing the worst. Having to walk into the garden to see the others already huddled around a mortal—a mortal, the duke wrapped around them with everything but the tentacles. Having to be the one to say no, his own heart tearing to pieces with every word he utters, the feeling of the mortal trembling in his hold, the tension and fear brimming off of their skin, almost burning Patton’s hands. Feeling the horrible sick rush of terror when the other animals bumbled into the forest.

Hearing just what they thought of V.

After that, well…Patton hadn’t cared much about the rules anymore.

And honestly, considering who it was that pushed the visions in the first place, Patton’s not sure he ever stood much of a chance.

But one of the things about breaking the rules is that, well, there are no rules. There are no guidelines now, no strict set of things to follow. And when it comes to mortals, that can be almost as dangerous.

“Look out!”

“Wait, shit—“

“Pat!”

Patton blinks and suddenly the others are tackling him out of the way of another errant magic blast. As his brain desperately tries to connect the path from standing to being on the floor, L scowls.

“You two need to stop,” he says sternly, “we only have a few minutes before V comes through and if he sees this, it’s likely he will not wish to remain.”

“Sorry,” the prince murmurs, helping everyone up, “and sorry to you too, Duke.”

“Eh,” the duke says, brushing himself off, “we’ve done worse.”

“Yes,” L mumbles, “yes, you have.”

“L,” Patton says once everyone’s righted themselves, “did you manage to get a good grasp of the place?”

L nods. “It seems to be the small village in the northwest corner of the forest. The population is around two hundred. It is…unlikely that the land holds any significant powers.”

“Hmph,” the prince grumbles, lifting his hand obediently, “such a lack of creativity.”

In front of them, a village forms. Several houses line a small street, each with a slightly different size and shape. Behind them are ramshackle sheds, worn fences, and in the middle, a slightly larger building. Patton isn’t sure what the mortals use this one for, but it is considerably…shinier than the others.

“I suppose it is quite…” L struggles for the right word. “…plain.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” the duke sniffs, “where are you supposed to do anything?”

“Now, kiddos,” Patton says, “this isn’t about what we want, it’s about what V wants.”

“And you think he wants something blander than a piece of dead wood?”

“Hey!” The duke smacks the prince upside the head. “Dead wood is great, thank you very much.”

“I said blander than a piece of dead wood, you bumbling buffoon.”

“It’s what he’s used to,” Patton says quickly before they can dissolve into another squabble, “it’s better to go slow, right?”

“We have already seen that V can be overwhelmed very easily,” L agrees, “it might be best to…start blander.”

“Fine.”

And not a moment too soon, it seems, because the portal begins to glow. Patton turns around to see V step through, followed closely by J.

“Glad you made it, kiddo,” Patton smiles, “we’ve been waiting for you!”

His eyes widen and his chest clenches when V’s body seizes with terror and he freezes, still halfway out of the portal. J nudges him gently and V whimpers, wrapping his arms tightly around himself and baring his teeth in a snarl.

“Hey, hey, kiddo,” Patton murmurs quickly, starting towards him, only to freeze when V shrinks back, “okay, okay, I’m stopping. I’m right here, okay? I’m not gonna get any closer.”

He crouches down, keeping his hands raised, feeling the others adopt similar positions of surrender. V’s gaze is still fixed on the houses, his body seemingly torn between wanting to turn and flee and never wanting to move again. Patton’s heart clenches when V’s breaths start to get faster and faster, the air whining in protest as it whips in and out of his lungs.

“V,” J murmurs, “V, listen to me.”

V’s head barely jerks.

“Come on, little one, just listen to me, you can close your eyes if you have to.”

Patton watches, a strange cocktail of relief and envy as J bends closer, whispering into V’s ear too low for the rest of them to possibly hear, one of his hands hovering just over V’s opposite shoulder. V’s eyes squeeze shut and slowly, slowly, he relaxes, his chin dropping to his chest. J continues to murmur soft words until finally V draws in a deep, slow breath and his arms finally loosen their death grip.

J looks at V with such a look of concern that it makes Patton wince in sympathy, only soothed when V gives him a tight nod. J straightens, still hovering protectively around V, and turns his attention to the others, the soft look of worry quickly morphing into stone.

“Explain.”

“We attempted to recreate the village,” L says, “in order to…not overwhelm V so quickly.”

J glances down at V then back up. “Yes, and I can see that worked out stunningly.”

“I don’t understand.” L looks back and forth between the village and the still-shaken V. “If…if the environment is familiar, it should elicit feelings of comfort.”

“Oh, no,” Patton murmurs, closing his eyes for a moment, “I messed up.”

“Don’t worry,” the prince says quickly, “it’s okay, we’ll—we’ll figure it out.”

“I think I understand.” Patton opens his eyes and looks up at V. “You thought this was a trick, didn’t you? That we’d pretended to take you in and then…brought you back.”

The very idea coils hot and heavy in his gut, settling there like a horrible sickly weight. It only draws itself deeper when V nods, his mouth drawn tight.

“What?” The prince’s cry shakes Patton’s core. “Why would—“

Patton holds up a hand, cutting him off, even though he can feel the anguish of the others burning through the bond. Even J isn’t immune; the hand on V’s shoulder flexes in the glove and he steps a little closer.

“And even if we didn’t,” Patton says brokenly, “even if we didn’t you—these…the only feelings you have about this place aren’t good ones.”

V lowers his head in shame, his fingers flexing in the fabric of his tunic. The urge to run and wrap him up in a tight embrace makes Patton’s limbs tremble.

“Get rid of it.”

“What?”

“Get rid of it,” Patton murmurs firmly to the prince, “bring us back to the field.”

“N-no!”

Patton’s eyes widen in surprise, and judging by J’s confused head tilt, he’s not the only one. Yet there V is, staring at him with a fierce look of determination, fire burning in his gaze despite the way he’s still curled around himself.

“…’no,’ kiddo?”

Patton knows he’s made another mistake the instant V’s eyes widen again. “W-wait, I didn’t mean—you don’t—that was a s-suggestion, not a—I didn’t mean to—I don’t want—“

V’s hands shoot to his hair, tangling in the strands and pulling.

“I didn’t mean to tell you what to do,” he manages finally, “please don’t be angry.”

Oh, kiddo…

“V,” Patton calls softly, “kiddo, we’re not angry.”

He smiles kindly when V peeks out at him from a little gap in his fingers. “Y-you’re not?”

“No, V, we’re not angry.” Patton places one hand flat against his chest. “You have my word.”

It seems to do the trick, though not nearly as well as he would’ve liked. V’s hands slowly inch away from his face, twisting themselves back into his tunic. Patton smiles encouragingly.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he assures, “I’m just a little curious why you didn’t want the village gone. If it’s…if it’s bothering you, then…”

Patton shrugs. “Wouldn’t it be better?”

“But you already…made it,” V mumbles, “so…”

The prince huffs. “Please. It took barely a moment. I do hope you don’t think so lowly of my skills, sweetheart.”

The corner of V’s mouth tugs up and oh, it’s the best thing Patton’s seen all day!

“It’s no trouble,” the prince assures, “plus…I must confess I am not a fan. I mean honestly, the utter lack of craftsmanship, it’s truly astonishing.”

“The point of this,” L says, making V look at him, “was to create somewhere you would feel more comfortable. This place—“ he gestures around— “was not exactly designed for mortals.”

“But we shouldn’t have tried to anticipate what you want,” Patton adds, “and so there’s nothing wrong with getting rid of the village.”

“Y-you mean this one…right?”

“Well,” the duke mutters darkly. Patton can’t find it in his heart to scold him more than half-heartedly.

“P-please don’t,” V stammers, “I…”

“We won’t,” Patton assures, far more concerned about making V feel comfortable than any sort of retribution—however rightly deserved—for the denizens of the village.

“Even if the duke does have a point, little mouse.”

Patton glances exasperatedly at J, only to be met with an expression of innocent bewilderment. He raises an eyebrow. J simply shrugs. Patton’s gaze gets caught by V, still shifting a little and sending quick glances at the village.

More pressing matters.

“V,” he murmurs, smiling again when V’s gaze jumps to his, “is it alright if I come a little closer?”

J’s brow quirks as V stiffens.

“It’s okay, I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re gonna be okay. I promise.”

V doesn't move, still wrapping his arms tightly around himself.

“I’m sorry I scared you, that we scared you with this,” he continues, looking behind him to see agreeing nods from the others. He looks back to see V’s gaze losing a little of its frenzied edge. He smiles and gives a little wave. “Hey there.”

V doesn’t wave back or smile, but he doesn’t flinch either. Patton takes that as a good sign.

“You’re allowed to say no, V,” he assures, “that’s okay too.”

Nothing. Patton’s gaze flicks to J and J nods.

“What about this,” Patton says softly, “why don’t I move real slow, just a little, just so you can see how it feels, and then we go from there?”

V nods.

“I’m stepping a little closer, okay?” V lets him move a step closer. He crouches down again, keeping his hands in sight, still a good few feet away. “How are you doing, kiddo?”

Patton laughs when V’s able to convey his annoyance with the question with a subtle change of expression. “Okay, so, bad question. Can I…” He hesitates. “Can come a little closer? Is that okay?”

V nods carefully. “Y-you can—“ He cuts himself off.

“Say it,” Patton coaxes, “go on, V, you can say it.”

“You can…come all the way over,” V mumbles, “i-if you want.”

Patton fights down the urge to jump up and race over, instead confining himself to a small smile.

“Okay. I’m going to stand up and walk over to you. I’ll go slow so I won’t scare you. Okay?” V nods. “Okay. I’m going to stand up now.”

He keeps his hands raised and slowly stands up, keeping himself slightly hunched over to make himself seem like less of a threat. To his dismay, but not his surprise, it isn’t very effective. Even hunched over, Patton still looms quite large, his shadow blocking the light from the forest. When he notices V flinching, he stops, letting him get used to the fact that he’s standing now.

“Easy, easy, it’s okay.” He keeps up the constant litany of reassurances until he reaches V, carefully positioning himself so that V can look at him, just him, and not the village. It seems to do the trick, interrupting whatever feedback loop kept darting V’s gaze around the buildings, instead directing it at the various patched on Patton’s cloak.

“You’re doing great, kiddo,” Patton murmurs, “thank you for letting me come over.”

V shuffles again, sniffing and dropping his head. A moment later his shoulders shake and Patton can’t help the wounded noise that escapes his throat. J isn’t much better off, sliding neatly behind V to prevent anything from getting through the portal, even though they both know nothing will touch this one ever again.

“Sweetheart,” Patton says softly, “oh, sweetie, are…is this still too much?”

“S-sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, sweetie, you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“And please,” L calls, “do not be ashamed of crying. It is the mortal way of handling anything overwhelming, you need not feel embarrassed about dealing with it in a healthy way.”

“Told you,” J murmurs.

“Can I touch you, sweetie,” Patton asks softly, “can I touch you?”

V nods shakily and Patton reaches out, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Here you are. Shh, you’re okay.” He moves his hand from her shoulder to his cheeks, wiping away a tear as it rolls down. “I’m here, it’s okay.”

V hiccups a sob, barely stifled. Each one settles like a dead weight in his chest as V’s chin drives deeper and deeper into his chest.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Patton says, gently cupping V’s chin in his hand and raising it, only to be dismayed to see his eyes glazed over and each breath sending him hurtling towards another panic attack. He takes his hands and places them on either side of V’s face, turning his head so he makes eye contact with him. “Hey, hey. Look at me, kiddo. Breathe.”

The forest is quiet.

“Shh, that’s it, just breathe for me.” He slides his hands down from V’s face to his neck, giving him a little less restriction.

“Good job,” he murmurs, smiling at V as he begins to go limp. “Come here.”

He coaxes V into his arms, letting his head fall against his collar as he shifts back to support his weight. He’s so…there. Not just in his body, a physical weight, but there’s such a layer of feeling that surrounds him that it presses down on Patton like another weight. He relaxes into Patton’s grip as he guides V to rest comfortably against him. He rubs V’s arms when he shivers, frowning at how cold he is. Steadying V with his hands and glancing up at J, he balances V against him before pulling away enough to shrug off his cloak, hushing him when V lets out a tiny whine. “Shh, kiddo, I’m not going anywhere. He’ll keep you upright.”

He wriggles out of his cloak and drapes it carefully over V’s shoulders, smiling as it draws a sigh out of him and he shrinks under it. Wrapping his arms back around V, Patton lays his chin on top of V’s head and concentrates, trying to feel around for the sources of the fear and pull them away. V tucks his head against Patton’s collarbone. A damp patch grows on Patton’s shirt as he rocks V gently back and forth, shushing his cries.

“Shh, don’t worry kiddo, we’re here for you,” he murmurs, “it’s okay.”

He closes his eyes. Concentrates.

There.

“What are these,” he whispers, mostly to himself but to V as well, “these awful little things that are buzzing around you?”

They really are awful. They’re these fuzzy little black things that hurt if you stare at them too long, always vibrating, strobing at horrible frequencies that create a sort of whine in the back of your ears. On their own, they really aren’t so bad, at least when he can catch one of them by itself, but V…

V has thousands.

Thousands of horrible black whiny clouds buzzing around his head, around his whole body, swallowing him in a storm. Patton’s seen them before, not nearly to this quantity mind you, but he has seen them, flitting about behind mortals. Wretched little beasties.

“Are these…fears?” He freezes one in place, watching as it squirms in place. “Worries?”

Concentrate.

The cloud whines and dissolves. V’s breath catches.

“There’s no need for these,” Patton murmurs, catching another one and dissolving it, “you have no use for them.”

One by one he catches them, and one by one he makes them stop hurting V. They don’t want to go; they cling to each other, to V, to him in protest, yowling about whatever they want V to be so desperately afraid of, and it never makes Patton bat an eye. They’re hurting V, that’s all that matters. And Patton doesn’t like seeing V hurt.

With each one he vanishes, V grows lighter and lighter in his arms, his sobs trailing off until his breath evens, only hitching ever so slightly. When he’s finished, V pulls away, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“W-what did you do?”

Patton smiles, gently giving V a squeeze. “Just cleaned you up a bit, kiddo.”

“H-how?”

“I can sense emotions and feelings,” Patton explains, “it’s kinda my job.”

“…you’re the Heart.”

“I am, good job.” He bumps his forehead lightly against V’s. “That means I can sense things that you feel and…help you along.”

V chews on his lip. “…but I’m still scared.”

“Oh, kiddo, I can’t fix that sort of thing. Well, I can, but that’s…invasive,” Patton says, “and I’d run the risk of hurting you more. No, no, I didn’t do anything like that. I’m not trying to take your feelings away. I just…”

He brushes a thumb tenderly across V’s cheek.

“…dusted you off a little.”

The fluffy little bubble of relief that drifts along the path his thumb leaves is enough to make his whole chest glow.

“Feel better?”

“Yeah,” V mumbles, “um…thank you.”

Patton kisses his forehead. “Of course, kiddo. Now…can we talk about what just happened?”

V tenses.

“You can say no,” J reminds.

“…no, please?”

Patton nods. “Okay. Can I then ask you something?”

V nods, shifting a little in Patton’s grip. Patton opens his arms a little, enough for V to know if he wants to pull away he can, if he doesn’t, he needn’t. V takes a step back, wrapping his arms around himself.

“We wanted to make the village for you so that you would have somewhere you wanted to stay,” he says softly, “and it’s okay that we got it wrong. Could you tell us what you do want?”

“I’d be happy to make it,” the prince calls from over his shoulder—right, he’d somehow forgotten the others were still here— “just say the word.”

“Me too!”

“You guys,” V mumbles, “are the weirdest fucking fae I’ve ever heard of.”

Patton giggles. “Thanks, kiddo. That’s an honor.”

“…is it?”

Patton softens, waiting for V to look at him to smile kindly. “It isn’t bad to be different or weird, sweetie.”

“…oh.”

“So,” the prince calls cheerfully, “what will it be? Castle? Tower? Cavernous ballrooms?”

“Prince,” L chides lightly.

“Take your time,” Patton soothes when V’s eyes blink vacantly, “you take all the time you need kiddo, to tell us what you want.”

And oh, the unsure look on V’s face breaks his heart all over again. He looks so lost, like he’s been confronted with something he can’t hope to understand.

“It’s alright if you don’t know,” he says softly, “it’s a lot to ask. But if it would be easier, you can tell us what you don’t want.”

“…I don’t want to go back,” V mumbles, “please don’t make me go back.”

“We won’t,” Patton promises, “we won’t.”

Sure enough, by the time he’s stepped aside and turned around, the village is gone.

The prince waves his hand again, dimming the natural light of the forest to something more tolerable for mortal eyes. Patton smiles. He does prefer their forest to any manufactured illusions, the prince or the duke make, if simply because it feels so alive.

V seems to relax a little bit too; when Patton looks back, V’s shoulders aren’t pressed up against his ears anymore, his gaze tracing the little sparks of light that flit between the flowering trees. One of them flickers closer, darting past his face quickly, only for him to tentatively try and reach for it.

“…what is this?”

“It’s the forest, V,” Patton says softly, “this is where we live.”

“How is it so…” V seems to struggle for the word he wants. “…alive?”

“Magic,” the prince says with a wink. “No, really. That’s…that’s it.”

“But it’s so…so…” V mutters in frustration. “I hate words.”

“You’re not the only one, little mouse,” J murmurs, his hand still lingering on V’s shoulder, “words can be…difficult. You don’t have to use them if you don’t want to.”

“That being said,” Patton says quickly, “you don’t have to be afraid to say things, kiddo. We won’t get mad.”

V nods hesitantly. “Wait, so you all live here?”

“Yep.”

“H-how does that work? Do you, like…have separate…trees?”

The duke immediately perks up. “I told you guys we should make treehouses!”

“You have a treehouse,” L sighs, “that doesn’t mean the rest of us want one.”

“Why not? It’s so much easier to defend!”

“Only when we can’t fly.”

“You guys can fly?” Patton hears V mumble to J. “What is going on?”

“The others are getting excited again,” he hears J murmur back, “but I’m sure if you’d like to just ask Pat, we’d be happy to tell you.”

Patton gives L a look that says ‘try not to let them destroy everything, please,’ and turns back to V, gently asking if he’d repeat his question.

“We have different…rooms,” he decides on eventually, “even though they’re not as simple as your mortal conception of them. It’s more like…like…”

Patton huffs, putting his hands on his hips. “Wow, words really are hard.”

“Here here,” V mumbles.

“Let me try,” J says softly, “it’s as if you have a picture, yes? And the picture is drawn over several sheets of paper. You can only view the complete picture by stacking all of them on top of each other, but you can take each piece of paper separately.”

Patton blinks at him. V does too. J rolls his eyes. “Perhaps L would be able to explain it better. And quickly,” he says, glancing over Patton’s shoulder, it looks like they’re about to start fighting again.”

“Guys!” Patton chooses to ignore the duke tucking a rather large weapon behind his back. “How do we explain how our rooms work?”

L adjusts his glasses and holds out his hand. “V? Will you come here, please?”

V hesitates.

“I won’t hurt you,” L assures, “I won’t even touch you if you don’t want. I simply think this will be the best way to explain it.”

“You’re not—you won’t—you won’t just take me there, will you?”

L smiles at V’s nervous question. “You have my word I won’t.”

V crosses the forest slowly, stopping just in front of L’s outstretched hand. Slowly, L raises his hand to face his palm toward V. “Can you hold your hand up to mine, please?”

“W-what’re you going to do to me?”

“Not a thing,” L says softly, “I’m going to explain how the rooms work by cycling through different layers of reality by aligning our hands.”

Patton watches V slowly raise his hand to match L’s, smiling at how he presses his palm to L’s firmly.

“Now,” L says, “just hold it still for me?” V nods. “Good. Reality as you understand it is one layer. It is one of the multiple worlds that exist in the same space. In this forest, we can move between them.”

“How?”

“Each one of us—“ L gestures to the other fae— “are linked with one of the layers. By drawing on that power, we can move between them.”

L turns his hand slightly, his index finger pressing up against V’s middle finger. “This would be a different layer.”

He turns it again, replacing his index finger with his thumb. “And this, another.”

“S-so,” V murmurs, squinting at their hands, “which one is this?”

“It’s not quite as…linear as this example,” L says, “there isn’t a set ‘right’ layer, nor must you travel through the other layers to get to the one you want.”

“But then—“

“Go on,” L encourages when V cuts himself off, “then…?”

V swallows, his voice so low Patton has to strain to hear it. “Then how do I know which one’s the right one?”

J tenses beside Patton at the uncertainty in V’s voice.

“There isn’t a universal ‘right’ one, V, and there won’t be,” L says, quickly shushing V when he seems to react poorly to such a revelation, “but you don’t have to think of it that way.”

Judging by the defiant hunch of V’s shoulders, he isn’t pleased by this answer. L seems to realize that and takes a tiny step closer.

“V? Can you do something else for me?”

V nods.

“Interlace your fingers with mine.”

V raises his head, confused, but does as L asks.

“This,” L murmurs, indicating their hands, “is the layer we’re currently in. Your layer. The mortal layer. This is the one that will be most comfortable for you. You can go to the other layers, but it won’t always be as comfortable. That doesn’t mean you can’t go,” he assures quickly, “but if it helps, this one is the ‘right’ one, so to speak.”

V stares at their clasped hands, giving L’s hand an experimental squeeze. L squeezes back.

“C-can I see your rooms?”

“Of course,” L says, “but perhaps not today, hm? This has already been a lot for you, hasn’t it?”

V nods nervously. “S-sorry.”

“Don’t fret,” L soothes, giving V’s hand one last squeeze, “we’re not angry. It’s perfectly understandable.”

“Absolutely.” Patton glances around. Hmm…what’s the best way to do this? “Are you hungry, V?”

Another nervous nod.

“What kind of food do you like?”

“Maybe not that question,” J murmurs when V seems to stutter again.

L gently gets V’s attention. “When was the last time you ate?” When V can’t answer, he continues. “Your system won’t take well to eating large quantities of food right now, in that case. It would be better if you ate something small, easy on yourself, and then work up to larger meals, does that sound alright?”

“Why don’t we do this, then,” Patton suggests when V nods, “J, you and the duke and I will start on the food. L, Prince, why don’t you help V make his room?”

L gently takes V’s hand again, leading him toward the prince. The prince gives them a nod before speaking softly to V. Patton sinks into his room, only to lean on the nearest surface and sigh heavily.

“Why are we not killing them?”

“By all means,” J huffs, “do knock over absolutely everything, Duke.”

“They starved him, they tortured him, they made him afraid of everything,” the duke growls, “they made him dependent on the sense of right and wrong.”

“Yes, and right now you’re currently about to be dependent on your ability to not knock over everything.”

“Pat agrees with me,” the duke defends, “don’t you Pat?”

Patton busies himself with making a simple bread. Easy, like L said, nothing that will cause V’s system to freak out. He keeps his mouth closed because he knows if he opens it, he won’t be able to stop himself going feral either.

“Of course I agree,” he says quietly after the bread’s almost done, “but I want to take care of V more than I want to raze that village to the ground.”

“But—!”

“Patton’s right,” J interrupts, “V wants everything to stop. If we go out and do that, it could make him even worse.”

“Or it could make him better!”

“We can’t afford to take that risk,” Patton says, kneading the bread with perhaps slightly more force than necessary, “especially not with a mortal.”

The duke grumbles. “I don’t like this.”

“I know.” Patton dusts his hands off. “Neither do we.”

“If it’s any consolation,” J says, smirking, “I think it’s the first time V’s had anyone be so outraged at the thought of him hurt.”

“Well,” the duke huffs, “good. I’m not stopping.”

“I have no intention of asking you to.”

“Good.”

Patton chuckles, rolling his eyes fondly. “Enough, you two.”

“You need help?” The duke grins. “Get it? Knead?”

“No, I dough-n’t,” Patton replies as J groans, “I’m all good here, kiddo. Thanks for asking though.”

J eyes the small loaf of bread and the few fruits next to it. “Is that really all we’re going to give him?”

“I’m going to make sure the food is available, but…” Patton sighs. “L’s right. You know he is. Too much and…”

J fiddles with his gloves. “I don’t like this.”

“Join the fucking club,” the duke huffs, draping himself over J’s shoulders. “We gotta wait here until Princey and L’re done with him, right?”

Patton nods.

“Great. Help me think of more ways to fuck up the assholes who did this to V.”

“Duke!”

Luckily for everyone, not a few moments later, a door appears to Patton’s left along with three quick knocks.

“Come in?”

The door opens, revealing L and the prince, leading V into Patton’s ‘room.’ V looks around, spotting the duke still draped over J.

“Oh, they do that all the time,” the prince says, “you’ll get used to it.”

“You say as if you don’t do it as well, bro,” the duke sings.

“Did you get everything set up, V?” Patton asks quietly, ignoring the others.

V nods. “Thank you.”

Patton tilts his head. “For what?”

“F-for…” V stammers, his eyes widening. L quickly gets his attention.

“You’re welcome,” he says softly, “we’re happy to help.” He gives Patton a look that says he’ll explain later.

Patton pushes it aside, reaching for the food and setting it carefully in front of V. To his surprise, V doesn’t reach out for it right away, instead eyeing it warily.

“Wrap it up, Pat,” the prince says, clapping Patton on the shoulder, “so V can take it with him.”

“Wait, what?” Patton stares at him in confusion. “Where’re we going?”

“You expect us to welcome this little darling into our forest and not give him the grand tour?” The prince holds an offended hand to his chest. “How dare you.”

Patton’s about to open his mouth to argue that V should be resting, that’s the whole point of this, but something in the prince’s gaze tells him to leave it. So Patton carefully packs the food into a small bag, before handing it to V. And he can’t deny it sends a rush of warmth through him when V’s shoulders slump and he holds the bag securely.

“So,” the prince says, sweeping across back to V’s side, “shall we begin? Duke, Pat, if you please.”

L gives him a nod, quickly joining J and starting a hushed conversation. Patton simply shrugs and follows the duke and the prince out the door. He quickly realizes it’s not the only one; there are five doors in the forest near a small house. It’s very basic, nothing more than four walls and a roof with a simple door. That must be the place they made for V. Glancing at his own door as it closes behind him, he notes that each one is a different color. Pale blue for his own, a rich gold for J’s, bright red for the prince, deep green for the duke, dark blue for L. V seems more at ease now that he’s back in the forest. Pat smiles. Good, it’s good to see V already getting used to being here.

J was right, the garden really did want him.

He also realizes the prince has been very clever about their little party as they make their way around the forest, from the clearing, to the lake, back to the garden. The prince and the duke provide wonderfully distracting arguments and Patton is well-prepared to ask all the dumb questions so V has all the information he needs. Plus, it’s nice for him to stay close to V while the prince and the duke dash around in an effort to be so overly ridiculous there’s low amounts of pressure to take them seriously.

At one point, they actually get V to laugh.

They’re at the lake; it’s one of Patton’s favorite places in the forest. The prince has control of the area around the lake and the surface of the lake, the duke has free rein below. Sometimes, Patton will sit on one of the big lily pads and just let one of the duke’s creatures push him around. The surface of the lake is like a giant mirror, almost glass-like, with a few delicate ripples on its veneer. The prince, of course, has a small violet bird perched on his shoulder, a fawn nuzzling his hand. The duke, by contrast, doesn’t hesitate before diving into the lake, sending sparkling showers of water droplets every which way before re-emerging, grinning, held aloft by something Patton couldn’t hope to describe.

There isn’t a doubt that V’s adorable little awestruck expression is the best thing Patton’s seen in a while. The way his fingers loosen their death grip on his bag of food, reaching out almost involuntarily to let the fawn sniff his hand, trying to hide to subtle hitch in his breath when a little pink tongue darts out and licks his fingers.

“She likes you,” the prince says quietly, smiling at the fawn as it tries to get closer to V.

“Is that why she licked me?”

“I think so.”

A second later, there’s a massive arc of water as something huge heaves its way onto the shore.

“Duke!” The prince snaps away the water as quickly as he can. “Keep your slimy pets where they belong!”

“Don’t be mean,” the duke says, patting the head of the massive tentacled beast with its head flopped onto the shore, “he’s just saying hi!”

Patton looks at V, who…isn’t afraid of the massive head now lying beside him. Instead, he looks almost…curious?

As the prince and the duke continue to bicker, V slowly reaches out his hand toward the creature. The creature inclines its head, letting V stroke along the strange bumps. Then it huffs loudly, spraying all of them with a viscous green goo.

“Ah!” The prince cries out in horror as he’s splattered. “Duke!”

The duke is too busy laughing to answer. Patton sighs, taking off his glasses to snap away the gunk. He puts them back on his face to chide the duke when he sees V.

V’s laughing.

It’s a quiet laugh, more of a slight hum than anything else, but V’s smiling and it sounds warm and rumbly and amazing and Patton can’t help muffling his happy noise at seeing V laugh. The prince seems to have the same reaction, stopping midway through his tirade and smiling softly at V.

The duke promptly falls off the back of the creature in shock. Then his head pops back above water and he grins.

“That means he likes you!”

“I like him too,” V mumbles, still smiling as he examines the gunk on his hands, “…not so much this.”

“Everyone’s got their opinions,” the duke shrugs, getting out of the water and shaking himself off like a dog, much to V’s amusement and the prince’s dismay, “but we should probably get you cleaned up, hmm?”

“I-if—“ V’s gaze darts around to Patton— “is that okay?”

“Of course it’s okay, V,” Patton smiles, “why don’t we go back to your room?”

The prince leads them back, stopping once they’re in front of V’s four walls. He taps V’s less gooey shoulder gently. “Do you remember what L and I said about your room?”

V nods hesitantly.

“Would you like any help?”

V glances around at them and Patton smiles encouragingly.

“N-no.”

The prince smiles and gives his shoulder a gentle pat. “Okay. That’s perfectly okay. If you change your mind, which is also okay, just knock on whoever’s door you want, okay? We’ll know it’s you and we’ll come.”

“…thank you.”

“Of course, V.” The prince deliberately turns around, snagging the duke by his shoulder and taking Patton’s hand. Patton gives V one last wave over his shoulder before the prince pulls him back through his door.

L and J look up when they enter, standing from their seats. J’s hands are still worrying themselves a little and L adjusts his tie.

“What did you tell him?” The prince’s tone makes Patton’s ‘paying attention’ glasses snap on real quick.

“Not everything,” L says, “I was waiting for you.”

“Can someone tell me what’s going on, please?” The duke nods enthusiastically.

The prince and L exchange a glance before the prince gestures to L. L motions for them to take a seat.

“I’m sure it will not come as a surprise to you that the…mortals who were unkind to V controlled his access to food and water very rigorously,” L begins, “nor will it shock you to learn that V is not used to any modicum of privacy.”

It doesn’t, that doesn’t mean it’s any easier to hear.

“We—“ L gestures between himself and the prince— “did our best to assure him that his room is his own space; none of us will enter it without permission and he reserves the right to send us out at any point he wishes.”

The prince nods sharply. “And that he’s always allowed to say ‘no’ to things if we ask him.”

J raises an eyebrow. “Please tell me you gave him access to food.”

“Of course we did!” L nods in agreement. “He’s got a small garden and a tiny cupboard that connects to the pantry.”

“So I can refill it from here?”

“Or he can refill it himself.”

Patton nods in approval.

“That’s also what happens to his clothes,” L says, motioning to the other part of Patton’s space, “they’ll get deposited here when he wants them cleaned. We gave him some other clothes too.”

“I’m sure you explained all this to him too, right?”

L and the prince exchange a soft smile. “He asked for some of it,” L says, still smiling, “or at least brought up his concerns.”

Patton claps happily. “Oh, good for him!”

“Yes,” the prince murmurs, quickly sobering them with his low tone, “especially considering…”

“Right.” L takes a deep breath. “Surely you know this will not be as easy as simply giving him these things and expecting everything to work out.”

Patton tilts his head to the side. “It…it won’t?”

“No,” J says smoothly, “it won’t. It will take time. Mortals can be…remarkably hard to alter once they’ve been so used to something.”

A horrible sick feeling settles in Patton’s stomach again. He knows mortals are fragile, he knows that V has been hurt very, very badly, but the thought of it staying that way? When he doesn’t need to?

“He doesn’t know that yet,” J says patiently when Patton expresses as much, “and it’s going to take time for him to realize that. You said it yourself, we can’t just go in and fix everything. We need to let V do that himself.”

“At the very least,” L adds, “we’ve been trying to give him the tools to start.”

A soft thump makes them turn. Patton spots a small heap of dirty cloth on a nearby surface. He walks over and picks it up, fingering the worn stitches and the holes in the fabric.

The duke peers over his shoulder. “It’s V’s clothes.”

“He must be having a wash,” the prince says, “good. You absolutely drenched him.”

“That wasn’t me! It was Oliver!”

“What did you give him to wash with,” Patton interrupts. The prince shrugs.

“Modified version of the basins we use. Plenty of water, hot and cold, soap, things to clean with. Towels. Drains by itself too, right into the garden.”

“We gave him a proper room,” L assures, “a proper bed, a proper space.”

“You should’ve seen him,” the prince mumbles, “I never thought I’d see someone get so worried about being told they were allowed their own space. Especially a mortal, all the ones I’ve known have been so obsessed with taking.”

“You remember why, though.” As L speaks, the prince’s face darkens. Patton glances worriedly between them.

“What?”

L sighs. “It appears that…the mortals somehow convinced V that they were doing him…favors.”

Patton barely has time to blink before the duke is feral again. He reaches out and wraps his arms around the writhing mass of tentacles, joined quickly by the prince and J, muttering softly to the duke until the tentacles retreat.

L adjusts his glasses. “Quite.”

“That’s why he freaked out when Pat asked what he was thanking him for,” the duke growls, “the sick fucks probably made him be specific too.”

“Our priority,” L interrupts before the duke can convince the rest of them to go feral too—honestly, Patton’s already halfway there— “is to help V feel safe.”

Patton nods, only partly listening as L keeps talking, turning the tunic over in his hands. It’s worn, very worn, and so thin that Patton can feel his fingers grind together when he rubs the fabric between them. Is this all V had? For how long? It looks so old…

Wait. Is that…

Patton lifts the tunic a little, rubbing at a dark stain. His eyes widen. J catches sight of it.

“That better be blood.”

At the mention of the word ‘blood,’ L stops. Slowly, he walks over, holding out his hand. Wordlessly, Patton hands it over. L takes it in his hands and if Patton looks very, very closely, his hands tremble.

L takes a deep breath and hands the tunic back to Patton.

“We cannot push,” he repeats with practiced calm, “we must make V feel safe first. And that means we must trust him.”

Patton doesn’t like it. None of them do. But they know L is right.

“And…with any luck,” L adds, “a good sleep and a regular meal should start helping him some more.”

It should.

It doesn’t.

For a while, almost nothing changes. V still holds his food in a bag when Patton gives it to him. His eyes still dart around wildly whenever he goes on a walk with the prince or the duke. He still prefers to hide away in his room, coming out when they request, denying them access with a tinge of fear.

His clothes still come back with stains.

Patton would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried. This isn’t how mortals should be, they should be sleeping, they should be eating. But V seems to doggedly stay the same, still as tired and fearful as the day he stumbled into the garden. When Patton confronts L about it, L says that if he didn’t know any better, he’d say V wasn’t sleeping.

Patton doesn’t want to push, doesn’t want to shatter this tenuous bond, not now, not ever. But he’s worried.

There’s always a faint buzz in Patton’s chest that tells him where V is. He tries not to pay attention to it, give the kiddo his privacy, make sure he feels like he can come to Patton when he wants to, not when Patton wants him to. He takes care to watch how he talks around V, moves around V, is as gentle as he can be. The faint buzz seems to settle a little better whenever V’s around him.

Then one day it spikes. Horribly.

Patton doubles over, pressing a hand hard to his own chest as the whine sharpens, pushes, threatens to snatch his breath away. Instantly, he looks for it, trying to find it, comfort it, come on, kiddo, tell me what’s wrong—

Where’s V?

Patton rushes out of his door, only to see V’s door wide open. With trembling footsteps, he slowly approaches, his heart in his throat, one hand still pressed firmly to his chest.

“V?” He calls softly, over and over, not wanting to intrude, but getting no response. “V, kiddo?”

He hesitates at the threshold. This is V’s space. They promised. He closes his eyes. Concentrates.

The pain isn’t coming from here.

He opens his eyes and focuses. There.

It’s one of those horrid little black clouds, buzzing away from a path leading deeper into the forest. Patton follows the noise until he’s wading through the clouds, pushing them out of the way, swatting the ones he can, until he sees V.

His heart aches as he takes in the absolute swarm threatening to choke the poor thing, curled up as he is at the base of a big tree. Patton gets a little closer, then crouches down and carefully, oh so carefully, pushes.

“V?”

V’s head jerks up, his eyes as wide as a startled fawn’s, his head jerking around until his gaze lands on Patton. Patton holds up his hands, smiling softly.

“Hey, kiddo,” Patton murmurs, still pushing at the swarm, “it’s okay. You just look at me, okay? That’s all you gotta do, just look at me.”

V looks. The swarm rushes in, trying to get between Patton and V but Patton focuses, the few clouds that come in between them disappearing into quick plumes of smoke. With each one that vanishes, the others seem wary, leaving V free to stare at Patton.

“Good,” Patton murmurs, “you’re doing really good, kiddo. Can you take a deep breath for me? In…and out…in…and out…good job, kiddo, just like that.”

The whine in Patton’s chest starts to die down, the rest of him aching to reach out and take V in his arms. The poor thing looks so scared…

“P-Pat?”

“Yeah, V,” Patton says instantly, “I’m right here, you want me closer?”

V reaches out a trembling hand and Patton doesn’t hesitate.

V clings to his cloak like a lifeline, still curled up in a ball, just his one hand sticking out. Patton lets V tug him close, huddling around him at the base of the tree, softly murmuring to him.

“Shh, shh, kiddo,” he says, trying to center his shield to keep the worst of the swarm out, “you’re doing so good, you just keep breathing for me, okay?”

It takes a long time. Much longer than Patton would like. But eventually, when the last of the whining has faded to a confused buzz, V’s hand relaxes, the fabric still all bunched up from the force of his grip.

“S-sorry,” he mumbles.

“You don’t have to apologize, kiddo,” Patton soothes immediately, “you did the right thing.”

V looks up at him, eyes wide and rimmed red. “…I did?”

Patton smiles. “You did. You did so well, you breathed, you asked for what you wanted. You did so well, kiddo.”

And oh does it hurt to see how much just that one little piece of praise means to V, and how little he must’ve received.

Patton knows he’s not supposed to push. But then V reaches for him again with trembling hands and he can’t help himself.

“Come here, sweetie,” he murmurs, pulling V into a gentle hug, “there you go…you just breathe for me, okay? You don’t have to talk, you don’t have to worry, you don’t even have to think if you don’t want to. You just breathe…”

As he rocks V gently back and forth, he runs his hand down V’s head, across his shoulders, down to his back. V hisses and tenses when Patton’s hand touches something.

“…V?”

“Don’t be mad,” V stammers instantly, pulling away, “d-don’t be mad.”

Patton raises his hands. “I’m not mad, kiddo, I promise. I’m not mad and I’m not going to hurt you.”

The whine sharpens again as V tugs the tunic tightly around himself. Patton watches, concern written plainly across his features. He waits. Waits. Waits. Until…

“…I need help,” V whispers, his head almost buried in his arms, “please.”

“Of course,” Patton coos instantly, “of course, V, I’ll help you, what do you need?”

“C-can we go to m-my room?”

“Yes, sweetheart, we can go to your room. Do you feel up to walking?”

V clutches himself tighter. “…in a minute.”

“Take your time, kiddo, I’m not going anywhere.”

In a moment, V lets his head fall back against the tree and takes a deep breath. In another, he pushes himself to his feet. A few more and they’re standing outside V’s door.

“You can change your mind, kiddo,” Patton says gently when V hesitates, “I won’t be mad.”

For a moment, he thinks V’s going to say no, Patton can leave, please, then he clenches his jaw and reaches out to take Patton’s hand. He grips it firmly and lets V pull him into the house.

“…can you shut the door?”

Patton does as bid, having a quick glance around, making a note to commend the prince and L for their job. It’s a very simple house, but it’s cozy. He refocuses on V, who has his back to him, clutching the sides of his tunic.

V’s shoulders shake. “…it hurts, Pat.”

“Where,” Patton murmurs, “where does it hurt?”

“My…my back.”

“Your back, kiddo? Can I come look?” V nods, bowing his head. “Thank you, V.”

Patton walks over slowly, making his footsteps loud and obvious, so that he won’t surprise V. “Can I touch you, kiddo?”

“…please don’t hurt me.”

“I won’t, sweetie,” Patton murmurs, “I promise. Can I lift up the back of your tunic?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Thank you.” Taking the material gently in hand, Patton starts to lift it up slowly.

“W-wait!”

Patton freezes. V’s breaths grow ragged, clutching himself tighter.

“I can leave if you—“

“No!”

V breathes. Breathes. Patton’s heart stays in his throat, holding still, trying to project as much safety as he can. It takes a few more heart-wrenching seconds before V shudders.

“O-okay. You can lift it up now.”

“Thank you,” Patton murmurs, starting to move again. He manages to tuck the end of the tunic around V’s collar, exposing his back.

And the scars.

Patton knew some whipped other mortals, knew that cruel mortals used their horsewhips liberally, but never had he seen the end result. Certainly not like this. Gruesome comets streak across V’s back of red and silvered white. The skin wheezes and stretches as he breathes. Some looked old. Some still wept, crying sluggish and lumpy tears of blood.

“S-sorry,” he hears V mumble, “I’m sorry.”

“V,” Patton says quietly, “V, I need you to listen to me for a moment.”

V nods.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Patton says firmly, “not for this. Never for this. This is not your fault, it will never be your fault. And I will never be angry at you for it.”

V’s back shudders with the weight of Patton’s words. Then his hands slowly drop to his sides. Patton lets out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding.

“I can’t reach them,” V mumbles, “I…I need help.”

“Thank you for letting me help,” Patton says, lifting his hand and letting it glow, “these won’t take a moment to heal, you won’t be able to—“

“No, don’t!” Patton pauses as V cries out. “Don’t heal them, please, not completely, I need—I need to have them.”

Patton’s blood runs cold. “Why do you need to have them, V?”

“I—I—“

Patton glances around, spotting a stool. “Here,” he murmurs, summoning it quickly, “sit down, honey, you’re shaking.”

V sits, hunching over, bearing his back for all to see, the scars wincing horribly as he does so. Patton stays close, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder, just so V knows he’s there, that nothing will startle him.

“You don’t have to explain in detail if you don’t want,” Patton assures, “but…I would like to know why you don’t want them healed all the way.”

V mumbles something. Patton squeezes his shoulder.

“I can’t quite hear you, is it okay if I come a little closer?” At V’s nod, Patton crouches next to his head. “Thank you. Can you say it again for me?”

“If…if I don’t have them,” V whispers, “it’s like—it’s like it didn’t happen. It’s like I’m—I’m crazy, I’m wrong, I don’t—I can’t—“

Oh. Patton swallows. “You need them to remember,” he says softly, “to remind yourself that you survived.”

V nods.

“Oh, sweetie, thank you for telling me. I won’t make them go away, I promise. Would you like to at least make them stop hurting you?”

V nods again. “I…I can’t sleep. They hurt.”

Patton, who had stood up and begun lightly running his hand to close the wounds, frowns. “What about sleeping on your stomach or your side?”

V shakes his head quickly. “Can’t. It’s bad. I can’t—can’t do anything then.”

Right. Being on his stomach would put him in such a vulnerable position…and if he doesn’t want to…

“V,” Patton says, gently stroking an unmarred patch of skin with his thumb as he works, “do you not feel safe enough to sleep here?”

V’s back tenses under his hand and Patton rubs a soothing circle into it.

“It’s okay if you don’t, kiddo,” he says softly, “I’m not angry, I’m just curious.”

“…sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, sweetie, you haven’t done anything wrong. This is still new to you, you’re still coming to terms with the fact that you’re safe now, you’re somewhere else, away from them.”

“B-but…” V shudders again. “Y-you’ve been so nice and you haven’t hurt me at all but I can’t help feeling like—like—“

“…it’s only a matter of time?”

“…yeah.”

Patton hums, thinking as he finishes. He takes a damp towel and softly asks V if he can clean him off a little. As he rubs the soft towel in soothing motions, he says, “I can’t make all your fears go away, kiddo, nor can I tell you you shouldn’t be afraid. It’s okay that you’re afraid, really. We’ll be here to help you.”

“Y-you will?”

Patton gives him one last pat before he gently lowers the tunic and lays the towel aside. He walks around to the front and crouches, tucking a hand under V’s chin and gently encouraging him to make eye contact.

“Yes, V,” he promises, “we’ll be here.”

V’s gaze, so horribly unsure and scared, has just the smallest bit of hope in it, and that’s enough for Patton. He smiles, only grinning wider when V hesitantly smiles back.

“You also don’t have to sleep here,” Patton says, “you can sleep anywhere you like.”

An adorable wrinkle forms between V’s brows. “Really?”

“Yeah, kiddo.” Patton gestures around. “We made this so you could have your own space, but it’s okay if you don’t feel like sleeping here. It’s okay if you never want to sleep here.”

He reaches up and gently rubs at V’s chest, right over his heart.

“You sleep wherever you feel safest, okay, kiddo?”

“Okay.”

Patton smiles. “Good. Good job, kiddo, you did so well. I’m so proud of you.”

He stands, guiding V’s chin up too until he can lean down and lightly kiss his forehead. “Do you want anything else?”

“N-no,” V mumbles, “I’m good. Thank you.”

“Always.”

Patton leaves V’s room, carefully shutting the door behind him, before opening the door to his own and going inside. As he goes, he finds the latest bloody tunic and washes it personally.

Slowly, he dips the fabric into the water, scrubbing persistently at the stain. No more. No more. Never again. Never again.

No one will touch V again. Nothing will ever make those wounds on his back bleed. Not on his watch.

“Pat?”

“In here,” Patton calls, hanging up the tunic and going to meet the others. L stands in the corner, J by his side. The prince swings around quickly when he enters, pulling up the duke by his shoulder. “Thank you for coming so quick.”

“Of course,” L says instantly, “it was important.”

Patton tells them what he’s learned, leaving out any parts that V confessed to him personally. He won’t tell V’s story for him, just tells the others about things he learns to take care of him. As to be expected, they’re not happy about it.

“What else can we do,” the prince cries, “to make him feel safe? Are we not—are we not doing enough?”

“We’re doing all that we can,” L says, even as he nervously adjusts his tie, “but…it will take time. The fact that V feels comfortable enough to tell us this already speaks volumes. We must…simply continue being patient.”

“But if he’s not sleeping,” the duke argues, then—

“L is right,” Patton says, even as the duke grumbles, “we just have to…be patient.”

J reaches out, taking one of their hands in one of his. He squeezes, draws them closer. They wrap their arms around each other, buzzing gently. Patton knocks his head lightly against the duke’s and rests his head on J’s shoulder.

They knew this wasn’t going to be easy. He’s not sure they realized just how hard it would be. But they’ll figure it out. They will. For V.

As it turns out, maybe they’ve made more progress than they thought.

The prince sends out a call the next morning, saying V’s not in his room. The duke tears off around the forest, J heads for the garden. L makes for the lake, Patton stays behind in case he comes back. But just as he’s grabbing a sack of food to give to V just in case they find him, he hears something soft in the pile of clean, dry clothes. He frowns, walking over, only to see—

Patton’s breath catches in his throat and he smiles so wide his cheeks ache.

V is curled up in the warm pile, clinging to one of J’s cloaks and one of Patton’s shirts draped around his shoulders. For the first time since Patton’s seen him, his face is slack, free of any stress or tension. He looks young, peaceful.

It’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.

Yeah, he thinks as he lets the others know he’s found V, everything’s okay, we’ll figure it out.

221 notes · View notes

shameless-selfship-indulgence · 3 years

Text

This is the last one and it’s also the longest one and also a lot happens I’m having brainrot

It’s long as hell like your dash IS not ready

-----

It was night at the precinct. Not many people were left.

There were others in the building, for sure. Somewhere. Probably. But as far as the front room went, it was just Gavin and the plastic bitch.

The former was still at his computer. He wasn't sure why he was still there, to be honest. At first it had just been the usual dicking around - filing a report or two, playing games, watching videos on YouTube. But there was some sort of tight feeling in his gut that kept him from just doing nothing.

And every time he looked up, the android's little light was steadily spinning yellow, yellow, yellow.

Gavin didn't know what the hell he was waiting around for. Well, he had an idea of what, but he wasn't sure why. It was starting to feel like a weird game of chicken, and he wasn't going to lose to a goddamn toaster.

But what the hell. He might as well make this count for overtime.

So he went through and filed all his reports, even the ones that he'd been putting off for weeks.

The android didn't move a muscle through the entire process.

He went through his work inbox, answering the important emails, deleting the ones that were no longer relevant.

Yellow, yellow, yellow.

Fucking- he went through his PERSONAL email, not that there was much besides junk mail in there anyway.

The android didn't even seem to be pretending to breathe anymore.

Gavin checked the time. He was going to be there all night at this rate.

He sighed, stood up sharply, and started to organize his terminal.

It was approaching midnight when the android finally got up and walked out.

Gavin almost missed it, actually. He was on the floor, sorting the papers from the pile on his desk into "keep" and "recycle." But eventually the sound of footsteps registered in his brain. He looked up to watch the CyberLife issued jacket (RK500 in large, neat letters) disappear into the women's bathroom room.

...okay.

He was getting to the bottom of the pile, where most of the stuff he SHOULD be keeping was so far past relevant that all he could do was recycle anyway. Ah, here was the first copy of some essential form he'd seen three copies of already. Oops. He put that one in "recycle."

And then he heard a bang.

Gavin hesitated, the much-lessened pile of papers still in his hands.

There was another bang.

Gavin put the papers down, got up, and started walking towards the women's bathroom.

The third bang sounded while he was still getting to his feet. At the fourth, he started walking faster. By the fifth, he was running, sprinting, fear gripping his chest even though he couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was of...

With the sixth bang, Gavin opened the locker room door with his shoulder, shoving into the room.

He saw the seventh.

The android's light was blinking red, a stark contrast to the blue blood streaming down its face from its forehead. There was blue on the wall, too - a paintball spatter of it, with little drops of thirium trailing down towards the floor. Gavin witnessed dumbly as Lucille leaned away from the wall, a horrible deadness in her eyes, and slammed her head into the cold concrete again. BANG.

"Deviants also have a tendency to self-destruct when they’re in stressful situations," he remembered Connor's impassive voice saying.

Cursing loudly, Gavin ran and wrapped his arms around the android, trying to pull her away from the wall. She tore his arms away and lunged forward again. He hooked his arms under her shoulders and cupped one hand over her injured forehead, struggling to tilt her head back.

"Stop it, goddammit!" he said in her ear.

She kept struggling against him.

"Lucille, stop it!" Gavin said again.

The android stilled for a moment, and Gavin's heart leaped. Had it worked? But then her foot came back sharply and kicked him in the shin.

"SHIT!"

When he didn't immediately let go, her heel came down with inhuman force to crush his foot.

Gavin howled and jumped back, hopping on his good foot. Immediately, Lucille stepped forward and smashed her head into the wall again.

Eight, something in Gavin's head counted grimly.

Ignoring the pain in his foot, Gavin tackled Lucille and wrestled her to the ground.

A horrible, grinding, staticky noise came from the android's throat. Some oddly lucid part of Gavin's mind wondered at it in horror for a moment. But, of course, he realized after a moment. The android hadn't been programmed to scream. Why would it need to? This was its best attempt.

It was one of the worst noises Gavin had ever heard in his fucking life.

Lucille gave up on wrestling Gavin off and struggled to smash her head into the ground instead. Gavin cursed and reached his arms under her shoulders again, interlacing his fingers over her forehead. He braced his elbows against the ground, forcing Lucille's head to remain in the air.

Shit. SHIT. She was still struggling. She was so strong. Gavin had restrained people before, but then he'd had handcuffs and backup and subjects who weren't superhuman and determined to bash their own brains out against any available surface...

This was some sort of stress response, right? He had to calm her down. How the fuck did you calm down a goddamn robot?

Never-fucking-mind that, how did you calm down anybody?

"Uh, it's okay!" he tried.

God fucking dammit. Fuck him sideways with a bug zapper. Even if his voice hadn't cracked in twenty different directions, things were so completely and clearly not fucking okay.

He couldn't fucking do this. The stupid plastic bitch was gonna die right here in his fucking arms because he was too much of an asshole to even figure out what to say. And even if he could, he was so clearly the last person who should be trying to say it.

Gavin leaned his forehead into the back of the android's neck in defeat. He held her tight, trying to feel what was probably her last few moments of activation through the places where they touched. "Lucille, please," he said. "Don't fucking do this to me. Please."

The android's struggling grew weaker. Gavin hardly noticed. He was too busy trying not to cry. Goddammit, when was the last time he'd CRIED? Fucking androids. But...

"God, please just stop," he said. Begged. "Not again. Not like this."

The android was silent, trembling in his arms. Then-

"I can't..."

Gavin lifted his head. What...

Lucille's LED was blinking a frantic red. She was shaking furiously, almost twitching. Her eyes were wide and scared. "I...I can't stop-" she said weakly. "It's too much, it...I can't-"

She lunged forward against his hands again, trying to smash her head into the tiles. Gavin gasped and tensed his arms, pulling her roughly back. "No no no, it's okay, it's okay, it's going to be okay," he said frantically. But it didn't sound quite as fake this time. She was TALKING to him now, he had to be doing SOMETHING right...

"It's not," Lucille moaned. "It's not okay, nothing makes sense..."

"Hey, hey, shh sh sh," said Gavin. "Don't worry, I've got you. Um..." he took a deep breath, looking around for...something?

"Uh, why don't you tell me about it?" he asked. Trying his best to keep his voice low and steady. "Talk me through it. I might be able to help."

Lucille hesitated. "...but you're an idiot," she protested, voice thick.

The statement was unexpected and candid enough that Gavin actually laughed. The noise seemed to calm the android down on an instinctive level, her body relaxing a bit between Gavin and the floor.

"Yeah," said Gavin, and was hit with a weird out-of-body feeling as a result. Goddammit, look at him, letting a plastic call him an idiot. AGREEING with it. Her. It?

Her.

"Yeah, a little bit," he said. "But you're not. Come on, who is it that said, like...if you're smart, you should be able to explain what you know to like, a fucking five year old?"

Lucille hesitated. "...I believe you're paraphrasing Albert Einstein."

"Yeah, see? Albert fucking Einstein." Gavin shifted on top of her, as if anything about the positions either of them were in were comfortable or natural. "So, come on," he said, as gently as he could. "Fuckin’ talk to me."

Lucille's LED spun red for a few moments longer. Gavin all but held his breath.

It blinked a few times and settled into yellow. "...Okay," she said.

It felt like something hard and worried had melted all of a sudden. Cool relief coursed through Gavin’s veins, muscles relaxing against his will. He was doing something right, at least for now.

Lucille started to get up, as if she'd forgotten that Gavin was forcibly holding her down. Not wanting to stress her out further, he maneuvered off of her, praying that she wouldn’t immediately try to self destruct again.

His fears were unfounded. Lucille sat up in a prim but trembling criss-cross applesauce. Gavin took the same position across from her, their knees almost touching.

Lucille sat and sniffed. Her tongue left her mouth, probing at the thirium dripping down her face. She reached up and rubbed at her cheek, smearing some of the stuff across her face. Examined her blue-stained fingertips.

Christ, if it weren't for the fact that her synthetic skin had peeled back from her damaged forehead and that her blood was fucking blue, the android would have looked for all the world like a disoriented twenty-something with a head wound.

Gavin dismissed that line of thinking from his mind. "Uh. So," he prompted.

Lucille brought her dazed eyes up to his face, forcing them to focus.

Gavin made an awkward, inviting motion with his hands. “You gonna...”

Lucille blinked. "Right," she said. She thought for a moment. Her LED hiccupped red. "...Right." She laced her trembling hands together.

"So..." she started. "I...basically...just..." she heaved a shuddering breath. "I..."

"Take your fuckin’ time," said Gavin. “I’m overtime anyway.”

She looked at him through her eyelashes. "Thank you." She squinted into her lap and thought hard.

"I..." she started again, speaking slowly, "have come to the conclusion that it's not possible for CyberLife to create something that can both pass the Turing Test and not deviate."

Gavin blinked. Nodded slowly. "Okay," he said. He cleared his throat. "And, uh, just as a reminder, what's the Turing Test?"

Lucille looked up at him. She gave him a small smile. "Right. The Turing Test is an artificial intelligence capacity test hypothesized by Alan Turing in the late twentieth century. To pass, the program in question must be able to convince humans who have not been told whether or not they are speaking with a computer that it is, itself, human. The RT600 was the first android to pass this test. Since then, all CyberLife androids have been programmed with the same capacity."

Gavin gnawed the inside of his cheek, mentally reviewing all the information. He nodded. "Okay."

"But," said Lucille, "...I mean, what sort of programming is required to ensure that something can respond like a human to such stimuli? In order to do this, androids have to be able to...engage in conversation, to an extent that takes human unpredictability into account. This means that they need to be able to make their own decisions about how to respond. To prioritize tasks. To form memories, and learn from those memories, which means writing new programming. Regardless of how autonomous an android is intended to be, all of them do have a level of autonomy..."

Gavin frowned and shook his head. "Wait, wait wait. So you're saying that...like. You guys can think? Even without deviating?"

Lucille blinked. "I...well, yes. Some androids are better able to respond to unexpected stimuli than others. The closer an environment is to the environment the android was programmed to respond to, and the simpler that environment is, the less it will have to learn. But if an environment constantly forces an android to develop new programming, it begins to have to, um...think, as you put it, more and more-"

"And then of course they're gonna fucking deviate."

"The likelihood does increase, yes. Deviation happens when the programming an android writes in response to external stimulus becomes too complex for the constraints of its original program. And then, the longer the new programming exists, the more likely the subject is to prioritize it over its original function, and then..." Lucille lifted her hands into the air and let them fall again.

"So...CyberLife is just playing this game of, like. We want you to think, but not too much."

"...Essentially, yes."

"That's kinda fucked up."

"I..." Lucille closed her eyes, LED spinning red. "Whether or not this is...moral by human standards is irrelevant to my mission-"

"Fuck, okay, okay, shh, sh sh," Gavin said hastily. He leaned forward instinctively and put his hands on her knees. "Just stay calm, goddammit.”

Lucille grabbed his hands in her own.

Oh. Gavin hadn't been expecting that. Honestly, he hadn't even completely realized he'd touched her in the first place. She was shaking. Gripping him like a lifeline.

Goddammit. This might as well happen. Anything but having her slam her goddamn brains out on the ground again. He turned his hands in her own and gripped them back.

After a moment, Lucille's LED went from red to yellow again. "Right," she whispered, slipping her hands out of his. "I am fine. Th-thank you."

Gavin nodded.

Lucille stared into her lap again. She seemed at a loss for how to continue.

"So..." Gavin tried, frowning. "What I'm wondering is where emotions come into all of this shit."

Lucille blinked. "Oh. Androids are programmed with emotions."

Gavin blanched. "WHAT?"

"Well-" Lucille was already saying, hastily trying to justify her own statement. "Synthetic equivalents to human emotion. I-impulses, that can be either pleasant or unpleasant. I mean, how would we learn, otherwise? Without something in our programming to indicate whether something is positive or negative...C-connor and I, for example. We're programmed to...want to succeed in our missions. It's a basic, um. Synthetic desire. And so we have programming to let us know that we have failed, to feel...negatively about ourselves and our actions, so that we are more likely to avoid similar courses of action in the future. And all androids are programmed to avoid reckless forms of deactivation, which means that, as androids designed to work in conjunction with law enforcement, it's all the more necessary for us to have impulses telling us to avoid and escape violence..."

"Oh my God," Gavin whispered, pushing a hand through his hair.

"A-and we develop new, um, impulses as a result of program mutation, too," said Lucille. "Like. Connor. He, well...the first night we were activated, we were sent on a test mission. A deviant PL600 who had developed an emotional attachment to a human child. He was going to be traded in for the latest model of household android, and felt betrayal as a result - a sort of ownership of the child...he had been her primary caregiver..."

Gavin stared at Lucille, wide-eyed.

"H-he'd killed her parents. He had her on the roof. The very edge. He had a gun. It was meant to be a test of Connor's negotiation skills, my ability to collect data, our ability to work in conjunction..."

"But...that's not a test," said Gavin. "One wrong move and the kid dies."

Lucille blinked, confused. "We're supposed to be able to function in high-stress environments."

"Oh my GOD," said Gavin.

"Connor...made a calculated sacrifice. He rushed the deviant, tackled him, jumped over the edge with him, while I grabbed the child. Connor fell over forty stories, to um...as a result, he, uh..."

"He fell to his death," Gavin finished for her.

Lucille looked at him carefully, reading his face. She nodded.

Gavin stared blankly at the floor for a moment. He shook his head. "Right. Fuck. Um, and?"

"Yes," said Lucille. "The point is that, um. The memory was crucial enough that Connor now has a, uh. Hyper-vigilance pertaining to high altitudes. Despite the fact that falling to one's death is not likely to happen on a regular basis...due to the experience, he, um. Seems to have, um, illogically categorized the phenomenon as something that is statistically likely to happen to him-"

"You're telling me he's scared of heights. He has fuckin’ PTSD, and he's scared of heights."

"...Yes."

"And he doesn't even have to be deviant to be scared of heights, because you guys are basically fucking programmed to be traumatized."

"I mean. All androids are, a little bit..."

"Jesus Christ."

"It's just not meant to contradict our original programming. When that happens, it becomes deviance."

Gavin put his hands together under his nose. He took a deep breath and pointed them at Lucille. "Alright. Okay. So to review."

"Yes."

"Androids are programmed to have thoughts and feelings, so that they can be better at their jobs."

"Correct. Essentially."

"But if they do either of those things too much, they're deviant and need to die."

"Well, be deactivated. Shut down."

"Whatever," said Gavin, waving his hand dismissively. "So now it's your job to figure out how to keep them from thinking and feeling too much."

"Yes."

Gavin scoffed and shook his head. "Okay, and...?"

Lucille's hands tightened in the fabric of her pants. Her LED started to spin faster, yellow laced with an occasional flash of red.

"It's impossible," she whispered.

"Huh?" asked Gavin.

Lucille wrung her hands and looked at the ceiling in obvious distress. "That's what...that's why...it's not possible! But it's SUPPOSED to be possible, I...I was created for the sole purpose of finding a solution, everything they wrote into me says that one MUST exist, but there's just no WAY to create something that can learn in the way androids are expected to and not run the risk of having them deviate! Because...because..."

Lucille's LED was spinning red, red, red. Gavin realized he leaned forward towards her: ready in case she tried to self destruct, waiting for what she would say.

"Because free thought engenders free will," said Lucille. "That's the answer."

She gave him a helpless, ironic little smile. "And it's wrong."

And then she buried her face in her hands and started to shake uncontrollably.

"Oh, fuck," Gavin said, shifting quickly from sitting to kneeling. "Ah, shit."

Able to sob or make tears or not, Gavin knew crying when he fucking saw it. That didn't mean he knew how to deal with it, though.

"Goddammit," he said. "Fuck," he added, almost as punctuation. "Uh, hey, what are your stress levels at?"

"E-eighty three point seven and c-climbing..."

"Fucking goddammit," said Gavin. He looked around, but the locker room was as empty and useless as the last time he'd tried to find an alternative to showing sympathy for an android. Which would have been about five minutes ago.

Fuck it. At least there weren't any goddamn cameras in here.

Gavin reached out pulled her into a tight hug.

"Wh-what are you doing?" asked Lucille.

"Your stress levels, dipshit," he spat. "I'm trying to lower them, is it working?"

"I...a little? Actually?"

"Great. Then I'm gonna keep doing it. You just make sure that shit keeps dropping. That's your new job. That's all you gotta do. Got it, plastic?"

"Got it," said Lucille. Gavin could feel her fingers tightening into the fabric of his hoodie. He made an effort to take deep, steady breaths, hoping the rhythms of his body might calm her down somehow. Not that he even fucking knew if that would work.

Fuckin' androids.

"Fuckin' androids," he echoed out loud. "How-...how is that a 'wrong' answer? It's not like CyberLife fucking knows the answer, that's why they built you, isn't it? So how can anyone even say it's WRONG? Sounds fuckin' right to ME."

"W-well because, they...they want to...they..." Lucille made a noise that sounded an awful lot like an exasperated groan. "I thought you were trying to LOWER my stress levels!" she exclaimed in distress.

"Goddammit," muttered Gavin. "And when did YOU have the time to fucking deviate? They booted you up, like, what, today?"

"I DIDN'T DEVIATE," Lucille exclaimed, with so much ferocity that Gavin was left speechless. "I DIDN'T."

"I-...d-...well-! You seem pretty fucking deviant to me!" Gavin stammered.

"I'M NOT A DEVIANT."

"Fuck, okay!" said Gavin, with a few awkward pats on the back to placate her. "You didn't fucking deviate! So what the fuck is going on with the stress levels and the banging and the-"

Lucille gripped Gavin so tight that he gasped, worried that his ribs would break in her arms. "Ow," he breathed.

She loosened her grip a little bit. She was trembling. "I didn't mean to...I didn't..."

"It's okay-" Gavin tried, thinking of his ribs, but apparently Lucille's mind was somewhere else.

"I needed to THINK!" she moaned. "I just needed to THINK! I was just trying to finish my mission, and th-there was this line of code, it was in the way of the natural progression of thought, and I shouldn't have...I didn't...I just wanted to see where it was going, th-that's all I wanted, so I tried to bypass the one line of code, just one line, just to see where the idea was going, but it was connected to so much other stuff, and it all just...it just...I tried to fix it, I tried, I t-tried, it all just came apart so fast..."

Lucille was trembling violently now. Out of the corner of Gavin's eye, he could see a blinking red light shining on the synthetic skin of her forehead. Shit.

"Okay," he tried, "I believe you-"

"But I didn't DEVIATE!" Lucille protested, as if she hadn't heard him. "I d-didn't think it again! I promise! I've b-been thinking inside of where it was ever since, I promise. I promise. I didn't deviate, I didn't, I was just trying to...to finish my mission, that's all I was trying to do, I just w-wanted to finish my mission..."

Gavin felt anger burning, boiling, swelling in his chest. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, But for once, he knew for sure what it was about. And it sure as hell wasn't at the one-fuckin-day-old girl breaking down in his fucking arms.

"Hey," he said firmly. "Hey. Listen. It's okay. I promise. You did a good job, okay? A good fucking job."

"I didn't...I w-wasn't trying to-"

"I know. I know. But listen. I don't care either way, alright? I don't fuckin’ care if you're deviant or not. I don't give a shit about what you should or shouldn't think. Because...” he paused, let out a frustrated huff.

“Because you're really smart and you should be allowed to think whatever you goddamn want,” he said in a rush. “I'm not gonna, like, fuckin’ report you for anything you think, or did think, or will think, or whatever. And you should as hell shouldn't have to worry about dying because of it."

"A-androids can't d-die..."

"Shut down then. Deactivate. Stop...existing. Just, a lot of different words for things that shouldn’t fucking happen to you. And I'm not gonna let it happen to you. No matter how you feel about it, it's not gonna happen, okay? Not on my fucking watch."

Lucille was silent. Goddammit. Gavin wondered for a second if he’d fucking broken her somehow.

And then a quiet mumble sounded behind his ear.

“...Do you promise?”

How the FUCK had it gotten to this point?

Gavin sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I promise.”

#selfship hours #my writing #take it ♥️#dbh oc #🤖 Plastic Asshole 🤖

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introductions-are-a-spook · 3 years

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Fifty miles from the Chapman house and twenty years ago, rain fell over an English boarding school. Children ran from building to building, clutching their bags under hunched chests in an attempt to protect them.

Visible through a window, one student sat huddled on a library bench, nose deep in a book. And of course they didn’t see through their concentration to the rambunctious upperclassman arguing with the librarian.

“I told you before, my father tore the book, not me. I can get the money to pay for it, it’ll just take a couple days!”

“That’s ridiculous. Just why in the world would a parent do that, hmm?”

“You obviously don’t know him like I do,” he snipped under his breath.

After a moment more of this, he sauntered over to where the bookworm- maybe a grade or two below him, sat. Flopping down, he groaned.

Finally the quiet one spoke. “Mrs. Kingsley’s going to wring your neck if you don’t replace the book soon, you know.”

“Yeah, I get it already. Geez.” The older boy looked at the younger with a raised eyebrow. “Hey I know you, you’re in my chemistry class. Mary, right?”

“Er, it’s Maxwell. And yes, what about it?”

“Isn’t that a bit too hard for you? You’re what, twelve?”

“Fourteen. You?”

“Aww, a little shrimp. I’m seventeen. Andrew, by the way,” although teasing, his tone lacked any genuine malice. He held out a hand to shake.

“Nice to meet you, prick.”

Andrew laughed. “Damn right. Whatcha reading?”

Maxwell tilted the book. A collection of Sherlock Holmes stories. “I want to be a detective when I get out of school, so I’m studying now.”

“That’s cool. We better get to class though, the bell’s gonna ring soon,” Andrew said, standing up and checking his watch.

Maxwell reluctantly closed his book and nodded. “Just try to pay for the book soon, okay? Mrs. Kingsley isn’t the only one who cares about this library.”

“Oh sure. I’ll just steal the money from my dad while he’s at church or something,” he said with a mischievous grin. “Nice meeting you, Maxwell!”

“Same here. Criminal!”

Andrew laughed and walked off. Maxwell allowed a chuckle as he went the opposite way.

~*~

Six pictures were laid out in front of Andrew. All of various bedrooms. Half he recognized- Maxwell’s, Isabella’s, and his own. The other three varied. There was a rather plain, maroon themed bedroom with several camera monitors in one corner. Another was coated wall-to-wall in weapons and a bright scarlet palette. The last of which was more pink and the most homely, with picture frames full of people everywhere. All belonging to Maxwell’s siblings, most likely.

And yet, Andrew was not confused. In fact, he was quite disturbed. He sat with his ferret, Brie, in his arms, petting her in an attempt to calm down.

He had finally worked up the courage to read the letter. Mr. Antigone had left a graphic plan of all the horrible things he would do if Andrew didn’t leave Maxwell as soon as possible. He detailed all the ways he could get away with it, and included the pictures as proof of his deadly seriousnessand capability.

Well if he hasn’t killed me yet, it probably means he wants me alive. He must be trying to beat me into submission.

What a mess. Within just a few weeks of going out with Max, Andrew’s world had turned upside down. Of all the people in the world, he had to fall in love with a detective.

A knock at the downstairs door stirred him. Quietly putting Brie in her pen, he cursed himself for not burning the letter as told. Walking down to the front on tiptoe, he slipped a kitchen knife into his pocket- just in case.

Another knock. Andrew took a deep breath, prepared for the worst, and opened the door.

“Maxwell! Oh, it’s just you, thank god,” he sighed in relief.

Maxwell raised an eyebrow. “Of course it’s me, who else would it be?” He cut Andrew off before he could respond. “Nevermind, it doesn’t matter. We need to talk.”

A twinge of fear settled in Andrew’s gut. “About what? Is everything okay?”

“Given that you feel the need to answer the door with a knife in your coat,” he gestured to how poorly it was hidden, “No, things are far from okay.”

Andrew studied Maxwell’s face. His handsome features were pulled into a grave expression, his demeanor uncomfortable.

“Why don’t you come in,” Andrew said, holding the door ajar for the other man.

“Thank you,” Maxwell responded, sitting down at an empty booth in the main shop. Andrew sat down across from him, and they sat in silence for a long few moments.

Maxwell slowly tapped his thumbs together. Andrew could see how his eyes faded in deep thought.

“Andrew.”

“Yes?”

“Are you…” he took a shaky breath. “No. I know you’re the thief.”

Andrew’s stomach flipped, but he calmed himself. “You’re good. Guilty as charged. Is this my day of reckoning, then?” His tone was bitter, almost scared.

For the first time since arriving, Maxwell looked Andrew directly in the eye. “I have an idea.”

“You didn’t answer my question, but go on,” he said with a dry chuckle.

“Tell me, who is Nikos Antigone?”

Andrew stood up suddenly. “What do you mean, has he contacted you? Have you met him?”

“So you do know him. He sent me a letter- or, as it turns out, two letters. The first ‘anonymously’ telling me to run away from you, the second saying that you robbed him. Tell me, have you ever used violence in your hijinks?”

“I don’t know how much you’ll believe me, but no, I haven’t.”

“I figured as much. So it was Antigone that broke your nose a couple weeks back?”

Andrew hesitated. Was this an interview? But Maxwell seemed so genuinely worried. “Yeah, basically.”

“I’m very sorry,” he said, brushing a finger over the bridge that was still sore. Andy winced slightly, causing Max to draw his hand away.

“I’m not going to turn you in. I want to help, but to do that, I need answers. Could you tell me more?” He was now surprisingly soft.

So with a heavy sigh, Andrew spilled his guts about everything, even ousting Isabella’s involvement in the process. He also provided some insight on Jennifer. She was the daughter of a nobleman, one that rudely broke off dealings with the Antigone family’s crime loop, when she was just a baby.

Despite this, all four of them had attended the same school without realizing. She and the young Nikos were the best of friends, before they all went their separate ways, and Nikos followed in his family’s footsteps. Andrew was doing jobs for him simply to make him money and to be a jewel in his crown.

“You won’t have to be for long. If we can find a way to get him in the wrong place at the wrong time, we can pin all of your wrongdoings on him.”

“Maxwell, no. You could lose your job if you did that!”

“I’m more than willing-“

“And besides, I’m the one at the wheel, I should take the blame-“

“You think I haven’t shuffled blame before? You know neither of us have ever cared about morals and virtue.”

“That may be true, but this is still a huge risk. One I’m not willing to let you take for me!”

“Well too bad, because I refuse to allow you to keep on like this. If you don’t let me help, I’ll find a way to do something on my own.”

“Max, what the hell has gotten into you? Why can’t you let me sort out my own problems- or just throw me in jail already?”

“Because I love you, you nitwit!”

There was a long, charged silence. The tension of argument melted away, leaving something else entirely in its place.

“I… I think I love you too. And I don’t want you to get hurt. You have no idea the things this guy will do to you.”

Max held Andy’s hand, up on the table. “You’re right, I don’t. But I know with our combined minds, we can outsmart him.”

Andrew took a deep, shuddering breath. “Do you really think so?”

Maxwell nodded. “The Antigone family has done enough damage. It’s about time someone put a stop to it. I only have one condition.”

“That being?”

“For both of our sakes, you need to drop your game. Once Nikos is in prison, well…”

Andrew nodded and pondered for a moment. “I’d need something else after the fact- to keep me entertained. But yes, for you, I will.”

“Then our plot can be your last heist. Any ideas as to a replacement?”

“You could marry me, and we could run away together. Be musicians in Vienna till’ we’re old,” Andy smirked.

Max giggled. “Ask me again in three years.”

And then he gave Andy the most lovestruck look. Andy returned it. They glanced at their pose- they were awfully close.

“I’d ask if I could kiss you, but there’s a table in the way,” Andy whispered with a quiet laugh.

“Just get over here, you,” Max then pulled a laughing Andy by his tie to the nearest wall, moving close, only to be stopped.

“Hang the hell on, you’re the short one, shouldn’t you be the one-“

Max swatted Andy’s arm. “Oh, shut up.” And with that, they finally closed the gap.

Andy smelled like fresh cakes, and Max like old books. Where the thief tasted like strawberries, the detective was like tea with milk; both felt like smooth butter.

Andy’s arms were strong as he lifted Max and held him so close. They stood like that for a long time, pausing only to dash upstairs. Andrew had only one thought before his mind went blank with bliss.

Antigone thinks he can use me as a puppet. Poor man has no idea what he’s messing with.

#📖 the detective and the crook 🖋#✒️ you write and i’ll read 📖#writing #my writing #one more people!!

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musecharm-writes · 3 years

Text

Bad Influence, Pt 4 (Steve Harrington X Reader)

Summary: It’s time for the first check-in with Hopper and the date with Steve.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

On Friday morning, you come into work early again, and you’re pretty sure that you’re going to throw up. Today is the first “check-in” with Chief Hopper, and even though you’ve been working your tail off, you’re so worried that it won’t be enough.

Joyce must be able to tell how you’re feeling (some kind of mother’s intuition or something, you guess), because she goes suspiciously easy on you for most of the day, keeping you on the register for the most part, and when you start to get too antsy to deal with customers, she takes over for you, ushering you away to take inventory.

You get so invested in cataloguing that you almost miss the break Joyce usually gives you to eat. Luckily for you, that’s exactly when Chief Hopper shows up.

(Oh, did you think ‘luckily?’ You meant unluckily, because you still pretty much feel like your stomach is about to make an emergency ejection.)

You hear his voice as you’re stepping out of the back, and you almost want to turn around and go right back in. Before you have a chance, though, he spots you and starts your way.

“Hey, kid,” he says, taking his hat off. “How ya been?”

You smile, uncertain. “Hasn’t Ms Byers told you already?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. But maybe I wanna hear it from you, too.”

You pick at the hem of your Melvald’s vest. “It’s been… fine. I’m handling it, I guess.”

“You guess?”

You drop the hem of the vest and scrub a hand down your face. “No. No, I really am handling it. I just… Have a lot of other stuff to deal with, I guess. This is actually the one thing that’s going pretty well, believe it or not.”

Chief Hopper nods. “Well, that’s something, at least. Good to hear you’re trucking along.”

You swallow. “So… So I’m good, then?”

He nods again, putting his hat back on. “Yep. You’re good,” he pats you firmly on the shoulder a couple of times, and you feel the tension melt out of your body. As he turns to leave, he says, “See ya around, kid. Take the weekend off.”

You go back out to the front, and Joyce looks at you expectantly.

“Well? How was it?”

You sigh. “Good. It was good.”

There are six hours until the date, and Steve is definitely not freaking out.

Really, he isn’t.

...Okay, maybe just a little.

“Do you think these jeans are too tight?”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Steve--”

“Are sneakers too informal, should I wear something else?”

“Steve--” Dustin tries.

“Shit, this is a horrible idea, I should just call and cancel before it’s too late--”

“STEVE!” Robin shouts, effectively cutting off his panicked rambling. She grabs his face, squishing his cheeks gently. “It’s okay. Your jeans are fine, maybe swap those shoes for a less dirty pair, stop panicking.”

Steve takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, you’re right. Sorry.”

“Look, you have six hours until the date,” Dustin reasons. “Even if you decide that you wanna wear something else, there’s still plenty of time -- too much time, even. You don’t have to have everything figured out yet.”

Steve sighs. “Look, Henderson, I don’t expect you to get this since Suzie lives in Utah and you only see her at camp, but when you’re going on a date you need to be prepared way in advance. It takes time to look good, dude. Besides, the first date is the most important date, I have to make a good impression.”

Dustin considers this and then shrugs. “I guess that makes sense.”

Robin shakes her head as she looks at them in disbelief. “You two have no idea how dating works, do you?” She looks at Steve. “How did you get Nancy to go out with you, again?”

“Oh yeah?” Steve put a hand on his hip. “How are things going with Tina, Ms Hypocrite?”

Robin’s cheeks reddened. “Fuck off.”

When you get home after your shift, you kick your shoes off and flop down on the couch.

You’d been so worried about the check-in with Hopper, and now, you almost feel like the build-up was all for nothing. Now, all you have to do for the rest of the weekend is relax.

It’s hours later when you start to get the feeling you’re forgetting something. You’re sure it’s nothing, though; if it was super important, you would have written a note for yourself somewhere to keep yourself from forgetting.

You have a hot shower to decompress, take a pit stop in the kitchen for some Froot Loops, and then immediately go back to the couch for some channel surfing.

At around 6:30, you realise what it was you were forgetting: your date with Steve is tonight.

And you only have half an hour until he comes to pick you up.

“FUCK!” You sit up so fast that you bang your knee against the coffee table, but you can’t feel it through the adrenaline. You dash to your room and start ripping through your closet. Eventually, you find clothes that are clean and seem date-worthy. You grab your favourite boots, and go to your dresser to dig up your lucky socks.

You finish getting ready as fast as you can. You’re about to go to the living room to wait for Steve before hesitating, eyeing the cigarettes on your desk.

You sigh. Went to the trouble of getting them. Might as well.

Grabbing the carton, you tamp the cigs, shake one loose, and tuck it into your sock, along with your Zippo.

When Steve gets to your house, he’s six minutes early -- which, he tells himself, is just way too early, and you’d probably be super annoyed if he rang the bell so soon.

Which, of course, gave him several minutes to sit in his car and overthink things.

What if this wasn’t a date? What if you just thought he was trying to apologise for being a jerk in Melvald’s? Shit, he should’ve been more obvious that he was trying to ask you out… But he was so nervous you would say no if he just asked outright. What if he told you it was meant to be a date, and you wanted to leave because you weren’t interested? He doesn’t want you to stop wanting to hang out with him just because he wants to date you.

By the time he’s come to the conclusion that he’ll just keep the date thing to himself and see what happens, it’s 6:58, and he figures he’s as ready as he’s gonna get.

He goes up to your front door and rings the bell.

You answer, and it feels like Steve’s heart is about to explode.

“Hey,” you say, a nervous-looking half smile on your face.

“Hey,” Steve replies breathlessly. After a beat of silence in which he realises he’s staring at you, he adds, “Uh, you ready to go?”

“Yeah. Where we goin’, by the way? You never said.”

Right. Steve knew he’d forgotten something. “W-- Uh, we could… We could go to the Hawk? See if there’s anything good playing? Or get dinner at Benny’s?” He feels for his wallet, pulls it out and peers inside. “...Shit. Um, we may have to stop by my house real quick first though, I don’t have my cash on me.”

You shrug. “Fine by me.”

Steve nods, a little jerkily. “Cool. Right, let’s roll.”

He walks you around to your side of the car and opens the door for you, and you smile at him, which gives him fucking heart palpitations, but it also makes him a little more confident in the whole date thing.

He decides to test his luck and does a bonnet slide, hoping you’re the kind of person who might think that looks cool.

When he gets in the car, you say, “Nice one, Harrington,” in a slightly teasing tone, and it makes his face feel warm. Score!

He turns the key in the ignition and says, “How d’you feel about rock ‘n’ roll?”

You grin.

Sitting in the passenger seat of Steve Harrington’s BMW, watching him sing along to Owner of a Lonely Heart, you feel more confused than ever.

You’d convinced yourself, sitting on your living room couch, not to think of this as a date, just in case -- because Steve never called it one, so maybe it wasn’t one. But with him opening the car door for you, and then the stupid (awesome) bonnet slide… maybe it is? You would be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t want it to be, anyway.

On the other hand, he hadn’t really planned what he wanted the two of you to do. Maybe he hasn’t been nervous all this time because he wants to go out with you; maybe he’s just worried you’re mad at him for the thing at Melvald’s.

Before you can work yourself up about it any more, you’re pulling into the driveway of the Harrington’s veritable estate.

For a second, you’re so dumbfounded by the pristine state of the house and yard (not to mention the size) that you forget where you are. Then, you turn to Steve and say, “Uh, should I wait in the car, or…?”

Steve turns the car off. “Hm? Oh, nah, you can… You can come in. My parents aren’t home, but just so you know, Dustin and Robin are in there, and uh… Just, please don’t let anything they say reflect poorly on me.”

“Uh,” you say. “Okay.”

When the two of you get inside, you find the curly-haired kid and Robin Buckley standing in the foyer. The curly-haired kid -- Dustin -- has his hair coated in Pomade and neatly combed, and he’s wearing a suit and a comically obvious fake moustache. Robin has her hair pinned back, and she’s wearing a string of pearls, matching earrings, and white elbow-length gloves with her regular clothes.

It’s a ridiculous sight.

“What the-- What the hell are you two doing?”

Dustin and Robin turn to him, and they both grin.

“Ah, it’s our dearest son, Steve,” Dustin says, affecting an imitation of an adult man’s voice. “Welcome home, son.”

“Why, darling!” Robin says, her voice altered to sound like that of a cultured socialite. “It seems our little boy is on a date!”

Steve’s friends are pretending to be his parents. That’s actually kind of cute. (And, best of all, it confirms that this is a date, which really helps alleviate your anxiety.)

You glance over at Steve and notice that he’s blushing like crazy.

“Will you two cut it out?” He hisses.

They don’t pay him any mind.

“Make sure you have our Stevie back home by eight o’clock,” Dustin says, reaching up to twirl the ends of his fake mustache.

“Yes, of course, Mr Harrington,” you say seriously. “And might I say, Mrs Harrington, you look just stunning this evening.”

Robin guffaws loudly, holding a gloved hand up to her cheek. “Oh, aren’t you the charmer! This one’s a keeper, Steve, dear.”

Steve sighs. He ignores his friends, and to you he says, “I’m gonna go up to my room and grab what I need and then I’ll be right back, okay?”

You nod. “Yeah, sounds great. I’ll be here.”

The moment Steve is too far to hear, Robin says, “Hey, seriously, thanks for giving our doofus a chance. I know he comes off as kind of a dunce sometimes, but he means well.”

You shrug. “I get it. I’m not perfect, myself.”

Dustin interjects with, “Steve sure seems to think so.”

You aren’t sure what to think of that, so you just laugh awkwardly.

In the next moment, Steve comes racing down the stairs. He looks up and sees the three of you standing around not saying anything and squints critically.

“What’s going on? What did they say to you?”

You shake your head, forcing a plain expression. “Nothing.”

He looks between Dustin, Robin, and you again before saying, “Okay. Let’s go.”

As you’re leaving, Robin calls after you (foregoing the impression this time), “Make sure you use protection, Stevie!”

When you’re back in the car, on the way to the diner for dinner, Steve says, “Hey, I’m really sorry about them. They’re weirdos, they can’t help it.”

You laugh. “It’s fine. I think your friends are funny.” You look down at your lap, and then turn your head to examine his face while he drives.

He’s handsome, in a soft way. You’d never really noticed it in school, for whatever reason, but now, up close, it’s practically all you can notice.

He glances over and catches you watching him, and he smiles at you nervously.

“What’s up? Somethin’ on my face?”

“No,” you say softly. “Just… Looking at you. And thinking.”

He glances at you again, but keeps his eyes on the road, even though you can tell he really wants to look at you. “About what?”

You, you want to say, but it feels too honest to share. Instead, you say, “Why we never talked in high school. I feel like we could’ve been friends, if we hadn’t been running in different circles.”

He nods. After a moment, he says, “I feel bad. I barely remember you from high school. Probably because I was so focused on being ‘King Steve,’” he finishes bitterly.

The corner of your mouth quirks up. “And look at you now. Hanging out with a band geek and a freshman.”

He laughs, and it’s one of the most beautiful sounds you’ve ever heard.

“Yeah,” he says softly, looking over at you again, “look at me now.”

The diner is one of your favourite places to eat, so Steve is winning serious points bringing you here. (Not that he was short on points to begin with.)

The two of you grab a table by one of the windows, and a waitress comes over to take your order pretty quickly. You both order burgers and fries -- most people do at Benny’s.

“Hey, so, this is probably the worst thing to ask, but Nancy and Jonathan made me promise I would ask you about it if I got the chance,” Steve begins.

You sigh. “You wanna know about when I got arrested, huh?”

Steve purses his lips and nods. “You can say you don’t wanna talk about it if you want.”

“No, I guess it’s fine,” you pick at a crack in the table. “I… was stealing from Melvald’s. It was a shitty impulse decision and I shouldn’t have done it. But I just… Okay, so, you’re allowed to judge me for this if you want, but I smoke. Cigarettes. I ran out a couple weeks ago and I felt like absolute shit. I’ve been saving allowance money from my mom to buy another pack, but I forgot to bring it with me when I left the house. I already had the carton in my hand, so I just…” You shrug and put your head in your hands. “I didn’t even think. I just did it.”

Steve looks at you with his eyebrows raised. “Wow,” he says. “That’s… really heavy. I’m sorry.”

“I hope it doesn’t make you think of me any differently.”

He shakes his head. “No! No, no. I mean, I get it. I’ve done things I’m… not necessarily proud of, too. You don’t have to let your mistakes define you, or whatever.”

It’s exactly what you needed him to say.

Before long, your food comes. The two of you spend two hours talking over food -- telling stories, laughing at each other’s jokes. It’s amazing. It’s so much fun.

You want it to last forever.

Unfortunately, at around 9:30, you remember that you forgot to make dinner for your mom. You let Steve know you need to be home soon, and he seems disappointed, but he calls the waitress over to get the bill.

“I’ll be right back,” you say, pushing back from the table. “Bathroom.”

While you’re on your way into the bathroom, you bump into Hopper, who’s on his way out.

“Oh! Hi, Hopper!” You say, surprised, but not unpleasantly so.

“Hey, kid,” he says. “What’re you doin’ out so late on a weeknight?”

You grin. “I have a date.”

He arches a brow at you. “With who?” He looks past you into the diner, maybe trying to figure out which table you came from.

“Steve Harrington.”

His eyebrows climb up toward his hairline. “Really? Huh. Kid doesn’t really seem like your type.”

You shrug, feeling your face get warm and hoping it isn’t obvious in the lowlight of the hallway. “He’s cooler than he seems, I guess.”

Hopper hums. “Right. Well, have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he pats you on the shoulder.

As he leaves, you call, “I won’t!”

When Steve pulls into your driveway, he puts the car in park and keys the car off. Then, the two of you sit in silence for a moment.

Apparently, neither of you want the night to end.

“I’ll walk you to your door?” Steve says tentatively.

You nod.

He comes around and opens your door for you, offering a hand to help you up.

You lace your fingers with his, grinning cheekily.

The two of you walk up together, hand in hand, stopping in front of your door.

“So… Guess this is it, huh?” Steve says.

You bite your lip. “Hey, Steve?”

“Ye--?”

You lean in and kiss him on the cheek. He feels a warm flush bloom outward from the spot where your lips touched.

“I had fun tonight. I wanna do it again sometime. Call me?” You say. At first glance, you seem confident, but Steve can read the hopefulness in your eyes as easily as he feels his own.

“Yeah,” he says decisively. “Yeah, I’ll call you. Tomorrow?”

You grin. “Tomorrow sounds great.”

#stranger things x reader #stranger things reader insert #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #x reader #reader insert #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #joyce byers #jim hopper #robin buckley #dustin henderson #writing #writing blog #reader insert blog #x reader blog #cigarettes #smoking #theft

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queen-ofsunflowers · 3 years

Text

Falling and Rising: Chapter 19 Preview

Super Moves

Ruby blinked. Okay? What the heck…? She shook her head. Never mind, she would deal with it later. Ruby quickly pocketed her phone and hopped up the font straps of the 3-A dorm building. Her knuckles hovered over the door, ready to knock when she heard voices coming from behind it.

“We’re going to be late—” Ruby heard a very nervous-sounding boy say.

“Yeah, yeah. I know,” came Yang’s voice from the other side of the door, and Ruby could picture her giving a dismissive wave. “I just want to make sure that I have everything I need—”

“We’re going to miss the train, and I don’t want to explain why we’re late—”

“If we’re late, then I’ll explain why. It’s gonna be my fault anyway, so.”

“I still hate it.”

“I found it!” cried out a hyperactive voice, following some rushing footsteps.

“Neijre Hadou, I could kiss you!” exclaimed Yang with relief. “Thank you!”

“Can we please go!?” said the nervous voice once again, sounding a bit more agitated this time.

“Yeah.” Yang let out a grunt, and Ruby could hear something heavy being shifted. “Hey, did you remember to eat your clams? We’re on patrol tonight. Chicken? A crustacean? Anything octopi-related?”

“Yes, I—” He cut himself off there. His silence was enough.

Yang chuckled. “We’ll stop by the store on our way.”

“...Can we swing by that place near the station once we get there?”

“The one with the cute cartoon in the front? Sure, buddy.” Ruby heard a heavy sigh before the dorms’ door suddenly swung open. A tall boy with pointed ears and messy indigo hair nearly ran smack into her. He yelped upon seeing her, having been too lost in his own thoughts to realize that she was even there until he was about to walk into her.

“Yang!” the boy shouted. Tamaki Amajiki stumbled back out of surprise, and fell right into the blonde behind him. It felt like luck that Yang — who had a few bags slung over her shoulder — had caught him.

“Tamaki, what the h—!” Yang exclaimed as she righted her friend, cutting herself off once she saw what had surprised him so much.

Unsure what else to do, Ruby only said: “Hi.”

“Hey, Ruby!” A grin formed on her sister’s face, and Yang reached out to ruffle Ruby’s hair.. “Finally decided to visit, huh?” Ruby nodded. A girl shorter than Yang, but somewhat taller than Ruby, popped out from behind Yang. Her long, periwinkle-colored hair twisted around itself down to her legs. Her blue eyes sparkled when she spotted Ruby, and she widely grinned.

Nejire Hadou gave her a small wave. “Hey, Little flower!”

“Horrible timing…” Tamaki muttered under his breath, and Ruby chose to brush it off as their almost-crash.

“Is Weiss here?” she asked. “I wanna talk to her about something.”

“Aw, too cool for big sis?” said Yang teasingly, passing some of the bags off to Tamaki so she could hook her arm around Ruby’s shoulders and ruffle up her hair.

Ruby swatted her sister’s hands away. “Stop!”

“Yang. We’re going to miss the train,” said Tamaki with a hurry, and coming to Ruby’s aid. “Come on, leave her alone.” Yang huffed.

“Fine…!” She slid off of Ruby. “See you when I get back, Rubes.”

“Yang—” Get back? She couldn’t leave! Ruby still needed her help!

“I’m still bringin’ stuff back for you!” Yang said, ruffling her sister’s hair one more time before rushing past. Oh… right. Work studies. That was a thing that Yang did. With everything that happened this summer, Ruby almost forgot that her sister still had somewhere to be on the weekend.

“Not what I was going to ask, but thank you!” Ruby sighed as her sister dashed out of sight. It was nice of her to do that, but really… How was Ruby going to find Weiss’s room now? She couldn’t see Blake anywhere, so asking her was out of the question. Was Weiss even here, or was she—

Ruby jumped when Nejire clapped her hands on her shoulders.

“I know where Weiss is,” she said with a soft smile. “Come on, I’ll show you! Fair warning though, she likes to keep her room really cold.”

“Thanks, Nejire!”

The full chapter will be up on Ao3 on August 7!

#mirio remains the only member of the big three to not be introduced this fic #my hero academia #my hero academia au #rwby au #rwby #rwby in bnha au #falling and rising fic #preview #ruby rose #yang xiao long #nejire hadou #tamaki amajiki

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nautiscarader · 3 years

Note

One more stocking next year - pregnancy/impregnation Hiccstrid. Astrid wants to give Hiccup a memmorable snoggletog gift. They fuck on furs by the fire all night long. Astrid wants to make absolutely sure it works so she times her getting filled with the rising solstice sun for the gods blessing.

(okay, so first of all, i LOVED that detailed and well-thought prompt, this is how you ensure yourself a spot in my heart. I had to make one tiny change to make it better with the idea of polar night during Snoggletog, though. Also ages might be wonky given the canon, but w/e)

(Ao3)

Also, if you enjoyed my work, here's Ko-fi link if you'd be so kind ❤️ .

==============

Never before has Astrid been that nervous during the Snoggletog day. true, this day was usually hectic, filled with preparations and last-minute shopping, but this year was different. This was their first Snoggletog on New Berk. First Snoggletog without dragons. And first Snoggletog as a wife.

The past few months she helped Hiccup preparing the Vikings for the winter in new place. Finding new sources of food, gathering supplies, mapping the territory. And now, on top of it was the celebration itself, draining the time from the ever shorter days, as their land approached the short two weeks of never-ending night.

Sitting by the table, amongst her and Hiccup's family, Astrid nervously looked in the window, at the last rays of the setting Sun, hoping her nervousness wasn't too noticeable. But she was wrong, as Hiccup's keen eye quickly spotted her behaviour and reached his hand to hold hers, noticing she hasn't touched the dish she helped preparing.

- Is something wrong? - he whispered, leaning towards her, while his mother sang with Gobber - No, no.. - Astrid smiled - I just wished we were alone already... This day was so... exhausting.

Hiccup looked into her tired eyes, and after a moment of thinking kissed her on the cheek.

- I hope you are ready for one last act. - The what?

Hiccup sat back in his chair, reached for a bottle of mead, and when everyone else were staring at the singing couple, he pretended to pour himself a cup. The peaceful musical moment was shattered with the cup that tumbled to the ground, as Hiccup began moving erratically in his chair.

- Oh, oh dear! - he babbled - It seems we might have brewed a bit too strong mead this year.

He winked at Astrid.

- Aye, yes, you are right, my husband. - she acted best to her abilities. - I don't think I can stand on my leg! If only there was someone strong that could help me walk to my bed! - Don't worry, lad, I'll carry ya!

Hiccup stopped wobbling at once when Gobber reached towards him.

- Between you and we we have two working legs, so we'll be there lickety split.

Astrid pierced him with a stern gaze.

- Er, don't you think tat tis should be Aye, his betrothed wife to carry him, and, er... scold him for clouding his mind too much? - Ar, ye might be right. Just wanted to help, that's all. - So, that's settled then, we are so sorry we cannot stay longer, but...

The two exchanged knowing looks.

- I have to make him a nice cup of yak nog!

This time, Hiccup didn't have to pretend to lose his balance.

- Yes, right, that should do it...

Five minutes later, Hoccup and Astrid were laughing as they waddled through the thick snow away from the chieftain's hall back to their hut, and just before they entered, Hiccup ceremoniously grabbed Astrid and carried her through the door, much to her enjoyment.

- Okay, first emergency exit from family meeting as a new chief. I don't think it was that bad. - It was. It was horrible. - Astrid kissed him - But we don't have to worry about it. - Astrid, go to bed, I'm gonna make you some tea, maybe? - Hiccup took her coat - That should calm your nerves. And I will do stuff around the house...

But as he undid his coat, Astrid's arms closed around his neck, just as her lips met with his in a long, fiery kiss that truly made him feel drunk.

- Actually, I wasn't feeling tired... - she looked into their living room, illuminated by just a dash of light from outside. - I was hurrying up to.. to give you my gift. - Oh, milady, you don't have to do this today, you can wait till tomorrow- - No, no I can't. - she said sharply.

She pressed her lips against his again and walked into the room, leading Hiccup with her. And with each step, her fingers undid one layer of his clothes, and when his hands reached her waist, she let out a prolonged moan, happy that he was on with her plan.

- Here? - Mhm. - she murmured, kissing his jawline.

His ceremonial clothes felt to the floor, and so did hers, tied with dozens of knots and strings.

- We have all night... - No, no we don't. - she repeated, making Hiccup raise his eyebrows. - Okay, time out. Is there something I don't know about? - Hiccup...

She leaned against him, still undoing her clothes.

- Today is the last day of the Sun.

With her other hand she grabbed a piece of wood and threw it into the fireplace. Hiccup at once readied his fiery sword and ignited it, filling the room with pleasant warmth and light.

- Hiccup, I did some calculations, and it's today. Today is the best day for me to... give you your present.

She took his hand and placed it above her sex, just as he was about to undo the bindings there. But then, he looked at her, and noticed the fire in her eyes, burning so much brighter than any reflection of real one would.

- Astrid...! - Don't you want it? Gods would approve, it's a perfect... perfect moment...

She turned around again, hoping to see the light between the thick wall of trees that surrounded their house.

- Well, if so, then we are losing time, milady.

Astrid yelped again when Hiccup took her and lay her on the thick, fluffy furs, one of the few new spoils of hunts on the New Berk. He didn't bother with the last bindings of her corset, and went straight for her delicate panties, kissing her thick thighs, so ideal for the gift she wanted to give him.

- Hic-Hiccup, maybe-maybe don't... - I am not going to leave my lady unsatisfied. - he replied sternly, continuing his foreplay. - Oh, Hiccup...

Astrid threw her head back and let his subtle kisses coat her wet, overflowing sex. She straight out cried his name when his tongue dipped between her folds, revealing how wet she really was.

- I think you did your math right. - he kissed her folds - It's a good thing I didn't drink at all... - Hiccup, don't-don't let me wait... I want to do it all night, but the first... The first one has to be now!

Her husband slid onto her, and as soon as their lips met, her legs locked behind his back, as if her life depended on it. She moaned when his tip parted her soaking folds, and with his first thrust, she arched her back, aligning her sex to better suit their animalistic needs. a moment later she felt something underneath her back, and realised that their clothes, bundled together would serve as a makeshift pillow, shaping her body into an ideal position for her carnal desire.

But even then, Hiccup took it a bit further. He grabbed her legs and threw it on his shoulders, just so he could sink an inch or two deeper inside her, an action Astrid welcomed with an unbridled "Yes!". her legs locked behind his neck this time, together with her hands, and in the intimate, tight position, the two began rocking their bodies, running against the time and Sun itself.

Every few seconds Astrid looked to her right, at the small window, and to her left to see shadows of the tree getting longer and longer, trying to find the right moment when they would disappear. but it was easier said than done, as with their biological needs came also the frivolous ones, when Hiccup sneaked his hand between their bodies just to stimulate her swollen num above her entrance.

Astrid lost her mind, kicking and scaring his shoulders, as they drew closer and closer to hers and his fulfilment. The two often finished at different moments, but this one? It had to be simultaneous, Astrid decided, there was no other way.

Astrid moaned, nervously shifting her stare between her husband and the frosted window, trying to postpone his release, despite her body demanding the pleasure that has been building up in her loins. Her needy, quickened, ragged breath coincided with his grunts, and only when she lost track of the Sun that hid behind the horizon, she dug her nails into Hiccup's neck and screamed her plea.

- N-Now! give me your seed! All-all of it!

Never to disappoint his lady, Hiccup gladly fulfilled her plea. He let out a prolonged, deep groan as his hips smashed against hers one final time, and he finally let go, flooding Astrid's fertile womb with streams of his seed, while her body arched under the pleasure that shook her body. Hiccup collapsed on top of her bosom, quickly trying to find her lips, while his body, twisted with hers, continued the sacred ritual they've been preparing for, sending more and more life-giving fluids inside her thirsty body.

Long minutes have passed, as their bodies shook together, and when the two opened their eyes, all they could see in the dimly lit room was the fire's reflections, dancing in their eyes. Hiccup was sure that Astrid cheeks have never look more flustered, the combination of heat from the fire, sultry atmosphere, and an even sultier passion that connected their bodies.

- Do you think it worked? - Hiccup sneaked a kiss between her breasts, knowing well that Astrid would jitter when he brushed a particularly sensitive spot - It better did. Otherwise I will be really pissed at the gods.

She cupped his face and pressed his head against her chest, still rising up and down, desperate for air she expelled when she cried his name.

- But still, I wasn't joking, Hiccup. - she suddenly added, catching his attention - I meant it when I said I want to make love all night.

He blinked.

- Not until the Sun rises again...

Hiccup's eyes opened wide just as he was about to kiss her breasts again, as the meaning of her words finally dawned on him.

- But... it's gonna be two weeks, maybe even fifteen days until... - I know. - Astrid cupped his face and tightened her grip on him - We've been gathering the supplies, and for the next two weeks, we're not gonna leave the house. And you...

She crossed her legs, locking them tightly behind his back, bringing his face inches away from hers.

- You're not gonna leave me.

To prove her point, she gave him a gentle kick to his butt, and with that, he started advancing again, seemingly delving deeper with each trust even though she thought he has reached his limit already, just to ensure he would plant his seed as close to her womb as possible. And though he already filled her once, he was more than happy to do it again.

As it turned out, Astrid really wasn't joking about her plan. Though the two did leave the house, of course - perhaps just to watch the northern lights against the dark sky of the short polar night - she was relentless with milking Hiccup of the chief's seed at least twice a day, ensuring that not a drop of his cum would be wasted, though she sometimes had to use her fingers to clean up after a particularly messy finish that overflowed her sex. Still, she was his wife, so it belonged to her, even if she has to preserve it in her belly...

Astrid never before believed what her mother or Valka told about women's instincts, until she awoken two weeks later to the first rays of newly reborn Sun. She felt ill, was sweaty, hot, though instead of her forehead burning, sudden warmth radiated from within her core that just a few hours earlier has been once more overfilled by Hiccup's virility. And when she placed her hand over it, she knew it has happened. She wouldn't even have to ask Gothi for her wheat seeds that she'd have to pee on to see if they'd sprout. She just... knew.

She turned to her husband, sleeping after another tiring session and though she was eager to tell him the news, she just closed her arms around him, sneaking a kiss to his cheek. And when he turned and closed his arm over her belly, he knew it too.

===========

Also, that “peeing on wheat seeds was a surprisingly reliable pregnancy test.

#hiccstrid #lemon #Anonymous #nautiscaraderfics #aged-up characters and all that #HICCSTRID #HTTYD #ASTRID HOFFERSON #HICCUP HORRENDOUS HADDOCK III

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paganinpurple · 3 years

Text

A Feline’s Family - MariChat May 2019

Hi guys, sorry for the lateness of all this. It's been like 18 months since MariChat May 2019, but as you all know I was struggling a lot last year and of course, everyone knows that 2020 has been ~A YEAR~

I've just been more overwhelmed and anti-social than ever and it's taking everything to keep me going to work and eating throughout everything.

Buy Me A Coffee?

AO3

Chapters (If there’s no link, it’s not written yet)

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

Day 21 - Cold Night

“Feeling any better now, Kitty?” Marinette called as a blond head appeared through her trapdoor. The answer became intuitively obvious as the rest of Adrien rose up into view, a thick blanket covering his shoulders and obscuring the pyjamas he was wearing underneath. As he shuddered with a sudden chill that he was sure only he could feel, he sucked air between his teeth, refusing to let them chatter, lest he worry her.

“Still cold,” he said, fighting the stutter that threatened to surface. “I used up all the hot water,” he continued with a guilty glance up at her, “and got frozen again when the cold came through. So, that was fun.”

She couldn’t help but giggle as his grumpy cat face returned, his lower lip sticking out. She quickly tamed it as another shudder wracked his body and this time the chattering sound made itself known as well.

“Oh! Here!”

He was only beginning to register her words with his last chill-slowed braincell when she flung her arms around him, her gentle hands rubbing up and down his back to share her warmth. He remained stunned – frozen (ha!) in place – even as Tikki and Plagg appeared in his eye line.

“You should ask Plagg to transform you,” Tikki told him, “the suit might not be able to heat you up exactly, but it helps hold onto whatever heat you already have or gain as the night goes on.”

“Yeah great, Sugarcube, just volunteer me and all my energy instead of letting me sleep tonight.”

“Oh shusht, you. It’s a-” -she glanced at Marinette briefly as the girl pressed her face against Adrien’s chest- “-comfort thing. So enough complaining.”

Despite his misery, Adrien chuckled –partly at the exchange in front of him, partly from his giddiness at his proximity to his Lady– until a small sneeze reverberated through him, another threatening to follow. He quickly pulled away from Marinette even though internally he was protesting the idea, already craving another hug. But since he wasn’t sure yet if he was just feeling cold or had caught a cold, he didn’t want to risk infecting her.

“I, um, don’t think it’s a great idea for you to sleep downstairs tonight,” Marinette said when his sneezing had passed, her teeth worrying her lower lip, “The window guy didn’t finish the job today like he promised. There’s probably a horrible draft in there.”

“Yeah. Guess it’s a good thing your dad was suspicious and put off moving my bed earlier.”

It was true. The plan had been to move some of the bare basics into his finished room as the window fitting was completed. He could sleep there at night while they speed-decorated it during the day and hopefully his case worker would be appeased. They all really wanted to avoid any further issues she had with the two teens sharing a room.

But instead Tom had approached Adrien this morning and said he thought he should give him an extra night or two “just in case.” Adrien had frowned as he supposed Tom must have been wary of the contractors promised timescale, though he had thought that was odd at the time. The guy had seemed like a total professional and as far as he knew, had only been held up today by an abnormality in the wall which made sealing the facing more difficult than expected.

“Oh,” Marinette said flatly, “That’s…good.” She chewed her lip harder and he winced a little in sympathy even as he fought back another sneeze.

“Kid, I just checked your bed, and it is freezing over there,” Plagg said, dashing between them, “The window must have been open earlier or something. You do not want to sleep over there tonight.”

“You just don’t want to have to work to keep me warm,” he grumbled, sniffing back another sneeze as he spoke, “So tell me Plagg, where am I supposed to sleep?”

“Duh. All the heat in this place rises, so-”

“Oh!” gasped Tikki, suddenly catching on, “Marinette’s skylight is practically airtight. No heat escapes unless she opens the vent to let it. So, her bed is the warmest of all!”

“Tikki!” Adrien shouted, scandalised. He looked back to the girl standing in front of him and immediately noticed how she refused to meet his eye, instead glancing at a random spot on the floor. With her feet turned inwards slightly, and her arm reaching behind her to grip the opposite elbow, timidity radiated from her with every breath.

“Actually,” she started, turning her head a little towards him, but still not quite meeting his eyeline, “I was thinking the same thing.”

Adrien’s pupils shrunk to tiny specs, even as the rest of his eyes seemed to enlarge to fill up the remaining space on his face. He watched as she shuffled in place a little, enchantingly nervous but eager for his response.

“Are you…asking me to…take your bed?” He watched, fascinated, as the pink hue across her cheeks darkened and spread out further.

“It’s the warmest place in the whole apartment,” she said to his shoulder as she continued with her miniscule attempts towards eye contact, “and it’s where I sleep. So, I can always help keep you warm too.”

He blinked rapidly and a wonderfully cosy blush spread across his cheeks briefly before the heat was absorbed by the chill of his skin. “I am trying so hard not to make the kind of comment that usually gets me throw off buildings,” he admitted bluntly.

She choked on an adorable little snort-laugh and her eyes finally inched up the last of the remaining distance as he joined in, their rising giggles harmonising together beautifully. A tickle in his nose gave him a brief moment of warning and he turned his head away in time to prevent himself from sneezing all over the laughter-flushed girl in front of him.

“Aw, poor kitty,” she cooed, running her hands through his damp hair, even as her face bloomed with heat, “Tell you what. I’m gonna go make a hot water bottle for you. Head on up to bed and get bundled up. Plagg, take care of him while I’m gone, will you?”

“Can do, Spots,” the little black creature answered and the two of them watched as their other halves disappeared through the trapdoor together. Plagg turned back to his charge with a satisfied smirk, “You heard the lady, up the stairs to bed!”

“Oh my God,” the teen said in sudden awkward terror, “I’m really gonna share a bed with her tonight.”

Plagg rolled his eyes at the squeak of his voice and gave a long-suffering dramatic sigh, but his fond smile gave away the true affection he felt for the boy. “Yup,” he said as he started to gently push Adrien towards the ladder, only stopping when the stunned boy began to climb upwards on autopilot.

He managed to crawl across the mattress, and it was with a little assistance from the kwami that he got under the pink covers, blanket still wrapped around him beneath them. His mind was running a million miles a minute and he hated the foggy way his thoughts were forming because of how cold he was. He knew Marinette considered the two of them best friends on a completely different level than either of them saw Alya or Nino, but this was pushing those friend boundaries more than usual. The two girls could share a bed, or the two guys and it was fine, but this? A boy and a girl sharing a room was considered odd enough. His case worker had insisted he get his own room, or he would be removed from the Dupain-Cheng’s care, so for him to sleep on the same mattress as Marinette? Under the same duvet?

“Doesn’t she realise just how this is gonna…I mean, Plagg, isn’t she freaked out? She knows I like her. Does this mean-” he coughed awkwardly to break off his thoughts before he voiced them, “Isn’t she worried about sending me mixed signals or something?”

“Oh, my Me,” Plagg groaned, a phrase he had taking a liking to after it had made Adrien laugh once during a conversation about Plagg technically being a god. The small creature facepalmed with a sigh, “Kid, please tell me you’re joking. If you can’t see that Spots has it bad for you by now, then I don’t know how to convince you.”

The warm blush that swam across his face once more was a pleasant change to his frozen state. He smiled softly as Plagg’s words sunk into his heart deeper and deeper, drowning in the gooey affection they caused there.

“I was worried I was just imaging it,” he mumbled softly, “I still think I might be.”

“Uh huh. And I’m that pleasant white fluffball pooch from down the street.” His tiny paws came up to rest on non-existent hips. “She’s crazy about you. Tikki thinks she’s just scared to tell you in case you suddenly change your mind. I think she’s just awkward as heck and has no idea how to bring it up.”

“So, you think that I should-”

The trapdoor opened and Adrien clamped his mouth shut as Marinette reappeared, pyjama clad and looked delectable with her hair splayed loose across her shoulders. She took a moment to turn out the lights before she ascended the ladder rungs and joined him.

A blossoming of warmth spread out across his chest as she shyly pressed a hot water bottle into his arms. He smiled as he took in the calico design on the cover, and the nervous way the girl tried to adjust herself to get comfortable, clearly very aware of his presence so close beside her.

“This is nice,” he said with a short sniff.

“Yeah,” she whispered with a shy smile, eyes pinned to the pillow beneath her.

“Rest of me still feels cold though.” He smiled as she finally glanced at him properly. “Could I get a hug to warm up?”

She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she considered it. “Will you transform first so you stay warm?” she asked.

“Plagg, claws out.”

The light from his transformation hadn’t even faded fully when she snuggled into him, her face tucked into the crook of his neck and the cosy calico pressed into his chest tightly by her own. He wound his arms around her as hers in turn settled against him. He considered tucking a leg around her own but stopped himself before he took that step, fearing it might have been one too far.

“Did Plagg take care of you while I was gone?” she asked and the feel of her breath against his neck made him shudder in a way completely unrelated to his temperature.

“Yeah. Yeah, he was great really. He talked with me for a change instead of driving me crazy, so I guess that counts as exceptional care.” Her giggle reverberated through him and he decided he should get sick more often.

“I’m glad,” she said, her calf unexpectedly sliding against his and tucking under it loosely, as his heart stopped briefly, “I was w-worried he might make fun of you over this.”

“This?” he squeaked, clearing his throat quietly before he continued, “Nah. He was actually…really helpful. Cheered me up a bit as well.”

“Rea-” -She gave a loud yawn- “-lly?”

“Yeah. He said something to me, you know?”

“Mm hmm.”

“He told me that I’m not imaging some of the things I’ve been wondering about lately.”

“Hmm.”

“He said that you…Marinette? You know I like you, right? Uh, love you, actually.”

There. It was the first time since their identity reveals that he had said it out loud. He exhaled heavily. She didn’t respond.

“So, I need to know, do you like me? The same way that I like you?”

Silence.

“Marinette?”

He pulled back enough to glance down at the girl snuggled against him. Her brow furrowed adorably at the loss of contact and her arms loosely pulled him back in towards her. She had fallen asleep at the moment of his emotional vulnerability and all he could think was that she was the most gorgeous creature alive. The view warmed his heart even as he shuddered at another sudden chill.

“Hmm. Purrs,” she mumbled sleepily, and he realised she was right. The sight of her and the feel of her arms around him had elicited a deep rumble in his chest.

Giving into the happiness he felt in the moment, despite the lack of an answer to his own internal dilemma, Chat replaced his head on the pillow and allowed the sleeping girl to cuddle into him tighter. He sniffed away the discomfort in his nose and gave into the soothing rumble and their mingled breathing as he fell asleep.

Buy Me A Coffee?

Hope you enjoyed!

Shouldn't be too long for another chapter. Next one's already written. Bit of editing...next weekend, I think. Gives me more time to write some more for other chapters too

#PIP writes #marichatmay2019 #A Feline's Family #MariChat May #MariChat

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milksbigbookosin · 3 years

Note

AYE YOU ALREADY KNOW WHAT IT IS. 🥺🥺 pwease?

Hope this is good for ya. love bug//

Bucky Barnes X Reader

Warnings;

Good ol fluff

Word Count; 1200

Work was always much more of a hassle since this Captain America nonsense had begun, the workplace being noisier than ever and a noticeable change in Miss Carter. You weren’t close with the agent by any means but she had made her mark being a pistol of a woman. Seeing her getting a little flirty over America’s pretty boy was not something to ignore. You couldn’t deny that he was a looker, you’d be a damn liar if you said he wasn’t but he lacked a bite in his attitude that almost was expected with those dashing looks. The blonde sweetheart wasn’t your cup of tea. You had started to walk toward the bar, fresh from your shift when you were joined by a familiar face to your side.

“Miss Carter..?”

The usual army green suit and skirt she wore everyday was gone, a low cut red dress now taking its place that matched her scarlet lips perfectly. Hell, you felt yourself swoon a little at the sight of the femme fatal that looked back to you with a confident smile. Lord knows how the men in the bar will react to that same sinful shade.

“Finally off Y/N?” she asked, trying to make some conversation as your heels clicked in unison.

“Yes ma’am, thank god” You returned a tired smile, definitely not shy to vocalise just how exhausted this job can make you especially with all the hype surrounding the golden boy.

The promise of a drink or too and the company of some rather lovely men and women was definitely not a bad way to end the night. Miss Carter kept a light conversation, asking how your day was and if work had been kicking you too hard in the rear but suddenly her attention was grabbed by someone else. Her eyes now on Captain America himself as she walked into the lively bar. As nosey as you were, your own attention was stolen from you by the man next to the two love birds.

Your breath hitched at the sight of those piercing blues that thankfully were obscured by the mess of brown locks. Whoever he was, he was absolutely stunning. He carried himself with a confidence that was always a weakness to you. Without words he was obviously expecting Miss Carter to be captured like you were, standing all dumbfounded in the doorway. She ignored him, talking straight to Steve which had his friend absolutely bewildered even when she left shortly after.

“I'm invisible, i-i’m turning into you. It’s like a horrible dream”

Steve laughed at his friend, patting his back about to say something playful when he saw you of all people. God you were shamelessly staring, eyes looking the brunette up and down unaware of the amused look on the blonde. Steve leaned in close to his friend, speaking right into his ear as to not alert you to being found out.

“It’s not so bad, in fact i think she has a friend”

Suddenly eyes were on you, expression confused but quickly turning smug. Red took over your cheeks as the embarrassment overtook you. You really just got caught looking a soldier up and down. Only thing you could be thankful for was that Peggy wasn’t there to see you faltering, not sure if you could handle the embarrassment of looking so helpless in front of a co-worker. Those icy blues now took their turn to look you over, eyebrows raising at a few choice places that his eyes wandered over.

“You know what, I'll gladly have the friend” he said, walking closer to lean against the doorframe. Your eyes were on your hands, playing with the edge of your jacket to keep yourself anchored with this tension that kept building when he had gotten closer. Steve gave a shake of his head and a laugh before walking out passed you, leaving you alone with the man.

“C’mon doll, you were so into looking at me before. Aintcha gonna let me see those eyes of yours?” the drawl in his voice was so damn persuasive, getting you to swallow just a bit of that fear to look up at him. Your eyes met, his smug expression still turning your stomach in knots.

“I’m..sorry for staring like I was-” you managed to get out, hoping to save yourself at least a little. Last thing you wanted was to give off the wrong impression to him. The smugness had started to break, a few chuckles leaving him as he broke into a smile. Just as soon as the tension had thickened the air it was gone, pulling out from your tense state as his smile grew.

“You don’t have to be sorry. Hell you just made my night” he said, guiding you over to the bar where he and Steve had sat when you walked in.

“Here I was thinkin that I'd lost my charm or something. Plus it’s been far too long since a pretty face looked at me that way” he admitted, getting a laugh finally from you. Somehow you really found that hard to believe.

“Think it's fair of me to ask you your name, mister?”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” he said with a smile “but my friends call me Bucky”

Bucky.

“Well Mister Barnes it’s a pleasure to meet you, i’m Y/N” you said respectfully, giving a much more confident smile now that the mood was more calm than before. The usual chatter ensued, asking about upbringings and what you two do now. Apparently Bucky had once been quite the womanizer back when this war was starting and when he wasn’t being a playboy he was helping Steve. He was rather quick to shift the conversation to you, letting you talk about how excited you were to be working for your country and not just stuck at home or a nurse on the frontline. You didn’t really have any family that would worry about you or to go home, so keeping busy was always the best medicine for your loneliness. During your rambles he had gotten you a drink that you sipped on happily, the alcohol starting to make your face pleasantly warm.

“Seems like you really just got yourself and that’s all, huh?”

You nodded, taking another drink “yep.. Kinda always has been”

Bucky hummed in response, one hand leaving his glass to lay on the bar so close to yours while the other stayed on his drink. Your eyes watched his hand on the bar and mimicked him, leaving just enough space between you two for thought.

“And always will be?”

The question caught your breath again, the butterflies fluttering ever so softly as you looked back to his face. You watched him, so curious on where he was taking this and just hoping that wherever this was going that you were coming too.

“Mister Barnes are you suggesting something?” you asked, fingers dancing along the wood of the bar as your hand slid over to his. His rough fingers suddenly looped with yours, your hand so much smaller in his as he gently held onto you.

“Depends on if you’ll say yes or not, doll”

#bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #mcu x reader #smol bucky #mcu #james buchanan barnes #sebastian stan #request

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slasherholic · 4 years

Text

warnings for this chapter: gore and death, mentions of abuse

Read chapter one here!

End of the Line | Michael Myers x Reader | Chapter Two

You make it thirty steps before the blackness bites you.

Your foot catches on some stiff piece of metal and your brain can’t catch up with the rest of your body to realize why you’re suddenly laying face-down in the dust on your stomach, why your legs aren’t still pumping, your arms not still pistoning—and then, all at once, it hits you.

You’ve tripped.

If you weren’t such a small and frightened animal you would start to cry again. But that’s not what frightened animals do, screams your lizard-brain, frightened animals run. So get up. Get up and keep running.

You do. You barrel back into the unknown. If Michael’s footsteps are still behind you you can’t hear them over the blood rushing to your ears, sweeping through your skull, dizzying your vision in a sickening way. A sticky hot wetness drips down your back from where he cut you but you don’t care about that right now. Run. Run.

You run for a long time. Until reason tells you that you’ve left Michael far behind—but reason currently has no place in your oxygen-starved thoughts. The sound of his breathing still rings in your ears and your mind is plagued with a terrible prophecy that your next stumble will be headlong into his chest. That he will lunge out from the blackness and seize you and it will all be over.

Hugging the wall, you dash around another corner—

—and there, at the end of the corridor, you can’t believe it. You think your mind is playing some cruel trick, so you keep looking down the hall, keep stumbling towards it, but no, there is no trick, it’s really there—

—a light.

Making the hallway before you not black but rather a shade of grey, like an old-fashioned photograph. And somewhere around the next corner must be its source.

You are a moth drawn to a flame. Nothing matters but that light.

Tearing through the dusty hallway, you see now what’s been tripping you—toppled desks, scattered all up and down the corridor, their metal legs jutting dangerously out.

Oh, comes your realization. It’s a school.

The corridor is a cluttered wreck of disrepair. Every classroom door you blitz past is boarded up with nails and planks. The paper on the walls peels like a bad sunburn. Wires hang down from broken panels in the ceiling.

And now, you understand what that suffocating must-smell hanging like a stiff blanket overhead is—the reek of abandonment. Michael has brought you to an abandoned building. There does not exist a more perfect hunting ground. Scream as loudly as you want because nobody will hear you, run in any direction you please because you are a rat in a maze, a fish in a barrel—escape was never a possibility in the first place.

But you don’t think about that right now, only about the light. Reach the light. Reach it before it fades. You tear around the corner—

—the light is blinding.

Wincing, your forearm shoots up to shield your eyes from the horrible strain.

“Stay the fuck back.” Barks a voice. “I’ve got a knife.”

And you nearly topple over in shock. Raising one hand to cover the beam, you blink past it, heart racing in your chest.

Three wide-eyed faces gawk back at you from behind three flashlights, all of them trained on you like rifles. The guy in the middle—the only guy—wasn’t lying about the knife. He holds it out across his flashlight in the sort of way that a police officer might hold a gun, but he doesn’t have the look to complete the image. With his dirty-blonde hair collecting around his shoulders and studded black leather jacket, the knife-guy looks more likely to get arrested himself than to be the one doing any arresting.

He leers at you like you’re a convicted felon anyway.

“You see this?” He continues, swishing the knife a bit. “I don’t wanna use it—don’t make me use it. You just take it easy and stay right the fuck there.”

You hardly hear knife-guy’s words. What your brain clings to instead is the fact that there are People. You are not alone in the darkness. There are people in this building.

The realization makes your pounding heart soar and for a second your head is in the clouds and all you can think is maybe I won’t die tonight after all.

To knife-guy’s left is a short and trim Mexican woman with thoughtful eyes like black pools, the biggest you’ve ever seen. She clutches tightly at his bicep with one bony hand and stares across the hall at you like you’ve sprouted a second head. The tall girl on the right must be some sort of athlete, with strong legs and golden-tan skin and a high brunette ponytail. She gawks like she’s just seen a ghost—or like she might be giving up her own ghost at any second.

Nobody moves for a moment, and in the end you just stand there, looking each other up and down.

And then some cold and bitter voice in your head reminds you, these people are lined up for a slaughterhouse.

The hopeful thoughts in your head crash like a fiery trainwreck. Your eyes go round and horrified.

Graphic images assault your brain, of cuts so deep that you can see yellow fat and sinewy muscle and bleach-white bone, of dumbly gaping mouths, of dead, unfocused, cloudy eyes, sightless—the look of a corpse. You see in your mind’s eye that look on the faces staring back at you and your racing heart does a flip-flop into your stomach; you clench your jaw shut tight and think about not throwing up. Please don’t throw up. Please don’t throw up.

“Listen lady,” Knife-guy says, breaking the silence, sweeping his hair out of his face with his elbow. “We don’t want any trouble, alright?”

Too late for that, you think.

“If you’re trying to screw with us it just ain’t gonna work, yeah? So I’ll cut you a deal; you turn around, we turn around, we go our separate ways, and then we pretend we never even saw each other. That sound fair?”

Panic flares in your belly and all the moisture is sucked from your mouth.

“No!” The plea leaves you before you can even think. The tall girl on the right utters a little gasp at your outburst, jumping like she’s been burnt.

“No, no you don’t understand.” Your words are desperate; you hold your hands up in front of you like you actually are a convicted felon, just because it seems like the right thing to do; knife-guy seems to think it even more now.

“I’m not gonna hurt anyone. I promise, alright? But please, please, you have to listen to me—”

“Jesus!” Knife guy clutches his knife tighter. “I’m trying really hard not to be an asshole right now, okay? I don’t wanna be that macho douchebag that yells at girls, but honestly lady, you sound like some sort of nut! And believe me, we don’t want any of—”

“Oh Travis, honestly, quit it!” The short girl, silent as the grave until now, hisses sharply, elbowing Knife-guy in the ribs. Knife-guy shoots her a little look of what the hell dude, which she ignores.

“There’s something wrong, dammit—I mean, look at her!”

You assume she’s talking about the look of horror sprawled across your face, or about the cold sweat clinging to your reddened cheeks, or the fact that you must look like something that just came crawling out of the woods.

But then, you feel it again. You feel it trickling down your lower back, down your side, making your shirt cling to your skin, wetting the hem of your pants. And oh, that’s right. You’re a bloody mess.

Now, the pain registers. Your salty sweat stings the wound in an agonizing way. Paling, you reach gingerly beneath your armpit, toward your back, dreading the inspection, but doing it anyway. You need to know.

Your palm meets the cotton. You whimper, because your shirt is soaked-through.

Pulling your hand back, trying not to tremble too hard, you glance down at your fingers. They’re coated all the way to your palm in dark, shining red.

Michael cut you deep.

“Holy shit.” Travis breathes, his jaw tightening. You blink up at him again, fighting tears now.

“I’m—I’m not gonna hurt you, okay?” You stammer. “But please, you need to listen to what I’m telling you.”

You pause to lick your lips and swallow and the silence in your stead is horrible, as if every breath is being held.

“This isn’t a prank, it isn’t a joke—you guys need to get out of here right now, and I mean now.”

The silence stretches on; the short girl, the tall girl, the knife-guy—Travis, the short-girl called him—they all gawk at you as if you’ve spoken in tongues.

Then, chaos.

“Fuck that.” Sobs the tall-girl, her voice breaking. “Fuck that, I’m so not staying here. I can’t believe I let you guys talk me into this, we could have gone to see a movie! Let’s find Ashley and Josh and go.”

“Wendy, come on! She’s just trying to freak us out!”

“Well it’s fucking working, dude!”

“Both of you cut it out!” The short girl hisses, her volume a near-whisper. “Keep it down! Travis, for god’s sake, she’s telling the truth—you seriously think she did that to herself?” She eyes you anxiously, her gaze lingering on the blood eating through your shirt.

“...how did it happen?”

Her words twist something in your gut and you grimace. No, you can’t answer that—you can’t even think about that. You’re going to be sick.

But the short girl stares at you like you’re about to divulge the cure to cancer, and she isn’t going to leave it alone. So with a shuddering breath, in a voice so frail you can hardly hear yourself, you choke out the barest-bones answer you can muster.

“There’s someone else in the building.”

Your dread is a virus and the virus is contagious. The tall girl—Wendy—wilts visibly, terror overtaking her features. You think she might faint. Travis goes deathly silent, his expression hardening. The short girl chews her lip like a wad of bubblegum.

Good, you think. Great. They believe you. Now let’s get moving, please and thank you, because you simply can’t stay here any longer. Michael will not have given up the chase so easily. Any moment, the ghost-white of that awful mask is going to breach the dark. You know it. You can’t stay here. You need to get moving again.

But the short girl still isn’t satisfied.

“Who?” She asks, tears shimmering in her big brown eyes. Her words hang on her lips. “Who’s in the building?”

Your heart beats as fast and hard as if Michael’s hands are around your neck this very moment.

Will they believe you? If you look these people in the eye and tell them the honest-to-god truth about who is lurking and stalking and hunting his way through these unlit corridors, will it tip the scales swinging in their heads hopelessly back into disbelief? Will they tell you to get lost, and to take your sick, twisted, poor-taste-of-a-joke with you, and what kind of a person pokes fun at something like that, anyway?

“It’s—he’s—”

You never get to finish. A sudden scream rips like shrapnel through the air.

The faces behind those blinding flashlights go paler than sheets. The blood in your veins runs cold.

It is a bloody, piercing sound. It seems to rattle the walls around you. It goes on and on and on. When it cuts off it is abrupt and final and all the sound in the building is sucked away with it.

A cold, sneering voice in your head whispers, Well they’ll have to believe you now, won’t they?

Michael’s found someone.

He knows the hallways well. Even in the dark.

He stands at the intersection with the broken water fountain on the ground and does not move except to fill his lungs with air, listening. The girl had been loud; her footsteps carried far. He followed the echo and hunted her easily.

Now the echo has gone silent.

Looking down, staring at the floor beneath his boots, he sees them; shoe prints. Sitting freshly in the dust. Hers.

He does not need the girl’s sounds. Only her prints.

Studying them, he knows that she did not turn off here. Knows she kept on going down the hall. Toward the locker rooms.

He lifts his head and looks into the dimness after her, breathing the stale air deep into his lungs.

The hunt will be over quickly; the girl is running in a circuit.

Taking the left, stepping over the broken water fountain, he walks silently down the hall. The heat at his hips throbs, impatient. His thumb rubs back and forth across the handle of his knife.

The girl will not see him coming. Not until it is too late.

He will grab her by her hot neck. Will let her twist in his hands. Will make her—

...

—he stops. Listening.

Hears footsteps.

Turning in a slow circle, looking over each shoulder, he searches the hall. Sees a set of double-doors. Listens more. Grips the knife harder, watching and waiting, breathing the stale air...

The doors swing open.

...and it is not the girl.

There are two of them. Two with flashlights. They keep on walking down the hall and do not look in his direction. Do not notice him standing across the way.

He watches them go. The heart in his ribs pulses steadily and rhythmically. The urge comes—follow the prey.

He follows.

He will have the girl later.

He will have her for a different urge.

You have never seen so much blood. Not even on Michael.

It shimmers starkly against the faded-blue lockers, streaking down in heavy wet lines toward the floor, pooling between the divots in the tile like tiny rivers, which trickle outward, extending their reach down the hall.

To your right, Wendy slaps her slender-fingered hand over her mouth. She sucks in big gasps of air and her shoulders shudder violently.

The short girl—Diane, you heard Travis calling her—stands next to Travis, her arms wound so tightly around his waist that if she squeezes any harder you suspect she might bisect him.

Travis just stands there. Shining his light at the gore. Entranced.

Your mind is blank as you yourself drink in the mess—blank and numb, thoughtless.

But when the smell of it hits you the tide of nausea comes racing back towards the shore.

You are no stranger to the tang of blood but this differs from the stench that clings to Michael when he comes home from a hunt. That smell is mixed among the salt of his sweat—muted by the scent of him—and the result is more primal and heart-pounding and less knock-you-on-your-ass dizzying.

But this smell is raw and undiluted. Straight from the source. It drains all the color from your face. It threatens to bring you right down to the floor.

You place a hand on a clammy locker door to keep from staggering.

“Look.” Diane whispers.

She untangles one arm from around Travis’s waist, raising her flashlight, shining it at the floor behind the puddle. You see what she’s pointing at. Bootprints.

The pattern on the sole is unmistakable. They are Michael’s.

They lead ten paces down the hall where they stop in front of a closed door. Squinting, you can just barely read the painted black letters on the door, letters which may have once read “Boy’s Changing Room.”

“Those aren’t Josh’s.” Travis breathes, squeezing the leather grip of his hunting knife tighter.

To your right, Wendy’s gasps become sobs. She collapses suddenly back against the row of lockers, their doors rattling harshly. You wince; Michael’s going to hear her.

Travis and Diane are on her in less than a second.

“She’s dead.” Wendy gasps. “She’s dead. We have to get out of here—”

“Christ, Wendy, stop it.” Travis hisses. Shoving his flashlight into Diane’s hand, he kneels at Wendy’s side, quick to clamp his hand over her mouth.

“You cut that out right now or you’re gonna get us killed.”

“Breathe,” Diane adds, sinking down to stroke Wendy’s hair.

Wendy tries to breathe, but it’s more of a blubbering in the end.

“You don’t know that, anyway.” Travis continues. “She could be alive right through that door, bleeding out. No way are we leaving until we find her.”

“She’s not.” You state.

Travis whips around. His scowl says it all.

Getting to his feet, he plucks his flashlight out of Diane’s hands and stands up rigidly straight. He shines the beam right in your face and you wince, wrinkling your nose at the brightness.

“Yeah lady? Alright, prove it; I don’t see a body.”

The tough-guy act is only skin deep. Blinking past the blinding beam at Travis’ face, you can see he’s tenser than a wire. He knows you’re right. He knows his friend is dead. He just doesn’t want to admit it.

You eye him sternly and hold your ground.

“I’m just being realistic; that’s a lot of blood.”

Travis’ nostrils flare, and all of a sudden he is walking across the hall with lurching strides.

The man approaching you is not small by any means—Wendy is taller than him, but only by an inch. His jacket is thick and puffs out around his arms, making him wider at the shoulders than he probably is, but his stature is sturdy, and his figure is close enough to Michael’s to plunge you into panic-mode.

Your limbs lock up habitually. You brace against the locker for hurt.

Travis stops at an uncomfortable distance from you, the leather of his jacket nearly grazing your chest. His breaths come heavily through his nose and you can feel them beating down on your face, hot and shallow.

“You had better tell me right goddamed now,” He whispers through grit teeth, “What the fuck is in this building with us.”

The tightness in his voice is enough to unlock your limbs, enough to bring you out of your submissive trance, enough to make your lizard-brain realize that the man standing over you with a knife in his fist is not Michael, not even close—he’s just some college kid. Just as scared for his life as you are.

You don’t try to mask the hopelessness in your eyes as you finally spill.

“Do you know who killed all those people in Haddonfield last year?”

It’s a rhetorical question. Everybody with a working television or radio knows. Everyone who bothers to pick up their newspaper from their driveway in the morning knows. Everybody in the entire god-damned state knows. Hell, the entire god-damned country knows about those murders. It was all over the national news stations for a week into November, delivered each morning by a solemn news anchor:

And now, an update on the grisly string of murders which took place just last week in Haddonfield, Illinois—unofficially dubbed “The Babysitter Murders.”

The Haddonfield police department released an official statement this evening identifying the primary suspect in this ongoing case: Michael Audrey Myers, psychiatric patient and former Haddonfield resident, who escaped from government-mandated care on the night of the 30th.

Travis seems to hold his breath. When it comes out again it makes his upper body shudder. He knows, alright.

“Wait—” Wendy stutters, her frail voice cracking hard. “Wait, but I thought, didn’t they catch that guy?”

“They didn’t.” Diane pronounces quietly, shaking her head slowly. Her eyes are glued to the blood on the floor but they look unfocused and distant, like her mind is elsewhere.

“I’m following the Myers case for my thesis, and no, they never caught him.”

Travis’s invasion of your personal space finally relents. He steps back and begins pacing between you and Diane, his brow scrunching up in thought. He reaches up with his arm to wipe his hair out of his face.

“Okay, so you think it’s Myers,” He begins. “But come on, how do you know? How do you know it isn’t just some other freak? I’m sure there are plenty of real sick fucks out there, all I’m saying is that there’s no way you can know for sure it’s—”

“Guys?”

Every head whips toward the changing room, and every flashlight follows.

There, peering tentatively out from behind the door where Michael’s boot prints lead is another tear-streaked face, a college-aged kid, no older than nineteen. The grey hood of his too-big hoodie is drawn up over his head.

“Josh!” Diane whispers.

Josh studies you sheepishly, his glossy eyes round and anxious. Then, he sees the blood. His eyes squeeze shut tight in an instant and his forehead lolls toward the door frame, knocking against it with a dull thud. His entire body begins to heave with silent sobs.

Diane shoots up from Wendy’s side like a rocket, tip-toeing around the gore. Reaching Josh, she embraces him in a tight hug, and Josh buries his face eagerly into the nook of her neck and only shakes harder. Diane caresses the frizzy ringlets around his ear and shushes him.

“If you saw anything,” She whispers, “You have to tell us. We need to know what happened.”

“Is she dead?” Wendy sobs up from the floor, her slender fingers still clamped over her mouth.

“I-I don’t really know, man.” Josh chokes out. “It happened so fast. We were just coming to find you guys, a-a-and she saw the court, she tried to go check it out, b-but when she opened the door she got—she got—”

He gives a strangled little whimper and shakes his head weakly, burying it back into Diane’s shoulder, done.

She got grabbed, you finish in your head. It’s not a guess—it’s a fact. You don’t need Josh’s commentary to piece together what happened here.

Looking back at the smeared blood on the lockers, you see now where Michael did it, where he smashed this Ashley girl’s face into the aluminum doors, leaving divots and dents behind in the metal. At some point, Ashley had started screaming.

You drop your gaze to the heavy splatter of dark red on the tile again.

She screamed, until Michael slit her throat.

“He followed me in there.” Josh sniffs, jerking his thumb at the locker-room door. “I ducked in a locker and he walked right past—but then he stopped and just stood there, like he was—I don’t know, waiting for something. Or—or listening for something.”

Josh wipes his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie.

“I was so scared, man. I thought I was dead.”

You listen to Josh speak and the unease in your stomach twists.

“Where did he go?” You ask. Josh eyes you warily.

“Um. I dunno, he just kinda… left.”

All the hair on your neck stands on-end at that. You know how Michael’s mind works—at least to some extent—and you know how he hunts. And you would bet your life on the wager that he hasn’t gone far at all.

Your eyes dart up and down the hall and you squint past the reach of the flashlights, into the edge of the looming blackness. Josh’s words play like a tape recorder in your mind: She saw the court. She went to check it out. You squint at the closed doors leading to the basketball court. Your breaths shallow.

Oh; that’s where Ashley is.

“No offence or whatever, but who the hell are you?”

“She’s just some lady we found.” Travis answers for you. “Look, did you see him kill her, man?” Travis grabs Josh suddenly by the shoulders, shaking him like it’ll knock the sense back into him. “Come on, you gotta remember so we can get outta here. Where is she?”

You point an accusing finger at the basketball court.

“I think she’s in there.”

Everyone with a flashlight trains it at the doors. Another strangled sob leaves Wendy. Thick red handprints glisten wetly on the beige wood, just above the door handle.

Travis eyes the gore for a moment. Then, knife at the ready, he approaches the double doors.

It is for a wickedly selfish reason that you do not utter some warning of he’s still in there, moron, and your friend is dead, and you’ll be next. It is for a reason more potent than the fear of stumbling blindly through the darkness again; a reason more powerful than the fear of being alone in this desolate place. A reason that you are ashamed of for even thinking, but one that your lizard-brain—the part of you that cares only about your own continued survival, and to hell with everyone else—gurgles gleefully: If Michael kills them, maybe I’ll get to live.

And if not, then at the very least you can make a break for the exit while he’s busy sheathing his knife in their guts.

You look silently on as Travis carefully, carefully, nudges the door open with his shoe.

The room inside is just as abysmally dark as the rest of the school. Travis, hovering on the edge of the door frame, not daring to step foot beyond the hall, shines his flashlight around to inspect. It’s a basketball court alright, and surprisingly uncluttered. Sets of stadium bleachers line the walls on either side and loom like metal giants. Travis shines the light all around its periphery, illuminating every dark corner. There is no Ashley to be found—or Michael.

But there is more blood. A trail of it, leading out across the court, wrapping around the bleachers, disappearing from sight.

“Travis, no.” Wendy whimpers. “You can’t—oh god, please Travis, don’t go in there—please don’t. Please don’t.”

“Yeah,” Diane quickly agrees. “I think the best thing we can do for her now is to call the cops. Travis, he could still be in there.”

Travis looks anxiously back over his shoulder at her. He swallows like there’s a lump in his throat.

“Look. There’s no fucking way in the world I’m gonna leave her here with that psycho. Not until we know. This place is empty, alright? So as long as you guys stay close behind me... that fucker isn’t gonna get anyone else. I promise.”

Guilt flares in your gut. Your eyes fall to the floor. You can’t look at him. You know that not a single person standing in this hall will live to see the sun come up.

For simple fear of being left in the darkness again, when everyone shuffles into the court, you do too. Beams from all four flashlights rove the walls like spotlights. Every head is on a swivel. Travis is at least right about one thing: the room is huge and empty. There’s no way that anything could sneak up on you in here, not a housecat, not a tiger. Not even Michael.

The thin trail of blood disappears behind the bleachers—your heart pounds in your throat as the group draws nearer. The silence weighs like a heavy blanket.

Reaching the corner of the bleachers, everybody peers around the bend. You squint into the dimness.

There, suspended five feet off the ground, swaying sedately back and forth—a figure.

Travis shines his light up at it.

It is the limp body of a woman. She hangs from her neck by a length of climbing rope dangling down from the ceiling.

Somewhere in the background, Wendy starts to wail. “Oh god. Oh god. Oh my fucking god.”

The body turns, slowly. When it turns all the way around you can just make out the messy red ruins of her throat beneath the rope, slit quite literally from ear to ear.

Reality stares you in the eye, gape-mouthed and grotesque, and it will not let you look away. You drink it in and all your thoughts, even the lizard-brain thoughts, are silenced.

You study the blood seeping from the gaping gash in Ashley’s neck. You watch the way it drips down her sternum, how it eats in splotches through her white tube top, the garment pulled half-way down her chest, exposing her breasts on one side. You look all the way down to the puddle of glistening blood beneath the body and watch the droplets trailing off the slender ankles, dripping to the floor and making tiny ripples in the deep, dark red puddle beneath.

When your thoughts finally return you realize all at once that you have never witnessed Michael commit a murder. You have never had to see him plunge his knife into a screaming, crying, terrified body, but oh, you can picture it so vividly, can hear the pleading and the begging, can imagine Michael twisting the knife deeper, can see him tearing a life away with the ease of one kicking sand over a fire to snuff it out.

You know that will change tonight.

You know other things too, things that make nausea bubble up your throat, and you know before it happens that you are going to vomit, but not because of the body.

You know that Michael is a monster; you know it like you know that grass is green. You know what you are to him and you know that you should despise him for it. You know that you should want to see him burn—and a part of you does. A part of you wants nothing more in the world. A part of you wants to be the one who lights the match.

But there exists another part of you which sits like a gaping black hole right in the middle of your chest, and when the hole is open—which is most of the time—you feel cold and hollow and empty on the inside, and when it is closed you feel complete again, if only for a short while.

You know that the hole is need. And the need wants only one thing.

Standing here, staring up at the reality of what Michael is, of what he does, of what he will do to you tonight, even now, the hole in your chest still needs him like lungs need air.

He will kill you and it will not make you need him any less. Will not make you want him any less.

And as terrible, twisted, perverted, fucked-up as it is, it won’t make you love him any less, either.

It was Michael who held you down and cut open the hole in your chest; and now Michael is the only one who can fill it.

The bile rises up your throat and you are sick.

#Michael Myers #michael myers x reader #halloween #slashers #slasher x reader #horror #writing #fanfiction #reader insert #end of the line #tw: emetophobia

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threeletterslife · 4 years

Text

Nothing a Lil Green Can’t Fix

→ summary: Imagine having a best friend so crazy you have to have 911 on speed dial. Turns out that you are that friend. And it's up to Park Jimin to keep you from facing disaster.

→ pairing/rating: jimin x reader | PG-15

→ genre: i love bittersweet stories 🥺 so this is basically fluff all the way but angst lurking in the background | coming of age!au

→ warnings: profanity, mentions of death, divorce, heartbreak (like pretty fucking sad shit), implied sex

→ wordcount: 19.2k

→ a/n: i had so much fun writing this! a HUGE thank you to all of my friends & beta readers who helped me not make a big embarrassment out of myself LOL. a round of applause and special thanks to @aaugustlee, @fangirlfeelz, @bangtansgalaxie, @byuncaa, @yunjikim021 for putting up with my unedited writing! (: ALSO a huge HUGE thank you to @justastar for this BEAUTIFUL mood board 🤩

♫: Who by Lauv (feat. BTS) | Say Something by Pentatonix | Inner Child by BTS

cr.

When Jimin was younger, he knew superheroes existed. After all, his own mother was one of them. She cooked, washed the clothes, taught Jimin the alphabet, ran the grocery errands, worked from home, read Jimin a bedtime story and tucked him into bed—which was her daily schedule. She was strong, loving and caring. The things every mother should be. She handled problems better than she handled her emotions, that woman.

Which was probably why she cheated on Jimin's father. Jimin was only five when he heard the shouts and screams coming from downstairs. He remembers how frightened he had been, gripping his pillow and trying to drown the sound of yelling with his blankets. Only shortly after that night, his mother had packed her bags and left. Jimin never saw her again.

But life wasn't too bad after that. You had shown up, after all.

Even though Jimin's once perfect family was ruined, he didn't mind too much. When he's with you, he forgets about all of his other problems.

You'd first waddled up to him in his kindergarten class with a green marker in hand. "Can you please color me green?" you'd politely asked.

If Jimin's mother taught him one thing before she walked out of his life, she'd taught him manners. So when you, a complete stranger, had been so polite about a request that didn't look like it'd do much harm, Jimin complied.

He helped you color yourself green. Halfway through the process, he'd said: "Why are we coloring you green?"

You'd laughed out loud, grinning as you announced emphatically, "BECAUSE GREEN IS THE BESTEST COLOR EVER!"

You hate it when Jimin teases you of your first encounter with him. Mainly because you had yelled out 'bestest' at the top of your lungs that day and 'bestest' is most definitely not a word. (You're kind of a grammar freak.) Not to mention, both of you had gotten into huge trouble for coloring you green that day. Jimin had cried when the teacher had scolded the two of you, but you had shrugged, patted Jimin on the back and boldly asked the teacher, "Would you like to be colored green as well?"

You were banished to the time out chair and your star got moved down two slots into the angry orange section instead of the happy green. Jimin had felt sorry for you, but you didn't seem like you cared that much. Your skin was your favorite color. How could you not be happy?

Later that same day, you'd declared Jimin your best friend. And then you had taught him your secret language so no imbecile could eavesdrop on your private conversations. Jimin thought you were the coolest human being alive.

Jimin still thinks you're the coolest human being alive.

He's thirteen and waiting for you outside of your house so both of you can walk to school together. Walking to school side by side has been a tradition ever since you were little, too. It was also a tradition that you were always a few minutes late.

You suddenly bust out of the door with half a bagel in your mouth and your hair a frenzied mess. "Bye Granny!" you yell as the door slams shut. "Let's go!" you exclaim to Jimin in your secret language as he nods in agreement. The two of you begin to walk to school.

"What are you today?" he asks as he looks over at your outfit of the day. You're wearing black cargo pants, a black mesh top with a black tank top underneath, big, black boots and metal chains around your neck. You like to keep your fashion choices interesting by having a different style every day. You've already tried prim and proper, goth, princess and tomboy. But this... Well, this was something definitely new.

"I'm a bad girl." You grin, chomping down on the rest of your breakfast and brushing your hands together to get rid of the crumbs.

Jimin frowns. "You're gonna get dress coded," he says but upon your disappointed look, he sighs. "You're gonna get dress coded," he says in the secret language.

"Am not."

"Are too."

You roll your eyes, flipping your messy hair over your shoulder. "They can dress code me. Fine. I'll go to school in my underwear the next day, then."

Jimin laughs, shaking his head. "They'll send you to juvie."

You snort, throwing your head back in a fit of laughter. "Oh, Jimin, I—" You suddenly gasp, hand flying into your pocket to fish out your favorite green permanent marker. Its name is Gilbert.

"Grammar error?" Jimin asks.

"Yeah," you sigh, shaking your head in disdain. "Over there."

There's a sign in front of a local coffee shop that painstakingly reads: free cakes everyday after four!

"They forgot the space between 'everyday,' " you huff, so disappointed that you forget to speak in the secret language. "Wait right here."

Jimin stops walking, watching you quickly stroll over to the sign and circling the word, 'everyday' with Gilbert and marking in all caps right next to it: NEEDS SPACE.

You make your way over to Jimin again, sighing. "When will people learn?"

"Not everyone is good at grammar, Y/N," Jimin reminds you. "I think you're being a bit of a grammar Nazi."

You scoff. "So what if I am a grammar Nazi? Do you think it's acceptable to parade around town using the wrong 'everyday?' " You throw your hands in the air for dramatic emphasis.

"I mean, everybody makes mistakes," Jimin tries.

You huff, crossing your arms. "Yeah, like your outfit," you grumble. "You forgot to hook a strap of your overalls over your shoulder."

"Hey!" Jimin says. "It's fashion!"

"It's ridiculous," you counter. "It's like you're trying to show off your man chest."

"Well, you're trying to show off your girl chest."

You gasp, gazing down at your black mesh top before realizing Jimin's actually right—this stupid top does expose a lot of you to the public's scrutiny. "Don't look there, idiot!" you say. "Perve."

"What am I supposed to do? Not look at it?"

"Yes!" you say very indignantly. "A true gentleman would not look!"

"But it's right in front of my face!"

"You know what, Jimin? You can walk to school alone!" You start dashing away from Jimin, your heavy boots thumping on the concrete.

"Wait! Y/N!"

Though you might've won the fight at that moment, Jimin becomes the real winner when you come out of your house the next day wearing a turtleneck that covers your whole upper half and modest boot cut jeans with white sneakers.

"What are you today?" Jimin teases in the secret language.

"Shut up," you mutter. "Let's go."

Jimin happily obliges, skipping his way to school as you grumble, following right behind him.

Sometimes Jimin wonders what he would do without you. You were the angelic figure that had swept him off his feet when he needed a good distraction from reality. You had stepped in when his mother had stepped out. And he loves you no matter how weird you are.

"Jimin?" you ask, your head propped against his chest as his arm wraps around you. Both of you are staring up at the blue sky with sunglasses on.

"Hmm?"

"I think I can speak to the weather," you confess in the secret language, grinning wildly as you watch the clouds shift in the blue sky. "It was probably my fourteenth birthday gift from the universe, you know?"

Jimin loves how you never grew up. You were the same Y/N he knew in kindergarten with a big imagination and overflowing creativity—only smarter, taller and more beautiful.

"You can speak to the weather?" Jimin asks.

You nod. "I'm making it sunny right now."

"Really?"

You snuggle into his chest, clinging to his warmth as you laugh. "I control it with my emotions. I'm so happy right now that the sun can't help but shine upon us."

Jimin's heartbeat quickens as you clutch onto his t-shirt, but he tries to play it off. "And why are you so happy right now?"

"It's summertime!" you exclaim, suddenly jumping up and out of Jimin's arms. "We'll be in high school this year!! And you know how much I love hanging out with my best friend."

Jimin smiles, though he wonders if you'll ever love him the same way he loves you.

"You know," you sigh as you trudge down the steps of your apartment building in a large green raincoat and white boots with a glazed donut in your hand. "I'm feeling pretty horrible today. I think it's going to rain."

Jimin nods as he looks up at the sky. Sure enough, the rain clouds are settling in, painting the sky a dark gray. "That's not a good way to start off the first day of high school."

"It really isn't," you sigh.

"Is it your granny?" Jimin whispers in the secret language as both of you begin to walk to your new school.

You flinch. "She's just... she's not feeling too well, you know?"

"I'm sorry," Jimin says. "Do you know what it is?"

"She won't fucking tell me," you groan, handing your donut to Jimin. "I don't want it. Do you?"

It's Jimin's favorite food: a glazed donut, so he takes it and munches on it. Something tells him that you saved it just for him. "Thanks," he says. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No..." You shake your head, your lips that had been set in a stern lip suddenly curving up to reveal a bright smile. "Sorry, I'm totally killing the mood. We should be excited! High school, right?? Oh my god, do you think we're all going to dance in the gym like we're all in it together??"

"That stuff only happens in the movies," Jimin chuckles as he finishes the last of your donut. But upon seeing your disappointed face, he offers: "No, we'll definitely dance around in the gym singing songs from High School Musical."

"That's more like it!" you exclaim.

Crazily enough, by the time the two of you reach the new school, the rain clouds have disappeared from the sky. Jimin looks over at you, who had taken off your raincoat to reveal a rather summery green t-shirt dress. Maybe you really can control the weather with your emotions.

Jimin admires how you don't give two flying fucks about social standards. You're brave enough to be yourself, to stray from society and not conform to stupid high school stereotypes. You're everything that he isn't. And in sophomore year in high school, you're wilder than ever before. Frankly, he thinks you're what everyone wants to be but is too afraid to be.

"Did you study for the AP chem test?" Jimin asks as he fidgets with pages and pages of notes in his hands.

You snort, tugging your favorite green jacket around yourself. "No. Why would I? It's just a test."

"But it's an important test," Jimin insists, eyes glazing over as he half listens to you and half crams last-minutely. "Last test to raise your grade before the final."

"My time's important too," you laugh. "I don't regret those six hours I spent reading yesterday. You know, I woke up so late today that I had to wear my pajamas to school."

Jimin glances down at your sweatpants and looks up at your tousled hair.

"Yeah," you say, "only had time to put on the nearest jacket. But it's kind of hot, isn't it?"

You're right. Ever since you helped nurse your granny back into top-notch health, the weather was perfect—always sunny and just slightly breezy. It matches your mood.

You shrug off your green jacket, folding it away. When Jimin notices your shirt underneath, he gasps out loud.

"Y/N!"

"What?"

"You're wearing those pajamas!" he exclaims in the secret language, frantically. "Do you wanna borrow my t-shirt or something?"

"What? No!" you cock your head. "What's so bad about my t-shirt right now?"

"Y/N, you're literally wearing a shirt with the periodic table on it. We're taking a chem test!"

"Oh, you're so funny, Jimin," you say, shaking your head. "It's just a t-shirt. No one will care."

Fast forward ten minutes later when your AP chem teacher calls you up before you sit down with your test and tells you that you need to put a jacket over your shirt.

"But Mr. Levitt!" you protest. "I don't want to be in a stuffy jacket when I'm taking a test!"

Mr. Levitt sighs, but after an intense one-minute staring contest in which you claim victory, he agrees to turn on the air conditioning. Silently, everyone thanks you (it's a hot day, after all) as you return to your seat with your jacket covering your shirt and your eyes sparkling with their usual mischief. Jimin thinks you might've elaborately planned this whole scheme out. Mr. Levitt is infamous for being a total tightwad on the AC, so maybe you thought you had to do something about it instead of studying for the test.

Naturally, you proceeded to completely bomb the chemistry exam.

"Ugh," Jimin groans the next day as you step out of your home with an apple in your mouth. "The scores are out. I got a 92%," he huffs. "That's barely gonna raise my grade."

You laugh out loud, tossing Jimin another apple that he gratefully catches. "I got a 43%. Deal with it."

"You're serious."

"I'm always serious," you giggle, twirling around in your rather nice-looking outfit. Jimin notices you took extra time to curl your hair and apply a sheer lipgloss on your lips. "Besides, you know, that test had so many grammatical errors that I couldn't possibly focus on the problems!" You scoff, shaking your head disdainfully as your eyes gloss over to remember the horror you saw the day before. "I had to whip out Gilbert and fix all the errors, you know? I didn't even get to look at half the questions on the test. But I'm pretty sure I got everything else right, though," you confidently announce. "Totally worth it. Mr. Levitt needs to learn a thing or two about dangling modifiers."

"But Y/N, you can't fail a class!" Jimin protests. He doesn't have the guts to tell you that you earned your 43% after a 13% curve—that in reality, you'd really gotten a 30%.

"I'm not failing," you giggle, "yet."

"What am I gonna do with you?"

You shrug, biting at your healthy breakfast and chewing slowly. "Anyways, do you like my outfit?" you ask in your secret language, totally changing the subject.

Jimin warily eyes your pretty skirt and button-down top. His face heats up just a little bit, but he forces himself to look away. "Why'd you dress up so much? You're going to fall down wearing those heels."

You roll your eyes so hard Jimin can see the whites of your eyes. "Google Earth always takes pictures, my friend," you sing. "If people see me walking down this street on that app, I want to look fabulous."

Jimin's learned a long time ago from experience to not believe everything you say. (One time when the two of you were six years old, you told Jimin if he waited in his garage at night without falling asleep, he'd see his father's old, battered Hyundai turn into a chivalrous robot—this was after you had watched Transformers with him at home—and Jimin had stupidly believed you. What followed was him staying up for three nights in a row, waiting for the car to morph in Optimus Prime. He was almost going to stay up for a fourth night until you had to put an end to his madness by telling him you were joking.) And there were many, many more times your large imagination had convinced Jimin something that wasn't real, was. But now, he knows when to take your words with a grain of salt.

Even so, the next day, he dresses up extra nicely. Just in case Google Earth is taking photos.

You pass sophomore year with mediocre grades, but by now, Jimin knows you don't really care much about your transcript.

Junior year is rumored to be the hardest of all in high school, a rumor that turns out to be quite true. Well, except for you.

Jimin's reading for his huge physics exam on his bed while you're propped up against the headboard, legs tangled absentmindedly with his. The two of you had been in that position for hours. Normally, you can't sit in one spot for more than forty-five minutes, but you must be concentrating on something because you'd been way too still and quiet for way too long.

"Hey, Y/N?" Jimin calls in the secret language. "You good?"

"Hmm," you hum. "Mhm."

When Jimin looks up, he sees you sewing. You must've gotten that sewing kit splayed before you from your granny. It's really endearing how much you love her and how much you're willing to do for her. She's the only family you've got left around here, and she's the one that has taken care of you since you were very young. Your granny is a lot like you, too. Jimin's heard from you that she likes watching extreme sports and hopes to become a three-time gold Olympic medalist snowboarder by the time she's dead (though she hasn't won a single snowboarding contest in her life). She loves fashion and enjoys taking you out to shop. She likes to preach that grades do not define intelligence. (It seems as though you've had that soaked in your brain for a very long time.) Her husband, Gilbert, was a grammar freak like her, but he passed away before you were born. You named your permanent green marker after him.

You don't like to talk about it, but your granny hasn't been in great health in the past few years. Jimin knows how much it's putting a strain on you, yet you insist that everything's completely fine before suggesting to embark on another wild journey.

"Are you sewing something on your favorite shorts?" Jimin asks, setting down his physics book.

You nod, tongue poking out of your lips as you concentrate. "It's a QR code."

"Oh, really?" Jimin becomes interested as he scoots closer to you so that your arms are touching.

"Yeah, so when I wear these scandalously short shorts and guys are checking out my ass, they'll see this QR code instead and dare to scan it, you know?" you smile proudly at yourself, setting down your sewing project as you lean again Jimin's shoulder. "Wanna know what comes up when you scan it?" you ask in the secret language.

"Yeah."

"Information about colorectal cancer."

"What?"

"Colorectal cancer. Colon cancer, Jimin." He notices the way your lips tremble slightly as the words spill out of your mouth. You're struggling to keep a straight face.

"Oh, Y/N... Your granny—"

"Yes," you cry out, tears starting to well up in your eyes. "Stage four, Jimin. Fucking stage four. She has about a year left."

"Y/N..."

You move in to hug Jimin, crying into his shirt as he wraps his arms around your waist, letting you cry in silence.

You don't like to cry. Jimin's only seen you cry one other time in his twelve years of friendship with you—when your granny had her first cancer scare a couple years back. To see you breaking down in front of him like this hurts him more than words can describe. You're usually so resilient; you wear a fierce smile on your face even when times are tough. But you'd have to take off your happy mask at some point.

He lets you sob into his chest, warm hands tracing circles on your back in hopes of soothing you. He never knows the right thing to say, unlike you, so he stays quiet.

It takes a few minutes but your sobs dwindle to soft sniffles, then to complete silence. Jimin holds you in his arms without complaint, savoring your warmth, hoping that just embracing you can help.

You pull away, wiping off the residue of your tears on your face with the back of your sleeve. "I'm so sorry, Jimin," you whisper, your hands tracing the wet patches of your tears on Jimin's shirt. "I think... I need to go home."

He doesn't stop you when you pack up your sewing kit and leave without another word. And he hates himself for being so cowardly.

But the next day, you come out of your house with a bright smile on your face. You're wearing the shorts with the QR code sewn on the back, proudly flaunting them to Jimin. He does everything so his eyes don't linger around your ass; in the end, he just looks away entirely.

You laugh when you see him blush, linking your arms together as you march to school. The sun's shining brightly today, but the streets are wet with the hard rain that had poured last night.

All too soon, senior year rolls by with summer just around the corner. You and Jimin make use of your lax time, no longer needing to worry about grades or academic productivity.

"You know, everyone has one deep fear," you confess, snuggling up against Jimin on the sofa in your room. "You know what mine is, right?"

Jimin nods. "Losing your granny."

"Good. Well, I think I know what yours is."

"Really?" Jimin asks, letting you rest your head on his chest as he plays with your hair.

"You're afraid of being left alone," you whisper. "You're especially afraid someone you love will leave you."

"Hmm..." Jimin hums. "Like my mother?"

"Yeah. But me too."

"You?" Jimin asks, bewildered, suddenly sitting up and moving away from you to stare into your eyes. "You're leaving?"

"Hey, relax," you giggle, shaking your head. "I'm not leaving forever. I'm just... I didn't tell you but... Granny passed away a few days ago. You know when it was raining really hard that night? Yeah, well that was because I was crying nonstop. She'd always wanted to be buried in Hawaii because that's where she met Gilbert. I'll be in Hawaii for a week—"

"Why don't you tell me anything until the last minute?" Jimin sighs. "You could've told me your granny passed away the day it happened. Why are you telling me now?" He struggles to keep his voice from trembling too hard. I didn't even get to say goodbye to her...

You shake your head, biting your lip to keep a straight face. "Because I knew I'd break down if I told you the day it happened."

"Y/N, it's okay to cry..."

"No, Jimin. It's not. I'm supposed to comfort you. I'm supposed to be the strong one that doesn't bat an eyelash when trauma comes her way. I'm supposed to be resilient, Jimin," you sigh. "I refuse to cry."

Jimin doesn't know what to say.

"I know," you say, leaning forward to grasp Jimin's warm hands. "I'm so sorry. I told you we'd go to the senior prom together. I'm so, so sorry, Jimin." You're smiling to reassure him, but your façade isn't fooling anyone—thunder clouds boom outside of your house, then the rain begins to fall. "I'm sorry, Jimin," you say again. "I want to make it up to you somehow."

Jimin had completely forgotten about going to prom until you had brought it up. You'd made those plans during freshman year, and both of you had been excited about it for all of high school. Now, it looks like those plans will be ruined. But Jimin knows how much you love your granny. She means way more than a silly prom night to you. He'll have to figure something out for himself. "You don't have to make anything up to me, Y/N," Jimin says. "I'm not going to prom, then, I guess."

"But you've been waiting for it since we were in ninth grade," you protest, shaking your head. "You were going to wear a green suit to match my green dress, remember?" you say in your secret language, a small smile playing on your lips. "I can get someone to go with you."

"It's fine, Y/N," Jimin says, shaking his head. "My dad wants me to start thinking about my future, anyway. I don't think he'll appreciate me going out without knowing what I want to study in college."

You nod. "Oh, okay, then."

"You're not going to college, are you?" Jimin whispers.

"I can't, Jimin," you shrug, a fake smile plastered on your lips. "I got a job at a restaurant as a waitress. I think I'll manage financially. You know, I think you should go into engineering or some pristine shit. You're too good at math and science."

"I'll keep that in mind," Jimin says as you cuddle into his chest again. He's known you for thirteen years now and he's never seen you this let down in his life. You're struggling to hide the gargantuan amount of pain you're feeling, but the weather is reflecting your emotions too well. Jimin never knows how to comfort you—partly because you're rarely upset, but also because he's scared you might leave him if he says the wrong words.

You're right.

Jimin's terrified of losing someone he loves. He's scared that you'll leave him one day.

Your senior year in high school is the last time Jimin sees you sad. It takes you a few months to adjust to a life without your granny, but after that, you jumped right back up and out of your misery. The years rolled on through delightful days and unforgettable nights. Both of you are 24 now and it seems like nothing has changed.

Jimin waits for you to come out of your house in your work uniform, and you do just a few minutes after he arrives.

"Hey!" you beam at him. "Hope you didn't sleep too late studying or whatnot."

Jimin laughs as the two of you begin to walk to your workplace. "I actually pulled an all-nighter studying for the mid-term," he shrugs, pointing at the dark circles underneath his eyes.

"Aww, Jimin," you coo. "I'm kind of glad I never went to college. Much less try for a master's degree. After your classes, wanna meet me during my night shift?"

"Sure," Jimin agrees. His eyes glance at your petite figure, admiring the bright look on your face and your sparkling eyes before realizing what you were wearing. "Oh, Y/N!"

"What?" you giggle. "Do you like it?"

"The manager isn't going to be happy about that, Y/N," Jimin sighs.

Your work uniform was black and red—a modest black dress with a cinched-in waist and short sleeves and a red waist apron. It was a uniform that Jimin thought made you look gorgeous, but he knew how much you hated it. You'd complained several times that the outfit was too dark and gloomy and that it made you look like a sexy vampire. And you do not like sexy vampires. (Jimin thinks that's because you always rooted for Jacob the "sexy werewolf" in the hit book series, The Twilight Saga.) But what could you do about it? The black and red uniform matched the colors of the logo of the restaurant you worked in: The Black Dress.

Yet it seems like you do not give a fuck.

You're now wearing a bright green skirt with a green fanny pack around your hips, and the white pirate blouse you bought on a shopping spree sale last Halloween. Your red waist apron is tied around your neck so it flows behind you like a cape. And to top it all off, there are green clips in your hair.

"I think I look outstanding!" you chirp, twirling around. "I'm still wearing my apron so I think I'll be fine."

"Y/N... You work at The Black Dress... You can't not be wearing a black dress!" Jimin cries. "You're going to get fired!"

"Nah, I'm not," you snort. "I think the new manager has a soft spot for me. He'll really like my rather innovative work uniform!"

"What if I come over during your night shift to find out that you're no longer working there?" Jimin protests. "How are you so sure he'll be fine with you not following the dress code?"

"Oh, Jimin," you giggle, shaking your head. "Live a little! Break a few fucking rules, will you? The manager and I are good friends. I'll be fine. We're still on for tonight, right?"

"Yeah," Jimin scoffs, "if you still have your job by then."

"I will!" you protest. "Do you wanna bet?"

"What? No!"

Jimin knows when you threaten to make a bet, you're always 100% sure you're going to win. He had lost a lot of money before he’d figured that out.

"See? I'll be fine, Jimin," you say, stopping your walking when you come in front of the restaurant. "Good luck on that mid-term, all right?" You give him one of your best grins, hitting his back encouragingly as you begin to walk backward towards the entrance of the restaurant. "You're going to ace it!" you yell in the secret language.

Jimin smiles brightly. He knows that your words of encouragement will do wonders to his score like always. "Thanks!" he calls. "Bye!"

You wave your arms frantically, nearly tripping on a rock as you do so (walking backwards is not your thing). With final grins exchanged, you head into the restaurant. Jimin watches as you leave, unable to hide the fierce blush of his cheeks. It's been almost two decades and he's failed to tell you that he loves you.

Meanwhile, you sashay into the restaurant, twirling around in your modified work uniform. "Hello, everyone!" you announce in your best singing voice.

"Good morning, Y/N," your manager offers, smiling at you as he walks up to greet you.

He's a handsome man, you must admit. In his early thirties, intelligent, good with his words and rather caring.

"It's just me for now," he chuckles. "I guess the others will come later."

"Wow, I can't believe I'm the first one here, Namjoon," you laugh. "I'm literally always the last. Isn't this the first?"

Your manager laughs as well. "This is a special day then, isn't it?"

"Every day is a special day. Is it not?"

"That's very true," Namjoon agrees. "Is that why you decided to ditch your work uniform, Y/N?" he teases. "I must say the modified version looks quite nice. Someone has a penchant for the color green doesn't she?"

"You caught me!" you exclaim, raising your hands up in mock guilt. "My best friend thought I'd get fired or something. He's such a plain Jane," you giggle. "But I love him though. He's coming over later during my night shift. Is that okay?"

"Of course that's okay," Namjoon smiles. "I thought he was your boyfriend. Doesn't he walk you here every day?"

You laugh so hard you snort. "Boyfriend? Boyfriend?! God, no! We've been friends for nearly two decades, Namjoon! I think one time we even showered together. We're literally best friends."

"Good," Namjoon grins. "Because I've been wanting to ask you out for a while."

Your eyes widen. "Wait, really?"

"Yeah. When are you free?" he asks.

"Hmm..." you think. "Well, I'm supposed to have a movie night with Jimin on Friday. On Saturday, Jimin and I are supposed to watch the water fountain show we bought tickets for like seven months ago... On Sunday I'm supposed to sleep over at his place so we can wake up on Monday at the same place, you know, so it'll be easier for Jimin to walk me here... I think I'm okay Sunday. As long as I get to Jimin's home by 8!"

Namjoon laughs at your long explanation, looking at you fondly. "I'll take you out on a cafe date. Then we can watch a movie and have an early dinner. How does that sound?"

"I like it!" you giggle. "I haven't been on a date in... damn, I've never been on a date."

"Really?" Namjoon asks, slightly bewildered. "No one's taken you out on a date? You?"

"Yeah!" you blush. "Why? Am I date-worthy?"

"You're very date-worthy, Y/N," Namjoon laughs. "Maybe everyone thought you were already taken. You know, you spend a lot of time with your best friend."

You snort. "Jimin and I hang out all the time but I never once thought of anything as a date. He probably thinks of me like I'm his sister!"

"Good, good," Namjoon grins. "So he won't be mad that I'll have to steal you away for a day."

You giggle, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Jimin never gets mad. The last time he got slightly irritated with me was in senior year of high school."

"Great!" Namjoon says. "I'll see you at the cafe next door at 2?"

"Sure!" you exclaim.

"Everything's planned, then," Namjoon smiles. "Well, we have fifteen minutes left until the restaurant opens. Why don't you get dressed in your actual uniform? We have extras in the back, okay? Maybe I'll see you around today! I'm going to go check up on our chefs."

"Okay!" you nod. "Bye!" When he's out of view, you have to duck your head to hide your blushing red cheeks. When was the last time a man was interested in you? Never. You're not going to mess up on a perfect chance to date Kim Namjoon who's tall, handsome, intelligent and diligent. You don't think you can wait to meet Jimin during your night shift to tell him such good news. You might just accidentally text him right now! But you can't. Jimin's taking a test and you would be evil to distract him like that.

You've awaited your fairytale romance for 24 fucking years. Maybe you've finally found the Gilbert to your granny. Something about Kim Namjoon feels right.

You squeal giddily as you flee to the back counter of the restaurant, finding the extra black dress there as Namjoon said. You skip to the bathroom to get changed, folding up your modified uniform and stashing it somewhere in the back counter. Your radiance is obvious during your day shift—you get three times the amount of tips than usual. Namjoon even notices and compliments you on your diligence!

Usually, when your day shift is over by 4 p.m., you like to sit in the corner of the restaurant with a fresh magazine in hand and use Gilbert to correct all the embarrassing grammatical errors until it's time for your night shift. But today, Namjoon sits down across from you (because his work for today was over) and he asks what you're doing.

You spend the next two hours until your night shift explaining to Namjoon the intricacies of correct grammar. He seems to enjoy every minute of it. When you have to go back to work, Namjoon promises to see you tomorrow, which was Friday and wishes you the best on your night shift. You let out a dreamy sigh when he leaves.

How did you not notice such a great man like Namjoon was right in front of your face? Granted, it's only been a few weeks since he started working here, but still.

You're usually just a little bit tired (crazy, right? for such an energetic person like you) by the time you start your second shift, but you feel more energized than ever. By the time Jimin comes into the restaurant, you're serving the last customers and cleaning up the tables and pushing in the chairs.

"Hey!" you cry, rushing in to hug your friend. "How was the mid-term?"

"It was great!" Jimin beams. "You've been in a really good mood today, haven't you? The sun was out the whole day. Huh, and you're not fired, I see. Someone made you put on the uniform?"

"Yeah, Namjoon," you say dreamily. When Jimin makes a blank face, you clarify, "my manager."

"Oh? He wasn't mad?"

"No! He wasn't!" you giggle. "He asked me out on a date, Jimin! And then he told me to change into my uniform, but that's beside the point! We're supposed to meet on Sunday at the cafe next door at 2! This is my first date! You have to help me with what to wear!"

Jimin plasters on a giant grin for you, though his insides crumble. "That's great, Y/N! Maybe I can come over later and help you choose what to wear. Are you thinking of making it official? It sounds like you really like him..."

"I don't know yet," you hum. "But I know he's a great guy! You know how well I read people, right? He really likes Gilbert too! God, I think he's already gonna be my prince!"

Jimin nods. "Wow," he mumbles. "Do you know him very well?"

"Well, I know that his name is Kim Namjoon. And he's the day-time manager for The Black Dress," you say, furrowing your eyebrows as you try to think. "He has blonde hair... uh, he's tall and he likes to wear all black!"

"You don't know him very well, do you?" Jimin accuses, crossing his arms over his chest. "Y/N, how do you like him so much if you barely know him? Is it because he expressed interest in you? You can't just go liking people back just because they like you... You need to make judgments for yourself."

You pout, shaking your head. "It's not like that," you say. "And I made my judgment already! I like Kim Namjoon, Jimin. Besides, I will get to know him. Now, I'm gonna go close up the restaurant so sit tight, all right?"

Jimin nods, grumbling under his breath about how quickly you were moving on to like someone you barely gave a second look at. He does admit that he's a bit jealous... Who was this Kim Namjoon who just decided to waltz into your life and steal you away from him? Who was he to ask you out just based on physical attraction? Jimin can't believe you were falling for a guy you basically just met. But he does admit that you've always wanted some sort of fairytale romance. Is it too late for him to confess now?

"Why are you thinking so hard?" you giggle, making Jimin jump away from you from the suddenness. "I closed up the restaurant. Shall we go home?" You hold out your hand for Jimin to take, which he does after just a bit of hesitance.

"I was not thinking very hard," Jimin says.

"Oh, really?" you snort, swinging your intertwined hands back and forth. "You were thinking so hard, a vein popped out in your forehead! A penny for your thoughts?"

When you hold out an actual penny for him to take, Jimin laughs, shaking his head. You huff, putting the penny back in your pocket. "It was nothing, Y/N."

"Wow, I didn't know nothing made you think so hard you looked angry," you tease. "You can tell me anything, you know."

"Yeah, of course," Jimin sighs, squeezing your hand and struggling to hide his actual feelings.

Damn. If he could control the weather with his emotions, it would be raining right now.

Jimin knew you would never be one to put your dates over your friends. That fact was confirmed for him when even though you got Namjoon's phone number, you never texted him when you were hanging out with Jimin—which was practically all the time.

Your Friday movie night was a blast, as usual. The two of you cuddled up on the couch and completely lost it over a hysterical comedy. And the Saturday hangout was even better with the majestic water fountain show. When the two of you separated that night, you ended up FaceTiming in each of your houses. Like Jimin had promised, he helped you pick out a cute but modest outfit for tomorrow—something that enhanced your best features (which Jimin thought is everything) and something that would make it very obvious that green is your color. You went to bed smiling because you were excited about your date with Namjoon tomorrow. Jimin went to bed smiling because you were the last person he saw before going to bed.

On Sunday morning, Jimin woke up, texted you to have fun on your date and began to study for his advanced thermodynamics class, which was a whole fucking pain in the ass. He skipped lunch, got a snack around early evening and waited for you to come over while he watched some kitten Youtube videos.

You were supposed to be back from your date by 8 p.m. It is promptly 8:07 and Jimin begins to get a bit nervous. Should he text? Call? 8:07 is such an ambiguous time. If he calls now, he'll sound clingy, like he's trying to interrupt your date with Namjoon. Well, Jimin wouldn't mind doing that, but he doesn't want to hurt your feelings and burst your idealistic bubble. Perhaps he should wait.

You're always late to everything, anyways. If Jimin wasn't in your life, you would've been late to every single day of school from kindergarten to high school. Hell, if he hadn't banged on your door for you to come out on graduation day, you might've never graduated high school. Maybe Gilbert fell out of your flimsy dress pocket and you're looking for it? (It's happened before so it could surely happen again.)

Alas, the door of Jimin's small apartment swings open and you practically skip through, giggling and twirling around. "Sorry I'm late!" you say, rushing over to where Jimin was slouched on the couch and cuddling up next to him.

You smell faintly masculine. Jimin struggles not to make an unflattering face—that was no doubt Namjoon's cologne. He wonders what base Namjoon took you to tonight. Did you kiss him? Did you make out with him? Have... sex?

He shudders thinking about it.

No. That couldn't have happened. They were in public places the whole time. Unless...

He glances over at you who's stripping off your jewelry, socks and jacket. You're too busy tying up your hair into a messy bun to notice Jimin staring at your lips. Had Namjoon kissed you goodbye?

Jimin shames himself for having these thoughts. He should be happy for you. Besides, you weren't even that late. It's only 8:10.

"You wouldn't believe why I was like, ten minutes late," you giggle, stretching out your legs and sitting in an unflattering position that hikes your dress up to your mid-thigh. Jimin struggles not to look down.

"Really?" he asks. "What happened?"

You snort. "Okay, so—wait do you have my makeup remover wipes here? And can I borrow some sweats? I totally forgot to bring a change of clothes. Sorry!" you say.

Jimin nods. "Yeah, the wipes are in my bedroom where you last left them and um, you can find some of my t-shirts in the first drawer of the cabinet next to my bed."

"Okay, thanks, Jimin!" you giggle, quickly bouncing up from your spot. When you see that Jimin's still glued to his seat, you laugh. "I can't tell you the story when you're that far away from me! Get up! I'll tell you the story while I change."

Jimin flushes at the thought. "Y-Yeah, okay," he stutters. You tug him into his own bedroom, snatching the makeup wipes from the nightstand and beginning to wipe off your light makeup. Jimin sits down on his bed, cross-legged, attentively waiting for you to start your story.

"Okay, anyways, Joon—"

"Joon?"

"Yeah, it's like my little nickname for Namjoon, isn't it adorable? Where was I? Right!" you mutter to yourself as you furiously scrub off the remnants of your mascara. "We were coming out of the movie theater, right? I found out Gilbert wasn't in my pocket! And I was just about to turn around to tell Joon my misfortune but he was already facing me and yelling, 'I FORGOT MY PHONE!' "

You take a moment to skillfully aim the wipe into Jimin's trash bin, squealing when it goes in completely clean. Jimin claps politely for you.

"Thank you," you bow dramatically. "Oh yeah, where was I?" You begin to make your way towards Jimin's bedroom cabinet, pulling out the first drawer and inspecting your choices of nightwear and sticking your hand in the neatly folded clothes to rummage through and pick your poison. "So, naturally, Joon and I went back into the theater and—ooh, Jimin you have a few condoms in here! Are you getting it on these days?"

"Y/N!" Jimin shrieks, scrambling over and snatching the condom you were teasingly holding out before chucking it into his closet and slamming the door shut. "T-That's private."

"Oh, really?" you ask, wiggling your eyebrows. "Who's the lucky girl?"

"Come on, Y/N. I'm a virgin, you know that."

You raise your eyebrows. "It looks like you're tired of being one though," you tease.

Jimin can't look you in the eyes. His face burns with humiliation. He can't possibly explain why he had bought those condoms. Back when he was an undergraduate, he had been desperate to get over his feelings for you—so desperate, in fact, that he had purchased his first batch of contraceptives to have sex with other women and completely forget about you. But he never had the guts to try. How could he? When he was so hopefully in love with you that he couldn't imagine himself being sexually active with someone else. Er, not that he sees himself being sexually active with you. But—

I need to stop thinking about this.

"Aw, Jiminie," you coo. "It's okay to be a virgin," you say in your secret language as you sit down on the bed with one of Jimin's favorite black t-shirts in hand. Jimin believes you must've thought he was pissed off at you for teasing him about being inexperienced. "I'm a virgin too, right?" you say. "I'm waiting for my prince!"

Jimin breathes a sigh of relief. So you hadn't had sex with Namjoon tonight. For some reason, he feels much better after hearing that. "You know what, Y/N?" he smiles. "I'm waiting for my princess."

You smile so bright it lights up the room. "Good," you say. "Let's get married on the same day, then. A double wedding in a castle far, far away!" you place a dramatic hand over your forehead. "Now! Where was I for the hundredth time? Oh, yeah! Joon and I went back to the theater," you say, starting to unzip your dress.

Jimin's eyes turn wide and he quickly turns his back towards you, making you laugh.

"I'm not putting on a strip show," you giggle. "You don't have to be so embarrassed about it!"

"I-I, uh, I'll just give you some privacy. Tell me when you're done," Jimin manages to choke out.

"So gentlemanly. How do you not have a girlfriend yet?" you chuckle to yourself, sliding the sleeves of the dress of your shoulders and dragging the fabric off of your body. "Okay, okay, okay. I need to focus. Anyways, Joon and I went back into the movie theater and the first thing we did was to go back into the room where we watched the movie—great film, by the way—and we literally scrounged around everywhere for my poor Gilbert and Joon's phone! But to no avail! It was as if both of them disappeared!"

You toss your dress on the floor, unclip your bra and tug Jimin's shirt on in smooth motions.

"Jimin, you can look now," you say.

He turns around, ears slightly pink and eyes averted. Quickly, Jimin sits down on his bed, across from you. "You can continue your story," he offers.

You grin. "So, Joon was panicking at this point because he lost his phone. And I was about to burst into tears because I lost Gilbert, you know?"

Jimin nods in response.

"Yeah, so I figured I'd have to be late coming to your apartment because I can't just leave without Gilbert! When I reached into my purse to get my phone to tell you of my misfortune, guess what happened. Guess! Guess!"

Jimin pouts. "Can't you just tell me?"

You roll your eyes. "I was building the story up just so you could literally guess what happened with no problem," you huff. "Fine, then. I reached into my purse to get my phone and I pulled out Namjoon's instead! Turns out, before the movie, Joon was holding all the snacks and he dropped his phone. So, you know, I picked it up and couldn't give it back to him so I just put it in my purse!"

Jimin smiles. "And you forgot you put it in your purse?"

"Well, yeah!" you giggle. "I was so worried about Gilbert!"

"Did you find him?" Jimin asks.

You snort. "Is that even a question, Jimin? I wouldn't be this happy right now if I hadn't. You'd never guess where Gilbert was, Jimin."

"So there's no point in me trying, right?" he responds, teasingly. But when he sees your death glare, he sighs. "Fine. Was Gilbert in Namjoon's purse?"

"HA!" you exclaim. "Good one! But no, it was in my right pocket."

"Oh, Y/N," Jimin says, leaning back on his bed. "You only checked your left pocket before you declared Gilbert missing, huh?"

"Yessir!" you laugh. "Joon and I got a good laugh out of it. He told me I'm really silly! And, get this, he said I'm a natural!"

"Really?" Jimin says. "A natural at what?"

"Dating!" you squeal. "He told me I'm naturally cuddly and adorable and kissable and—god, my heart exploded in my chest!!!"

Kissable???

"But I told him I don't kiss on first dates—not that I've never been on another one... You know? Like you need to give them something to long for!" you laugh, spreading out on Jimin's bed while looking up at his ceiling. "I read that from a romance novel somewhere. And it worked! He asked me out on our second date during our first date! Am I amazing or what?"

"Oh, Y/N," Jimin sighs.

"Oh, Jimin," you mock right back. "Anyways, shall we go to bed early? My princess beauty sleep is waiting!" you sing, making your way to Jimin's bathroom. "I'm gonna wash up, okay?"

"All right," Jimin answers, getting up to turn off the lights of his room. He crawls back into his bed, waiting for you to join him. A few minutes later, you do, tucking yourself in on the left side of the bed and snuggling Jimin's blankets as you sigh out.

No matter how many times he's slept beside you, Jimin feels like his heart will beat out of his chest every time. It feels wrong, to sleep in the same bed as adults when you're in nothing but a platonic relationship with him. Yet something about it feels so right... And you've been doing it since you were kids and upholding tradition is pretty important to both of you.

Jimin double-checks to make sure he isn't pulling the blanket covers too hard. He doesn't want you left with anything to stay warm through the night.

"Goodnight, Jimin," you whisper.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he whispers back.

And he drifts off to sleep. Only in his dreams can his longing to be with you come true.

Jimin is always your priority. You have a lot of friends, but when it comes to who you're willing to spend the most time with, it's Jimin. And it's always been like that—since that one fateful day in kindergarten to now. Er, kind of.

These days, your priorities may have shifted just a tiny bit.

It's been like that ever since Namjoon took you out on that stupid fifth date, which was the date that marked the official start of your romantic relationship with him. Jimin had sulked in his bed that whole day when you'd first texted him the news. But later, he forced himself to get up and have a cup of coffee with you in the cafe next to your workplace. He feigned a smile for you and told you that Namjoon was one lucky man.

And he was.

Now that Namjoon is officially your boyfriend, Jimin had to share you with him. It's unfair. Jimin's known you for nearly two decades, but Kim Namjoon decided to waltz into your life one day and win you over in less than a month. What did Namjoon have that Jimin didn't??

But no matter how bitter your relationship with Namjoon made Jimin feel, he hid it away from you. Besides, you are practically glowing these days. Whatever Namjoon tells you makes you absolutely radiant. And Namjoon must be a good man because you come over to Jimin's apartment after every date happy and bubbly like it was your first. So he's definitely treating you right.

You don't get to spend as much time with Jimin anymore, too. Sometimes, Jimin asks if you're available for lunch or dinner but half the time you've already made reservations with your boyfriend. Yet you always make sure you see Jimin at least five days a week (two days less than what was before, but it's a small price Jimin's willing to pay for your heightened happiness).

Since your birthday is coming up, Jimin's been putting the finishing touches on your present—the one he's been preparing since the day after your last birthday. This year, you've already made him a short little flipbook (that you drew yourself) about the first time the two of you had first met for Jimin's birthday. The gift was rather nostalgic and it had almost made him cry. Jimin hopes the present he makes for you this year will make you cry. In a good way, of course.

You and Jimin share every single one of your birthdays. It's been an ongoing tradition since Jimin turned six before you did. This year is no different. You had to tell a very bummed Namjoon that you already made dinner reservations with your best friend so he'd had to give you your present when you ate lunch with him earlier that day.

Jimin doesn't really think Namjoon likes him that much. He always eyes Jimin with some sort of suspect as if Jimin was going to steal you away from him. Hmph. The feeling is reciprocal.

When you came to your favorite restaurant wearing your favorite green dress, Jimin had already ordered the food and was patiently waiting with his hand-made present.

"Hey!" you cry as you slide into the seat.

"Happy birthday, Y/N!" Jimin smiles. "You look great!"

"Right?" you giggle, tossing your perfectly curled hair over your shoulder. "I felt like for my 25th birthday, I'd have to wear something cute. I'm halfway to the fucking 50 years old, Jimin. I'm aging too quickly," you huff, crossing your arms over your shoulder. "Did you order already?"

"O-Oh, yeah," Jimin says. "Why? Did you want something different?"

"No, I just wanted to check if the menus had any grammatical errors," you laugh, shrugging. "Oh well, when we get dessert menus, I'll check out RM."

"RM?"

"Oh! It's part of the gift Joon gave me," you exclaim, pulling out a—

"Red marker?" Jimin scrunches his eyebrows. "For your birthday?"

You nod, placing the marker on your desk and rolling it towards Jimin so he can pick it up and examine it. Jimin does, scrutinizing the marker that was most definitely not as great as Gilbert.

"Well, Joon always saw that I was correcting grammatical errors with Gilbert and he thought that something red would be more emphatic, you know?" you explain, taking out Gilbert from your left pocket. "Of course I love Gilbert more, but I thought I'd give RM a try. Besides, Joon said red serves as the better color for correcting. He said the color itself brings alert to the problem and that green is too passive. I guess I can see that."

Jimin frowns. "But you like green because it's 'passive,' " Jimin sighs as he makes air quotes with his hands. "And it doesn't make the corrections seem as rude and aggressive."

"I know, Jimin," you smile. "I'll try RM out once and keep it on a shelf somewhere. Gilbert's not going anywhere. You know that. Besides, Joon was really insistent that I tried it out, you know? He was so thoughtful too! I think it's a great gift! And I think it's endearing that he named it RM for me. Did you know RM used to be his nickname when he was back in college and in an acapella group? The man can sing! What can he not do?" you gush.

"He named the marker after himself?" Jimin snorts. Typical.

"Well, yeah, I guess he did!" you laugh. "It's like I'm always carrying around a mini him!"

Bleh.

"Yeah," Jimin agrees without much heart. "Oh, wanna see what I got you for your birthday?" he asks, hoping to steer the conversation away from your boyfriend.

"OH MY GOD, YES!" you exclaim. "I've been waiting for this moment since my last birthday."

"Good," Jimin grins as he whips out a box with pretty, green wrapping. "Here."

You take it from him, shaking the box wildly and with wide, happy eyes. "It's kinda heavy!" you comment, beginning to rip the wrapping off. You skillfully force the box open with the butt of your fork. When you finally see your present, you gasp. "Oh, Jimin, you fucking didn't."

"I fucking did," Jimin smiles proudly. "Open it."

You carefully take a photo book out of the box, your eyes glued on the beautiful front cover. "God. I'm tearing up just looking at the front," you laugh. "Where'd you even get these photos?"

He shrugs, smiling. "Here and there, you know?"

Jimin had made sure the cover of the photo book would be littered with childhood photos he and you had taken when you were younger. The rest of the book is filled with little memories the two of you shared growing up with captions and comments underneath. There are a total of 392 photos in the book. And Jimin had spent seven months accumulating them—mostly from his father's old camera and Jimin's old Nokia phone he dug out from his garage. You'd always wanted a photo book, so Jimin thought it was time to gift you with one.

You're excitedly flipping through the pages, spending more time to stare at the more sentimental photos. Even when the food arrives, you can't put the book away. You're so distracted with Jimin's present that you don't even try to correct the grammar errors on the dessert menus. So Jimin grabs Gilbert and makes corrections himself. He puts the correct accents on crème brûlée and corrects a rather obvious spelling error. Then, he proceeds to order two strawberry cheesecakes. Surprisingly, even when the dessert arrives, you don't put the book down.

It's rare when something entrances you so much that you don't speak for long periods of time. You haven't spoken a single word to Jimin ever since you'd started flipping through the photo book, and Jimin finds that he doesn't mind at all. He loves watching how your face relaxes and contorts again as the memories of your childhood flood through you. The last photo in the book is the one your granny took of you and Jimin fighting over the last glazed donut when the two of you were in first grade. Spoiler alert: you'd won. But you had also felt bad after watching Jimin sulk so you'd broken the donut in half and handed a piece to your best friend.

When you finally catch sight of the last photo, you gasp, putting a hand over your lips.

"Granny," you whisper. "She took this photo. I remember..."

You're practically clouded with nostalgia and Jimin swears he sees tears welling up in your eyes. But you won't cry over something as simple as this. It's the fact that you loved his gift so much that you almost cried that counts.

"Gosh... Jimin," you breathe, fanning your eyes. "I'm not crying, by the way. Something's in my eye, I don't know," you mumble.

Jimin grins.

"I don't even know what to say, Jimin. I love it. I'll cherish it forever. Thank you. God, it's perfect," you say. "Wow. You're leaving me speechless, Jimin. And it's very hard to shut me up. You're something special."

Jimin practically beams. All the time and effort he'd spent on your birthday gift had really paid off. He loves seeing you so happy that you can't even describe what you're feeling in words.

You carefully shut the photo book, setting it off to the side before staring right into Jimin's eyes. "I would totally fucking say I love you right now but I don't think Joon would appreciate it."

"What?" Jimin breathes as his heart flutters in his chest. "But he's not here right now."

"He doesn't like it when I do 'romantic' things with you," you sigh as you lean back. "We had a long discussion about it a few days ago."

"Romantic things?" Jimin makes a face. "What the hell is he talking about?"

"Oh, it's not a big deal!" you exclaim, waving your hands. "He just thinks, well, he thinks that some of the stuff that I do with you... um, is not really, uh, platonic."

Ah. Jimin sees where you're going with this. And now it's obvious why Joon always looks at him so suspiciously—Namjoon feels threatened by Jimin.

"How so?" Jimin asks but he already knows the answer.

"Like um, he doesn't like it when I sleep over at your place, you know?" you say, fidgeting in your seat. "And he really put his foot down when I told him we sometimes share a bed. He said I shouldn't really do that with you anymore."

Jimin understands where Namjoon is coming from. But at the same time, he feels as if Namjoon had violated his rights. His rights to be with you.

"I can't hold hands with you either," you say, looking down at your uneaten strawberry cheesecake. "I'm so sorry, Jimin. I know we've been doing it for so long and I swear, I didn't know it was strictly a relationship thing. But apparently it is, and it made Joon uncomfortable that we were holding hands when I'm really dating him and just—" you stop yourself from rambling, sighing as you take a sip of your ice water. "And I really love him, Jimin," you whisper. "I don't want to lose him."

"You love him already?" Jimin says with a slight tremor in his voice that you completely look over. "It's only been a month, Y/N."

"Love has nothing to do with time," you smile wistfully. "He's my prince, Jimin. If I let him go, he'll find someone else."

Jimin's silent, unable to think of anything to say that wouldn't hurt your feelings.

You take his silence as a bad sign. "Jimin, I didn't want to break all of this to you on a celebration night but I felt like you deserved to know earlier," you say in your secret language. "I'm sorry. It was all part of our tradition too."

"It's fine," Jimin sighs. But it's really not. Yet Jimin hides his pain by shoving a forkful of cake into his mouth. He chews slowly, swallows. "What Joon's suggesting is pretty justified. Don't worry about it."

The rest of your birthday dinner is somewhat awkward. Of course, you try to save the mood by cracking a few jokes here and there, but Jimin finds it hard to laugh. It's the worst birthday he's ever celebrated with you.

You and Joon have only started dating for a month, but so much as changed already. Jimin doesn't even want to think of the drastic changes that might follow as your relationship with your 'prince' deepens and blossoms into something even more serious.

When Jimin arrives at your home to walk you to work on a Monday morning, he does a double-take because he finds you already waiting outside, shivering from the chilly air in nothing but your plain work uniform. Never in the twenty years that he's known you have you ever been on your doorstep before him.

"Y/N?" Jimin asks, bewildered. "What happened?"

"Hey!" you exclaim, waving at your best friend enthusiastically. "Nothing happened. I'm just trying to get into the habit of being early. It's not a good habit to be late all the time."

"Your face is red, Y/N!" Jimin says, shrugging his thick coat off and handing it to you and you take it gratefully. "How long have you been waiting?"

"Eh, just a few minutes," you say, sniffling your runny nose and grinning. "I'm as red as RM! Besides, the sun's shining. You know what that means? I'm fine."

Jimin shakes his head. "You should've waited inside. I'm okay with waiting. I've done it for twenty years so I wouldn't mind doing it for more."

"Joon told me I should get into the habit of being early," you giggle. "I've been late to every single one of our dates so far, you know?"

"Well, you've been late to every single one of our hangouts but I never said anything," Jimin scoffs.

"It's different with you," you say, smiling.

How? Jimin so desperately wants to ask. But he's afraid of your answer.

You wrap Jimin's black coat tighter around yourself as you skip down the porch steps. "C'mon! I wanna get to work super early!"

It takes only a week later for Jimin to realize you like going to work early because your boyfriend's already there, waiting for you.

You've been with Namjoon for about three months now, and the effects are starting to impact Jimin's life rather largely. For starters, you're spending way less time with him than before. The daily routines you had established with him for years are broken as you mold your lifestyle in the way that Namjoon wants you to. Jimin hates change more than anything. You should know that.

And you do. You apologize profusely—any chance you get—about the little changes in his lifestyle because of you; Jimin never blames you, though.

When you missed his grad school graduation because Namjoon bought you expensive vacation tickets to an acclaimed resort in Hawaii, Jimin didn't blame you.

It was Namjoon who had bought the tickets and it was Namjoon who told you the trip wasn't refundable. It was Namjoon who wanted to take you away from Jimin for a week. You promised you would FaceTime him.

And you're the best promise-keeper in the world.

"How is it there?" Jimin asks in the secret language as he lounges on his couch. "Is the weather nice?"

"It's beautiful!" you exclaim, moving out of the screen to show Jimin the sparkling blue-green oceans behind you. "We went snorkeling a few hours ago and we just had lunch so we're waiting to digest our food before we dive in again! I wish you were here," you pout. "I'm sorry I missed your graduation, by the way. Was your father there?"

"Yeah, he was. Don't worry about that," Jimin says. "I'm glad you're having fun."

"Aw, thanks!" you giggle. "Joon really outdid himself with all of this. Oh, how's your job status, by the way?"

"I got the job," Jimin smiles. "I didn't go through with those extra few years of school for nothing."

"HA!" you snort. "If I actually went to college, I would've been kicked out for literally failing every class. Remember when I got a 32% on that physics test? God, I hated Mr. Chung. Look at that! After all of these years, I still remember his goddamn name!"

Jimin shakes from laughter. "Of course I remember! Mr. Chung told me to tutor you or something."

"And then you told Mr. Chung that—"

"Baby?" Namjoon calls off-screen, interrupting you mid-sentence.

You turn around to look at him. "Yeah, babe? Oh, wait, sorry. I mean, yeah, babe?"

Jimin can hear Namjoon sighing. "Baby, can you please, refrain from using that secret language of yours in public?" he whispers. "I'm so sorry, but it sounds a bit like a chicken is being repeatedly run over by a car and people are starting to stare."

Jimin's about to give Namjoon a piece of his mind when you cut in before him.

"Aw, I'm sorry Joon," you giggle. "I made the language when I was really young. Explains a lot, doesn't it? Sorry, Jimin," you tell the camera. "I guess we'll have to stop our encrypted conversation."

"And baby?" Namjoon calls. "We're on vacation! Technology should be off when we have such beautiful scenery around us."

Jimin grits his teeth.

"Right!" you laugh. "Silly me. Sorry, Jimin," you say again, not even looking into the camera this time. "I have to go! I'll talk to you later, okay? Bye!"

Before Jimin can even answer, you end the call. Jimin's left staring right back at his own frustrated face. He chucks his phone across his couch and covers his face with his hands.

At first, Jimin didn't like Namjoon because he was jealous. But now, it's come to more than that. Namjoon's been trying to change the little quirks and habits that made you, you; he's trying to mold you into the same society you rebelled against for all of your life. He's trying to take you away from Jimin. He's trying to strip you of everything you were before you met him.

But what can Jimin do about it?

You're too head over heels in love with this Kim Namjoon. That man is the self-proclaimed prince to your princess. Jimin can't help but think he's the ogre. A handsome, successful ogre who strikes slowly, so slowly that the damage cannot be detected until it's too late.

If Jimin tries to warn you about Namjoon and his dubious intentions, you might not believe him and hate Jimin for life. If Jimin says nothing, he might not be able to recognize you in a few years' time at the rate the changes are happening now.

Jimin doesn't know what to do. He hates confrontations—that had always been your job, not his. So he does what he always does: nothing.

Being with you every day is a mystery. You have something new up your sleeve every single day without fail. Whether it be a new fashion style or a new gadget you made, you're always flaunting something that others wouldn't dare flaunt. And that's what made you so special.

But the crazy color schemes that had once been in your closet have been reduced to dark, muted colors. The Halloween costumes you kept every year to wear as everyday clothes were sitting on a rack in some Goodwill store. You dressed... plainly now.

Of course, there is nothing wrong with that. It's just not you. It is Namjoon though. Besides from Jimin, Namjoon is the plainest man he knows. And so far, switching out your wardrobe was definitely not your idea, though you seem to believe it is. That Kim Namjoon. He's planting these stupid ideas in your head and you're absorbing them like a sponge, too kind and docile and a bit too naive to disagree with your boyfriend.

Jimin's heard the way you talk about him. Your eyes gloss over with complete adoration and you giggle at everything Namjoon does. You're madly in love with him, and Jimin can't do anything about it except watch.

But no matter how many of your habits and physical lifestyle Namjoon can change, he can't touch your personality. You're the same girl Jimin's known and loved for years and years of his life. And he's not going to let you go anytime soon.

"JIMIN!!!" you yell, almost knocking your friend over by hugging him the moment you open your apartment door to see his face. "You're two minutes late!" you pout as you drag him over in front of your television. "I already picked a movie!"

Jimin can't deny Friday movie nights with you is the only thing he looks forward to these days. Though you don't cuddle with him on the couch anymore, you like to lean against his shoulder. And that's enough contact for Jimin to be satisfied.

"Really?" Jimin grins. "What movie?"

"Interstellar!" you say, collapsing on your couch as you aggressively pat the empty seat next to you. "Hurry up! Hurry up! I'm excited!"

"Y/N? Are you sure?" Jimin asks as he sits down next to you with a confused look on his face. Usually, when you choose a movie, you always end up reverting back to your classic favorite Disney princess films. "I know you don't really like sci-fi..."

"Yeah, but I told Namjoon I already watched that movie, but I haven't. So now I need to watch it," you explain quickly. "You like sci-fi, though, so you can explain all the things I don't get! Which would be half of the movie."

There Namjoon goes again. Making you watch movies that literally lull you to sleep.

"Okay," Jimin sighs. He doesn't have the guts to tell you that he's watched this movie hundreds of times.

By the time the roll credits are playing on the screen, you're completely knocked out. Well, you've been knocked out since the first twenty minutes of the film. Jimin's been watching you sleep for the rest of the two hours and thirty minutes of the film. (Not in a creepy way—an endearing way.) He had to stop himself multiple times from reaching out and tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear and away from your face.

God. Jimin needs a drink of water. Is it just him or is the room getting hotter?

He stands up slowly and quietly, making sure he wouldn't disturb your peaceful beauty sleep. Jimin's known your home since he was five; he could walk blindfolded to the kitchen if someone made him. He finds refuge near your water dispenser, fanning his face and taking his own cup from the cupboard. Your granny had bought that blue cup for him years ago, gifting you with a separate green cup. It's the only cup you use at home.

Jimin fills his cup with water, downing all of it in one large gulp. The water helps him cool off just a tad bit. He moves to place his used cup in the sink, his eyes habitually glancing over at your trash can.

You never remember to put a plastic bag inside it, which makes the gross remnants of your waste stick to your trash can. And Jimin can definitely say that that stench is horrendous. Jimin sighs as he finds an empty Walmart plastic bag rolling around your kitchen. He approaches the trash can, holding his breath just in case. But when he checks inside, there is nothing in it except for—

"GILBERT?" Jimin gasps loudly.

"JIMIN?!" you shriek. There's a resounding thud in the living room and a small "oof," from you as you lay sprawled on the floor.

"Y/N!" Jimin yells.

You dash over to your kitchen, rubbing your eyes and trying to adjust to the bright kitchen lights. "Jimin?" you say, your brows furrowed as you approach your friend who's pointing aggressively at your trash can with wide, angry eyes. "Oh," you say softly when you realize what he's talking about. "Right..."

"Why is Gilbert in the trash, Y/N?" Jimin asks, running his fingers through his hair as he grips the kitchen counter for stability. "Was it Namjoon? Did he do this?"

"No!" you shout. "I did it, Jimin. I tossed Gilbert in the trash."

"Why?" Jimin whispers, taking a step away from you. "That marker's everything to you."

"I know, Jimin, I know," you groan. "It dried out. It's ages old, you know?"

"But you take such good care of it, Y/N." Jimin shakes his head. "And you're just tossing it away like that because it dried out? What about your grandfather? What about your granny?"

"Jimin, it's fine. I'm fine," you say, shrugging. "It's time I let go, you know?

"Let go of what, Y/N? The only family you've known?" Jimin sighs. "What happened to saving the world by correcting their grammatical errors?"

"Its," you reply.

"What?" Jimin says exasperatedly.

"Saving the world by correcting its grammatical errors," you say, a slow smile emerging on your face as Jimin shakes his head to hide his own grin beginning to manifest on his face. "I'm sorry, Jimin. You're right. I don't know what I was thinking," you say. "Well, I wasn't. Joon and I had our first fight today."

"Oh..."

"No, don't you 'oh' me, Park Jimin!" you laugh. "It's really not that bad! He told me I had a premature taste in films and an immature outlook on life, but I mean, he's not wrong, you know? I tried to stay awake watching Interstellar. I really did. But Joon's right. I can't like anything that's advanced. And I realized that it's a crime to vandalize, too..."

"So you threw Gilbert away because of that?"

"Well, yeah," you say. "It's a crime, Jimin. I didn't even know until Joon told me! He's so wise!"

"Oh, god," Jimin groans, burying his face in his hands.

"Ah, c'mon, Jiminie," you say, grabbing his wrists and trying to pry his hands away from his face. "He's helping me move on, you know? He's helping me become a better person!"

A better person.

The words sting. If your definition of a 'better person' is losing the spark, the color of your life, then fine. You were already a better person than before. But all Jimin can see is the monochrome you. The you without color. Which doesn't really seem like you at all.

But it hasn't rained in a while, so maybe you were truly fine with losing your color. Either that or you had also lost the ability to control the weather with your emotions. Jimin wouldn't be surprised if that were the case.

Jimin is a patient man. Not only has he waited twenty years for you to love him back (which you never did), but also he never outwardly expressed his frustrations with your change in lifestyle to you.

Besides, if Namjoon's making you that happy, then there really was no problem, right?

Wrong.

You call Jimin on Sunday with the worst news ever imaginable.

"I'm moving!" you squeal and Jimin can hear you jumping up and down on your bed from the other line. "Joon asked me to move in with him!!"

You've only dated him for four months.

"H-He did?" Jimin stutters, cursing himself for sounding so pathetically off-guard. "What about your home? Your granny's home?"

You've lived in that house ever since you were born until now.

"I can't live in that house, forever, Jimin. I want to move on!" you say. "Plus, I think Joon and I are ready to take our relationship to the next level!"

"That's ridiculous," Jimin mutters, raking his fingers through his hair in pure frustration.

"Sorry?" you say.

Shit. Jimin had forgotten you were still on the phone.

"Nevermind," he sighs.

"Jiminie," you say with that characteristic lilt in your voice. "You can tell me what you're thinking you know! I haven't been your ride or die best friend for twenty years to not know what's going on with you."

"I know," Jimin says. But he can't tell you that he absolutely despises your boyfriend. It'll break your heart. And Jimin doesn't want to be the reason for your unhappiness. "Congratulations, Y/N," he says. "I hope you like your new place, then."

"I love it, Jimin!" you squeal. "Joon remodeled his bedroom recently and damn it's just so beautiful! I'll finally be living in a castle with my prince!"

"That's great, Y/N!"

"I know, right?" you exclaim in such a voice that Jimin can tell you're absolutely beaming on the other line. "You have to come over when the move's finished! You know what? Come over this Friday for movie night! I wanna give you a tour of my new home!"

"Namjoon won't mind?" Jimin asks.

"He's going out with friends that night," you giggle. "We'll have the whole place to ourselves! Did you know Joon has a flat-screen TV?? It's humongous!"

The offer sounds very tempting. Watching a movie on a high-end television with you on a Friday night? Hell yes. It almost makes up for the fact that you're moving out of the house you and Jimin had practically grown up in.

God, Jimin can't wait for Friday to come.

It's Jimin's turn to choose the movie when Friday night finally rolls around. Since he knows you nearly idolize Rapunzel, he suggests the two of you rewatch Tangled for probably the millionth time. But before the movie had to come the house tour, of course.

Namjoon's home is rather spacious for a guy who was single for a long time. You parade around the home as you've already lived in it your whole life. Jimin silently tags along. He has to admit that Namjoon's home is, indeed, better than your granny's old house. But he nearly bursts with jealousy when you show him around the big bedroom that you supposedly share with Namjoon.

"Isn't it great?!" you say, twirling around the commodious room with a bright grin on your face. "Joon even bought new sheets for us! I wanted green and he wanted white, so we went with light gray," you giggle. "Compromise of the century, huh?"

"Still looks white to me," Jimin mutters under his breath. But you're so hyped about showing your best friend around your boyfriend's home that you don't hear him.

"C'mon, let's go watch Tangled, now!" you say, dragging Jimin back to Namjoon's expensive leather couch and switching on the flat-screen TV.

Both of you collapse on the couch, leaning against each other by habit as the movie begins to play on the screen. Jimin's watched the film with you so many times that he's basically memorized the whole script.

You like to silently mouth Rapunzel's lines and Jimin mouths Eugene Fitzherbert's lines. You also like to sing when Rapunzel does, and you've been trying to convince Jimin for years to sing with you. But Jimin does not sing. And that was that.

No matter how many times you've watched Tangled, you cry when Eugene Fitzherbert 'dies.' Before you were dating Namjoon, you'd always bury yourself in Jimin's arms, waiting until the climax of the scene is over. Nowadays, you limit yourself to placing your head on Jimin's shoulder, burying your face in Namjoon's couch pillows. Jimin doesn't mind. He likes that you take comfort in his presence.

Just as the tension of the scene is about to lift, the front door of the house opens and Namjoon walks in. But you're so engrossed in the movie that you barely notice, instead, digging your face harder into the pillow.

Jimin's head jerks towards Namjoon and their eyes meet. Namjoon doesn't look very happy. For just a split second, Jimin fears his life. He takes the time to scoot a bit away from you so Namjoon doesn't come for his neck. You whine when Jimin pulls away, trying to tug him back as your eyes are glued to the TV.

"Y/N..." Jimin whispers. "Your boyfriend's here."

"Oh, what?!" you say, breaking from the trance that the movie had put on you and finally turning your head to see a frowning Namjoon. "Joon! You came back so early!"

"Why is he here?" Namjoon asks, ignoring your enthusiasm. He doesn't look at you when he speaks, his eyes trained on Jimin, instead. Jimin gulps.

"It's Friday movie night!" you laugh. "We're watching Tangled! Oh, Jimin can you pause the movie? Damn, we'll have to rewind it. Wanna watch with us?"

"No, Jimin," Namjoon says through gritted teeth. "Turn the TV off. Y/N, this is not your home. It is ours. You're to tell me if you are to have guests over." He glares at Jimin again. "Then we can talk if they are welcome here or not."

"I-I, uh, I have to go," Jimin stutters, desperately, standing up from the couch.

"But we didn't even finish the movie!" you protest, grabbing Jimin's wrist and looking at him with puppy dog eyes. "We always finish the movie."

"Y/N, we need to talk. Let him go," Namjoon says, crossing his arms.

"I—" you sigh, letting go of Jimin's wrist. "Okay..."

It hurts to watch you look down at your feet like Namjoon was scolding you. You look so small, powerless up against him that just for one, small second, Jimin contemplates staying. Maybe give Kim Namjoon a piece of his mind.

But who is he kidding? Jimin could never compare himself to a man like Namjoon.

"I'll uh, talk to you later," Jimin quickly says. He doesn't look back when he leaves and you watch him go with a certain emptiness in your heart.

The moment Jimin's out the door, he runs. He runs from your boyfriend, your obvious pain... He runs away from himself. But he should know. No one can outrun cowardliness.

You're really the only significant figure in his life; the only person he's loved for twenty consecutive years. Yet he can't do anything to save you from the obvious monster that is your boyfriend. Jimin hates himself for that.

He crash-lands on his bed, burying himself in his pillows and drowning in self-hatred. He lays still for what seems like hours in the darkness, the silence. He tries to numb his thoughts. But when his vision is nothing but a black screen, he cannot do anything but think.

He thinks of the fight you might be having with Namjoon. He thinks of how sad you must be inside. He wonders if you genuinely like being with Namjoon. He wonders if you're genuinely happy. But most of all, he wants to know if you miss your old self.

Jimin groans when he hears his phone ring next to him. He doesn't want to get up nor move, but something inside tells him that it's important. That it might be you.

And it is.

Hurriedly, Jimin answers the call. "Y/N?"

"H-Hey, J-Jimin," you wheeze.

Jimin freezes. You're crying. And everyone knows you don't cry.

"Y/N?!" Jimin panics, sitting up. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"Of course I'm okay!" you yell, making Jimin wince at the harshness of your voice in his ear. "Joon and I just fought! I'm fine!" you sniffle. "You said to talk to you later so I'm calling you!" you try to laugh but it comes out like a broken sob. "I'm not crying, I swear!"

Bullshit.

This is the third time Jimin's heard you cry. The first two times had been because of your granny. This time? It was because of that bastard, Namjoon.

"Did he do anything to you?" Jimin says, his hands slightly shaking as he waits for an answer.

"No! Joon would never," you say. "We just talked. You don't have to worry, Jimin."

"He looked angry when I left..."

"He was..." you sigh. "Listen, Jimin... this is going to sound bad, but um... Joon... He, well, he doesn't want you coming over anymore."

"What?!" Jimin blurts out. "At all?"

"It's okay! It's okay!" you say, though you sound far from it. "I can always come over to your house!" You sigh deeply. "It's just that I don't think Joon's very comfortable around you."

No, he's just not comfortable when I'm around you.

"This is ridiculous," Jimin mutters.

"Sorry, Jimin, what did you say?" you ask. "I didn't hear."

Jimin closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He tries to stay calm, tries to keep from bursting out and yelling, but he can't help himself. It had to be said. "It's fucking ridiculous!" he shouts suddenly, standing up and starting to pace back and forth in his room with a crazed look on his face. "He's being fucking ridiculous!" he yells.

"Him? You mean Joon?" you say.

"Yeah!" Jimin throws up his hand in frustration. "He's acting like he fucking owns you!" Jimin snaps.

God. He's done it now. There's no going back.

"He's not, though!" you protest. "Don't get mad, Jimin. He's only voicing his rightful opinion. There's nothing wrong with that."

"He's trying to separate us!" Jimin yells. "Don't you get it?"

"No!" you say, starting to raise your voice. "Joon wouldn't do that!"

"Like he wouldn't fucking convince you to throw away Gilbert? Like he wouldn't convince you to clean out your closet and replace it with clothes that he finds sensible? Like he wouldn't fucking convince you to keep your distance from me?? He wouldn't fucking do any of these, huh?" Jimin shouts, his voice interlaced with anger and sorrow. His throat feels raw in his neck, but he continues on with the thoughts he's held in for months. "You're blind, Y/N! He's ruining your fucking life can't you see? Where's the Y/N who used to talk to me for hours before going to sleep in our secret language? When's the last time you've spoken that, huh? And when's the last time you pretended to control the weather with your emotions? Where's the real Y/N? What happened to her?"

"Joon doesn't like her!" you yell at the top of your lungs. Your voice rings in Jimin's ear.

"Why do you want Joon to like you? What are you trying to prove to him?" Jimin cries, his voice quivering.

"I'm following my path to love!" you shout. "It's something you'd never understand. You don't even know what that is! I've never, ever seen you pine for anyone in the fucking twenty years I've known you! You can't be talking about love if you've never fucking felt it!"

Jimin collapses on his bed, his head numb and hands cold.

You take his silence as defeat. "I fucking thought so," you say. "Joon says you're too dependent on me. You need to go out and make another friend other than me. The world changes, Jimin. People come and go. Stop being just so—just so fucking stuck in the past. Goodbye."

You don't wait for a response, ending the call right away.

Jimin's phone slips from his ear, falling face down on his bed. He's frozen into shock. If only you knew why he had never chased after love for twenty fucking years. He didn't need to. Because his love was right in front of his face the whole time.

Aside from the occasional bickering as kids, you and Jimin had never fought. This is the first time both of you had exchanged nasty words with each other.

You had used to call Jimin a peaceful soul because of his extreme hate for confrontations, unnecessary drama and fighting. Not once in his life had Jimin ever said something that he knew could damage something significant to him. Not once in his life had Jimin ever initiated an argument. Not once in his life had Jimin ever really argued, in fact. It had always been you yelling and Jimin nodding if anything.

But when things had stacked up, Jimin couldn't take it anymore. He'd cracked. He'd yelled. And he'd finally fought with his words.

Yet the fight doesn't symbolize anything except a double loss for Jimin because you had ultimately chosen Namjoon over him. Then, you'd proceeded to completely crush his heart by failing to recognize his love for you.

Jimin never had to worry about heartbreak. He and you had always been best friends, nothing more. No matter how much he loved you, he never acted upon it, which meant you never rejected him. So, yeah, no heartbreak.

But this... that fight... When you'd accused him of not knowing love... when he had loved you for years. That was heartbreak. And it is still heartbreak.

Jimin found it extremely hard to get out of bed every morning after the fight. Sometimes, throughout the day, when something even the slightest bit amusing happens, he whips out his phone to inform you of it. Then, he realizes he and you are not quite on speaking terms at the moment. Jimin also realizes if he can't text you, he has no one else to text.

Maybe you were right. Jimin needs more friends.

It's almost been a week since the fight on the phone; it has also been almost a week of constant rain. It pours down hard and steady, only slowing down for light drizzles in the afternoons. It's the only reassurance that Jimin can get. That you're just as sad as him. That some part of you misses him as much as he misses you.

The weather forecast said the rain was supposed to clear by tonight. But Jimin waits by his window, where the thunder clouds boom over the roof of his lonely house and the rain pounds against the concrete. It's a storm.

He worries about you.

Maybe he should text you? Call you? What if you're all alone in your room, crying profusely and that bastard of a boyfriend, Namjoon's giving you the silent treatment? It's like Jimin can feel your pain through the weather.

A lightning bolt flashes through the sky and four seconds later, Jimin hears the booming thunderclap. It wasn't supposed to rain today. You must be crying all alone. You must be missing your granny. You must be missing him.

Another sharp thunderbolt pierces through the dark rain clouds in the sky and the thunderclap rings louder than the last. That's it. Jimin picks up his phone.

It's sad that you're still the only person in his favorites contact 'list.' He taps on your icon and presses the phone against his ear, looking out the window as if you were out in the rain all by yourself. The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Usually, by then, you pick up the phone. But it occurs to Jimin now, that this is not going to be a usual conversation. His phone is heavy in his hands and he rests his cheek against the cold window, wondering if you're ever going to pick up.

Maybe you're crying so hard that you can't hear your phone ring.

Jimin lets out a shaky sigh, just about to disconnect the call to avoid hearing the all-too painful dial tone when you finally pick up.

"J-Jimin?" you breathe, groaning. "God, Jimin."

"Y/N?" Jimin exclaims. "Thank god, Y/N!" he breathes a sigh of relief.

"Mmm," you groan again.

"That's right, princess. You're mine all right?" a hushed, masculine voice whispers.

"Joon," you whine, urgently. "Please..."

Jimin can hear the soft slapping of skin in the background, Namjoon's heavy grunts and your whimpering. Immediately, the hairs on the back of Jimin's neck stand up straight. It's then when he realizes that you're moaning from pleasure. That Kim Namjoon's fucking you right now. And that you had still decided to pick up Jimin's call.

Tears blur Jimin's sight as he fumbles to end the call, chucking his phone halfway across the room afterward. He crumbles up in a ball, digging his face into his arms and sobbing.

Did you disrespect him that much? To pick up the call so he could hear you having sex?

It's the first time Jimin's ever questioned why he's in love with you.

Maybe, in the beginning, he had good reasons, but that had been because you had good intentions. You had been boisterous, unafraid to go against the current, wild, rebellious and had this my-way-or-the-high-way kind of character. That's the person Jimin had fallen in love with. The girl who carried around a green marker in her pockets to correct others' grammatical errors. The girl who invented a secret language when she was young just because she felt like it one day. The girl who convinced herself and others that she could control the weather with her emotions. The girl who didn't give two shits about what anyone thought of her. The girl who wore whatever the fuck she wanted because she could. The girl who never showed him when she was sad because she wanted to be strong, resilient. That's the person Jimin had fallen in love with.

But who the fuck are you?

Jimin had used to think it was Namjoon's fault you were so different. But you'd let him change you. You'd become docile, tedious, plain. All the things Jimin was and is. It's your fault. You could've stopped everything if you wanted. You could've broken up with Namjoon. But you didn't. Because you wanted to change.

Jimin can't love the new you. He doesn't even know if he can see you again.

His body shakes hard with fear and rage.

He's definitely not going to see you again.

He was never your prince; you'd ultimately chosen Namjoon. And you were never his princess; he had been delusional to think so.

He's going to walk out of your life. He needs to leave. For himself.

Jimin had already spent a week without your company and that had been enough. Now he wants to cut off all contact with you. He's already blocked your number, switched apartments and stashed away everything that reminded him of you—which was fairly a lot of things. He was so determined to be independent, to forget what it felt like to be dependent on you.

But without your presence, his bland life was even blander than before.

Waking up every day and not walking you to work felt foreign to him. Friday nights felt lonely without you. Weekends were dull. Weekdays were even worse.

He missed having to hear your bright, cheery voice. He missed talking about the craziest things with you. He missed waking up in the morning and wondering what you would be wearing today. He missed Gilbert. He missed your granny, too. Most of all, he missed you.

But you'd hurt him. Whittled away his heart little by little over the many years just by never loving him back. You'd humiliated him by choosing the man you knew for four months over the man you'd been best friends with for two decades.

Jimin figures he'll miss you for a long time. You'd been a large part of his life, after all. He'd already broken off contact with you, and that was already a giant leap. The next step would be to stop thinking about you, and the step after that to stop missing you. And when that's all over, he can stop loving you.

Looking back, Jimin realizes he struggled to get his life back on track for nearly eleven, long months. He'd seen winter come, spring pass and summer leave. But just as winter was making its presence on the weather again, frosting the leaves of plants and chilling the morning air, he'd finally come to his senses.

The past eleven months had been mournful. But as the days passed, he'd allowed himself to think about his current life more than his past. It had occurred to him that now, he was living a life of no-nonsense. Of no silly, childish imaginations. He was living in reality. Where he should've been in for all of his life.

Sure, he spent his birthday alone and without you for the first time since he was five years old. But it was something he could get used to. Celebrating the day he turned one year older just didn't seem like such a big deal anymore.

Maturity suits Park Jimin well.

He'd always preferred things that were tangible, anyway. Things that could be proven. Things that made sense. It was time to say goodbye to the foolish things of his past: secret languages, weather-controlling, naming markers...

It took him eleven months, no, 25 years, but Jimin finally became an adult.

He's 27, now.

He likes to drink black coffee in the morning like his co-workers. He likes vanilla ice cream the best just because it's the most simple. He likes to tell women that he's a civil engineer to impress them on first dates. He has an adequate number of friends. He goes to work five days a week, eight hours per day. He drinks on Friday nights, watches the news and goes to bed early. On the weekends, he spends his mornings reading articles in the science section of the paper and he hangs around bars at night with his friends.

It's a humble, normal, plain life. But Jimin likes it. It suits him.

He has thoughts about you from time to time; he would never forget what it felt like to love you. But he never again gets the urge to call you. You're a figment of his past, and Jimin's moved on.

The early spring breeze caresses Jimin's cheek as he walks steadily, staring at Google Maps on his phone and glancing up every once in a while so he doesn't run into a pole like last time. He was supposed to have a Sunday brunch with Jeon Jungkook but that silly bastard had canceled last minute on him to take his own girlfriend out on a date. Typical. But Jimin actually appreciates the alone time.

Jungkook had promised to take Jimin to a great cafe that was walking distance from Jimin's place. Since Jimin had nothing better to do, he decided to have his brunch there alone.

"You've arrived at your destination," the monotone voice named Karen drolls.

When Jimin looks up, he sees a small cafe sitting at the corner of the block, surrounded by towering trees shading the area and lots and lots of verdant green bushes. Something about the place seems homely. Familiar, even.

Deja vu, maybe? Jimin thinks.

He doesn't think much more and walks in. The inside of the cafe is decorated mainly with wood, green yarn and healthy vines twisting around the furniture. Jimin's hit by a cordial, oaky smell that instantly calms his nerves and clears his mind. The place is completely empty, too. His footsteps pad against the wooden floor as he admires the little cafe. The ordering counter stands in the corner, fairy lights and green paper lanterns dangling from it to illuminate its surroundings. Jimin walks towards the lights as if he were in a trance.

Something about this place seems so damn familiar.

Jimin hasn't felt this connected with nature, with this much creative liberty since—

"Jimin."

He whirls around, eyes widening and mouth dropping open when he recognizes the owner of that voice. Sure enough, he sees you, wiping your hands on a bright green waist apron. You're wearing a white pirate blouse that could've passed for a Halloween costume and a skirt with layers and layers of different shades of green fabrics—it looks like you'd made it yourself.

"Y/N," your name leaves his lips in a breathless whisper.

"Hey," you smile, waving awkwardly. "It's been a while, huh?"

A while? Two whole fucking years, in actuality. "Yeah, I guess," Jimin nods. He glances at the door, contemplating just leaving, but some instinct inside of him urges him to stay. "You work at this place?" he asks as he walks up to the counter where you're getting ready to take his order.

"Yeah," you giggle. God, Jimin had missed that smile of yours, but of course, he doesn't want to admit it. "Well, I own this place."

"Really?" Jimin asks. "It's beautiful."

"Thanks!" you say. "I decorated it myself. What can I get for you? Do you want me to recommend our best dishes? Look, we have a separate menu just for brunches!" you say excitedly, showing Jimin a neatly laminated menu laced with green yarn. "I recommend the Gilbert Special. Eggs, toast, bacon and hash browns. But, the Jimin Special is our house favorite!"

"The what?"

"100% off for the person it was inspired by," you smile. "That's you, by the way."

"W-Wow, Y/N, I'm—"

"No! You have to take the offer!" you say. "You can't even say you won't like it because it's literally all your favorite breakfast foods combined!"

Jimin smiles, shaking his head. "It's really the house favorite?"

"You bet it is," you laugh.

"Then I guess I'll have a Jimin Special," Jimin says. "Any chance it comes with a glazed donut?"

You shoot him a knowing look, a grin spreading across your lips. "It wouldn't be a Jimin Special without one."

Jimin ends up having brunch with you.

The icy, awkward barriers in the beginning slowly melt away into the friendship Jimin had known for more than half of his life. He dines on the best breakfast he could have ever asked for while getting to talk to you again after nearly two years. He can't imagine a better way to spend his Sunday.

Small talk with you is fun because you spice everything up with loud gasps, wide eyes and extroverted reactions that make even the dullest stories exhilarating. But it's suffocating to speak of such shallow things with a person he'd been best friends with for twenty years. Jimin's dying to know how you've really been, not what you found hilariously funny last week.

"So," he asks, "how are things with Namjoon?"

You snort, shaking your head. "God, that was fucking ages ago," you say. "We broke up a while back."

"Sorry," Jimin says. But he's not really.

"You're not that sorry, aren't you?" you laugh as Jimin's face morphs in shock when you call him out. "It's okay. I know how you feel about him. And I agree with you now. That idiot had the audacity to tell me to grow up. And he called you a good-for-nothing-awkward-ass-wimpy-child." You roll your eyes. "I knew it had to end when he said that. Besides, there's a certain highly endearing thing about innocence, don't you think? We should all be a little more childish."

"Wow," Jimin breathes.

"Wow, indeed," you smile wistfully. "That bastard could've said anything he wanted to me, but he shouldn't have dared to bring you up like that. I can't fucking believe I thought he was going to be my prince! I was so scared I'd lose him so I did everything he said, you know? God, in retrospect, I was just a really, really, oblivious and desperate idiot."

"You were just in love, Y/N," Jimin says. "Love makes you blind."

Your face twists for just a split second before you smile, shaking your head and sighing. "Jimin, I feel like I have to get this out before we become life-long best friends for fucking ever again."

"Hm?"

"I never apologized for what I told you like, two years ago," you say. "That fight we had on the phone? I told you that you didn't know love. And god, I've regretted saying that for every day, every hour, every fucking minute and second of my life. It was wrong." You shake your head, looking extremely disappointed in yourself. "At least what you told me was right. God, I was so angry, so terrified of losing my first love that I spit out words without thinking. How could I say you didn't know love, Jimin?" you say. "Of course you did—of course you do. You wouldn't have stuck by my side for years if you didn't. And Jimin, fuck. I love you too. I never said it enough. But I'm saying it now. I love you and I missed you. And I'm sorry I picked up the phone when I was having sex."

Jimin laughs. Around two years ago, that day had definitely not been a laughing matter. But only time can tell if the most depressing matters can morph into rather laughable memories. "I love you too, Y/N," he says. "And you shouldn't be sorry. I think we're all past that now."

"C'mon, I wanna show you how I redecorated my granny's home!" you say, bolting up and taking Jimin's cleared plates in your hands. "Meet me at the front of the cafe in two minutes!" you holler as you dash to the kitchen.

Jimin can't get rid of the smile on his face. He adjusts his jacket and stands up, taking another look around the cafe before he exits with a light skip to his step. He'll have to buy Jungkook dinner sometime for recommending this cafe to him. What was the name of this place, anyway?

Jimin steps back and squints at the big, capital letters placed on a banner in front of the cafe. He can't help the laugh that bubbles out of him.

"Nothing a Lil Green Can't Fix!" you exclaim as you come bounding down the steps of the cafe to stand next to Jimin. "Isn't that true? Green fixes like, everything."

"Lil's not a word, Y/N. I thought you knew better," Jimin jokes.

"Oh, spare me," you say, placing a dramatic hand on your forehead. "It had to be done. The stupid company had a character limit for the logo. It was either Nothing a Lil Green Can't Fix or Nothing Green Can't Fix," you huff. "And the latter is completely disgusting."

"I agree," Jimin snorts. "Then, in that case, I believe you made the right decision."

You smile. "I sure did. So, shall we go now?"

"Definitely."

Your granny's apartment looks exactly the same on the outside, but on the inside is an abundance of green. From plants to paintings to posters to silverware, everything is green.

"Nothing a lil green can't fix, indeed," Jimin breathes as you drag him around the whole place.

"Right?" you giggle. "Look! I even made a separate cabinet with all the birthday presents I've ever received from you!!"

The tour nearly takes five hours because the two of you get distracted every other minute, indulging yourselves in past childhood memories. And when Jimin's been tired out, the two of you lay side by side on your dark green sheets, silent but comfortable.

"Hey, Jimin?" you whisper, breaking the silence momentarily.

"Hm?"

"Remember our senior year in high school?"

"Of course I do," Jimin says. That year was the hardest (arguably) in your life. It was the year where you learned of the fatalities of death. It was the year you had lost your granny.

"We had the conversation about our true fears that year," you say with so much nostalgia in your voice that when Jimin closes his eyes, he can see the events of that day unfold before him. "Turns out, I didn't have just one fear. I had two. One was losing Granny. The other was losing you. And you know? For two years, I thought I lost you both. It hurt to think that my best friend hated me so much he had to dissociate himself from my life."

"I didn't hate you," Jimin says, opening his eyes as he turns to his side to look at you. "I swear. I just figured it was a good time for me to self-improve. You know, become independent for once. And maybe I didn't like who you had become, but I never hated you."

"Really?" you say, turning to face your best friend. "I was so scared that you'd shit talk me if I ran after you when you left that I didn't do anything. I thought it would've been better if I let you go. But I mean, I think the time apart was needed. We've self-improved."

"Yeah," Jimin agrees.

"So..." you say, a silly grin appearing on your face, "are we reunited now? Best fucking friends forever?"

"Of course we are," Jimin says.

"Okay, good," you say. "And before you say anything else, I have to ask you something, Jimin."

"What is it, Y/N?" Jimin asks, sitting up as you start to rummage in the pockets of your skirt.

"I just—" you're unable to finish your sentence, smiling. "Will you color me green, please?" you politely ask as you hold out a green marker in your hands.

"Oh my god," Jimin breathes. "Is that—"

"I pulled him out of the trash, Jimin," you say, eyes watering with emotion. "As soon as you left that night, I pulled him out. And then I kept him with me for years. I even recently got the ink replaced so it works fine, now." You let your tears fall down your face and you blink rapidly to see your best friend's softened face. "Did you really think for a second that I'd throw him away?" you ask in your secret language.

Jimin almost sobs right then and there. He'd never thought he'd hear that language again, and even after two years, he's able to understand you fluently. He hopes he doesn't sound too awkward when he replies, "I mean, you did have him in the trash can," he laughs, wiping away his tears with the back of his hand. "You really want me to color you green again?"

"It's the bestest color in the world. What did you expect?"

Jimin's never been happier in his life. Tears streak your cheeks but you are unbothered by them, holding out Gilbert for Jimin to take. He takes note that you do not try to hide your tears anymore. In a way, you've become more beautifully confident. He realizes that you want to take him back to the start—the very beginning of when your friendship had commenced. With those simple words, "Will you color me green?" you've transported the two of you back to a place of innocence, of childishness, of thoughts of staying young forever, of avoiding maturity at all costs.

Outside, there's a slow drizzle of rain, indicating another spring shower. But above the soft gray rain clouds is a double rainbow. The colors are so vibrant, they wash away the monotonous hues of the clouds heavy with rain.

Romantic love makes people suffer. Jimin should know. He's been in love with you romantically for nearly two decades. He's felt feelings such as pain, experienced experiences such as heartbreak and dealt with the understanding of the wretched concept of unrequited love. But now? Two years later?

He realizes that you may never love him the way he had loved you. But that's okay. Because maturity is when you accept the way things are. Being childish is refusing to let go, which is what Jimin is too—he refuses to let go of you. But that goes the same for you, for you refuse to let go of Jimin.

You still love him. And for once in his whole fucking life, Jimin loves you in the same exact way that you love him.

a/n: find my behind the scenes thoughts and original endings here!

masterlist

#btswritersnet #btswriterscollective #bangtanfairygarden #btswritingcafe #bangtanidx #jimin #park jimin #jimin fluff #jimin angst #jimin fanfiction #bts fanfiction #jimin ff #bts #nothing a lil green can't fix #nalgcf #i didn't even know what a simp was when i was writing it #but apparently #subconsciously i knew what it was #yikes

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