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astraystayyh · 7 months

Text

Echoes of love

"to love someone is firstly to confess : i am prepared to be devastated by you."

Chapter i. to forget

genre : memory loss trope. angst. slow burn. unrequited love except you were in a loving relationship and everything changes overnight.

pairing : minho x reader.

summary : if given the choice would you love minho again? yes, you would've once said in a heartbeat. but now, you aren't sure of your response anymore.

cw : depiction of a car accident. mention of blood and physical wounds. depiction of a nightmare and anxiety attack. reader has she/her pronouns.

word count : 14.8k words.

song recs : the night we met/terrible love/black friday/cover me.

a.n: she's here, she's yours, i hope you'll enjoy reading one of the most challenging things I've ever wrote :') your feedback is highly appreciated <3

special thanks to @forlix for going through this journey with me, i love you thank you, seriously, you mean the world to me. and to @dorisnumber1fan for listening to my initial rants about this fic, and all the ones i ever write. i love you and appreciate you so much, more than i could explain <3

quotes series masterlist. next chapter.

Day 1.

You're floating in a dark void, save for the specks of light swirling around you. A peculiar serenity fills your being, a tranquility unlike any you’ve ever known. It’s as though your body isn’t your own; but rather an otherworldly vessel, calmly traversing the cosmos, dancing in constellations with the stars that encircle you.

A sudden electrifying warmth surges from your hand, traveling down the contours of your knuckles, melting into the lines of your palm. It pulsates within your being as if you’re holding the Earth's very core between your fingers. You stir from your ethereal orbit, longing to break apart from the celestial lights, to reunite with your body once again.

The warmth intensifies, causing your fingers to involuntarily clench. A deluge of radiance enfolds you, drawing you into a luminous hole. You squint your eyes, drinking in the light- your first breath.

Your eyes flutter open in a daze, your throat parched, rasping like sandpaper against your vocal cords. White encompasses you yet again, from the high ceilings to the pristine bed you’re lying on. It takes you a few blinks to grasp your new environment- an unfamiliar hospital room. You wearily close your eyes, hoping for the stillness to return, aching for the peace you felt within your bones mere moments ago.

But to no avail; only the tingling sensation remains.

You tilt your head, eyebrows shooting upwards as you notice a hand clasping yours. A figure lies their forehead beside your body, black disheveled locks tickling your palm.

The warmth, you understand where it comes from now.

You attempt to slip your hand out of theirs, prompting the man to awaken with a jolt, surprise dancing across his features as his gaze meets yours. Dark circles adorn his face- testimonies to days of fatigue imprinted upon every feature of his. Yet, all of it dissipates as he gazes at you, lips slightly parted, bunny teeth peeking out. His face transforms into a radiant smile, stirring a mysterious longing within your soul- it brushes against your fingertips before slipping beyond your reach.

"You're awake," he whispers in awe, and your tiredness renders you mute. You point to your throat, hoping that he'll understand what you need. "Water? Is- Is that what you want?" he asks, a touch too eager, fingers running through his hair in sheer disbelief. You nod and he rises swiftly, pouring you a glass of water and bringing it to your lips.

You sip diligently as his hand caresses the crown of your hair, the warmth now traveling to the top of your head. You feel lightheaded as if the blood in your veins has thickened, the very life in you slowed to a faint whisper. Yet, a timid relief emerges as your thirst is finally quenched.

"I'll- I'll go call the doctor," he tells you, his beaming smile unwavering. It’s too bright, everything around you is, and you feel a throbbing headache growing at your temple’s base.

It's a mere minute before the man returns, a doctor and two nurses on his trail. You float within a haze as the nurse shines a beam of light in your eyes. The response of your pupils seems to please her.

"Do you remember what happened?" the doctor inquires and you frown. You've been racking your brain for an explanation as to why you're here, but to no avail. You shake your head.

"What's your name," he proceeds, lips growing into a thin line.

"Y/n, Y/l/n," you respond, your voice sounding foreign to your ears, as though it hasn’t left the confines of your throat for ages. You miss the darkness; you want to sleep again.

"What date are we?"

Your eyebrows knit together as you try to think of an answer. "The 20th or maybe the 21st September."

"What year?"

"2022."

An eerie silence falls upon the room, a stillness resembling the one of your dreams; but it isn’t comforting, on the contrary, it fills your being with an unsettling dread, one that trickles inside you with each second spent in silence. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. You close your eyes to avoid the sorry ones of the nurse.

"We need to run you an MRI scan," the doctor finally speaks up, tone somber. "It appears you're suffering from retrograde amnesia. But we have to make sure."

It takes time for the words to permeate your consciousness, for the syllables to settle in and start to make sense. Amnesia.

What have you forgotten?

“What…” you chuckle warily, fingers reaching up to soothe your throbbing forehead. “What year is it?”

"It's the 24th of September 2023. You were in a severe car accident two days ago, a drunk truck driver rammed into your car on your way home. You have a fractured rib and extensive leg injury, but no broken bones thankfully. We'll get you to the scan shortly, okay?" he speaks easily as if announcing that you've missed the rain while asleep. As if it’s not a year’s worth of memories you’ve seemingly forgotten, erased in the span of a blink, akin to footprints on sand washed away by the waves. Nothing of importance.

"So, you don't... remember me?" a soft voice quivers, barely above a whisper, and your eyes meet those of the man who’s been at your side, temporarily forgotten in the conversation.

His question is laced with a grave fear, evident in his dilated pupils and trembling hands. A lump blooms in your throat, its thorns pricking at your voice. You aren’t sure you want to answer that question.

"I- I don't."

"Oh."

You’ve never known that a human could crumble in silence, in an imperceptible gasp, so small you almost did not hear it. A crestfallen expression materializes on his face in the span of a heartbeat, features coming together in the rawest expression of anguish you’ve ever seen. You bite your lip.

"Who- Who are you?" you implore, urgency inflecting your tone, hoping that he's no one of importance. Someone who helped you when you got into a car accident. Someone minor who you wouldn't fault your brain for forgetting.

"I was... I-I am your boyfriend. Minho," he utters his name like a broken plea, eyes slightly widening to gauge your reaction. As though those two syllables hold within them a myriad of memories, ones you simply cannot forget.

You don't remember.

The doctor was right in his diagnosis. The scan showed unusual activity within your brain, characteristic of post-traumatic amnesia. You listened numbly as he cited the precautions you should take to heal your physical wounds- to rest, not carry anything heavy, ice your lungs, and go on walks. But you did not care for the state of your body, you’ve bruised it before and it has healed in its own time. It will do it again; it is a familiar path you’ve already undergone. But what about your memory? Your mind that robbed you of a year of your life? How do you get it back?

“There is no guarantee you’d remember. There is also no treatment for amnesia. We advise that you focus on healing first. Do not strain your mind,” your doctor smiled, before leaving the room. His silver wedding band shined mockingly underneath your eye. He doesn’t know what it’s like to forget the lover awaiting you at home.

Minho dutifully sat by your side, nodding along to the doctor’s words. He signed your discharge papers and settled your bills before you could protest, and he was now pushing your wheelchair through the hospital's corridors. You didn’t know what to say to him- how do you talk to a stranger who uttered your name with love dripping between its letters?

In the hospital’s parking lot, Minho pauses, squatting before you. His eyes are puffy, red veins contrasting against the pristine whites, betraying the tears he must have shed when he excused himself to the toilet.

You suddenly want to beg for a reprieve; it is too much pain for one day, too much for one soul to bear. But it is only six p.m. and Minho's gaze holds you captive, a new emotion dancing in his brown irises- grief. He's looking at you as though you're a phantom, gone when you are still very much breathing.

“We've been together for eleven months, and we moved in together two months ago,” he licks his lips nervously. “You have a two-month medical leave, and I- I don’t want to leave you alone, while you recover. So, you can think of us as… as roommates.” The word felt heavy on his tongue, a fresh wave of tears brimming in his waterline. He swiftly blinks them away.

Your parents are in a faraway city, so is your best friend. You were the one who decided to move somewhere so far, to flee from the skeletons threatening to spill out of your closet. You don't want to burden anyone. You just want to rest.

You nod in agreement and Minho attempts to smile. It is a useless effort; one he quickly gives up. There was nothing to be joyous about.

Minho takes your hand, gently helping you to your feet. He opens the door to his car, and you settle into the passenger seat. It smells pleasant, an apple-scented diffuser dangling from the rearview mirror. Yet, as Minho closes the door, the scent suddenly suffocates you. Your lungs ignite, consuming your oxygen to douse their rising flames. You can no longer breathe inside, panic rippling in your heart violently, pushing at your ribs, begging for an escape. You open the door, collapsing to your knees as a violent coughing fit overtakes you. You blindly clutch at Minho’s arm and he tumbles to the ground with you.

The ugly sob that had been trapped within your throat finally escapes, and passersby pay you no mind. It must be usual to hear gut-wrenching cries in a hospital parking lot. But Minho seems to care, as his hands soothingly rub your back, undergoing a steadfast path from the nape of your neck down the base of your spine. He’s not panicking and his touch appears to instinctively know how to speak to your sadness, how to soothe your sorrow with unheard words.

You imagine it's not his first time comforting you, and the thought only forces another sob from the depths of your soul, as Minho pulls you up once again. He sits your shaky figure on the wheelchair, closing the car doors.

“We can walk,” he tells you gently, and despite the quietness of his voice, it manages to break through your raging storm. A singular sun ray parting the gloomy clouds.

“It’s okay, I’ll... I’ll suck it up”

"You've been through a terrible car accident, and I won't let you sit here and panic, especially when your wounds are still fresh and your mind is trying to protect you."

His tone is resolute, eyes blazing with determination as he looks at you. You can only nod in response. So, Minho pushes your wheelchair to his house. He doesn’t huff, nor complain about the autumn sun scorching his skin, the effort to push you for the entirety of the road, and then inside his building. He only smiles when his eyes meet yours in the elevator mirror.

He’s tentative as he opens the door to his apartment, hand tightly gripping the keys before turning them, as if preparing himself for a bigger heartbreak, one that lies within what was once his sanctuary- yours too, you suppose.

Minho pushes you inside, pausing near the entrance as your eyes drink in the interior. He seems to await something, perhaps for you to remember the place you’ve called home for the past months. A few seconds pass, and he clears his throat, holding your arm to guide you forward. He avoids your gaze as you both venture in.

“This is the kitchen,” he points to a small kitchenette, where a flower bouquet seems to have wilted, much like the man near you- his emotions now diluted, eyes dimmed as they glaze over the walls. You spot your favorite mug on the racks, one that resembles a fairy mushroom. The sight of it makes your heart clench in your chest. So, this is your home, after all.

You leave the kitchen and walk down a narrow hallway when you stumble on your feet. “Easy, honey,” Minho cautions, and your hold on his forearm falters. He blinks at you before gazing up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, force of habit.”

“It’s okay,” you reply in a small voice.

Minho leads you to the living room, cream-colored sofas with a navy blanket on top, multiple fuzzy pillows scattered all around. A tulip field painting graces the accent blue wall- your favorite flower, two matching slippers rest by the couch, racks of your novels adjacent to his collection of cookbooks, you assume.

It is all the more evident to you that you’ve both lived here, lives intertwining so seamlessly into one another. The place radiates comfort and warmth, but it refuses to penetrate your being, as if you’re harboring a shield of oblivion, ricocheting off any touch of remembrance. You’re an intruder, standing in stark contrast to the inviting coziness that envelops you.

“I like that wall,” you say in an attempt to lighten the stuffy atmosphere.

“We painted it together,” Minho smiles sadly, and your remorse seems to liquify, blending in with the blood running through your veins.

From the corner of your eyes, you spot three furry masses bolting towards you, small paws clawing at your feet. You feel another dent add to your heart, so much you are sure it would blow away at the tiniest gust of wind. Just how much have you forgotten?

“We… We had cats?” you ask breathlessly, eyes widening as you take in the two orange felines, and the gray, much smaller one.

“These are mine, but you also adopted them, in a way,” he explains, crouching down to pet his cats, scratching the sensitive spot behind their ears. He is tender with them and they appear at ease in his presence. You realize you’ve felt the same since you’ve woken up.

“Hey, my babies,” he coos softly. “Mom- I mean y/n- is tired so let’s give her some space, okay?” he quickly corrects, before gently pushing the cats away from your feet.

Minho shows you the bathroom before leading you to the bedroom- it's a bit untidy, worn clothes thrown on the ground, some of your accessories tossed on top of the vanity. As if the room was also frozen in time, awaiting your return to resume its familiar course.

“You'll sleep here and I'll just take the couch,” Minho interrupts your thoughts as he gently sits you atop the bed.

"But-"

"I’ll make you dinner so you can take your medication, okay?” he ignores your objections, adjusting two pillows behind your back to help you sit up straight, just like the doctor cautioned. His necklace, adorned with your initial, brushes against your cheek. “Try to sleep meanwhile. You need to rest.”

“Minho this is too much-"

“It’s not. If you need anything just call me over, I’ll leave the door open,” he says, tucking you in beneath the blanket.

“I don’t want to burden you,” you finally admit, voice slightly raised so he’d finally listen.

“Y/n, I love you.” He speaks so suddenly, fists balled on either side of your body. “And this is what I do for the person I love. I… I don’t know how to not care for you, don’t take that away from me, please. Please,” he repeats, voice faltering under the weight of his plea.

"Okay," you concede.

You can't quite remember that first night, the morphine injected into your veins made you ebb and flow out of consciousness, only recollecting small fragments of the hours flowing by.

But you remember the dull pain settling into your bones, one you knew would accompany you for the following weeks. You remember the thoughts swirling in your mind like a tempest- your near brush with death, how she almost trapped you into her icy hold; the year of memories gone with the wind, as if they were never yours to begin with; and the stranger whose home you are in now, the very one who took care of you throughout the night.

And you can't perfectly recall it, but you swear Minho stayed by your side until the early hours of the morning, warm hand pressed to your forehead to check your temperature, cold tears falling on your arm as he laid his head next to your sleeping body.

Day 2.

You miss being asleep the second you wake up in.

Every fiber of your being aches, as though pain has latched itself into every muscle, its grip unrelenting now that the morphine's comforting veil has lifted. You drag a hand tiredly across your face, tears of frustration welling like dewdrops in your eyes. It's only 10 a.m. Far too early for one's spirit to crumble.

A bright post-it note on the bedside table catches your weary gaze. "I went to drop your medical leave at your work. I've made you breakfast it's in the kitchen. Don't forget to drink your medicine, I'll be home soon"

What home was Minho referring to, exactly? Because this one wasn’t yours, and neither was the one back in your hometown. Were you destined to be a passerby in temporary places, always lingering near the door, ready to put your shoes back on and leave at any moment?

10:03. Still too early.

You find solace in having two months off of your work. You couldn’t bear being somewhere where everybody knew you for months, while your memories of them span but mere weeks. The expectations they would have, the pressure to conform, to mirror the footsteps of your past self was an unbearable burden. What if she was better than you? Made better choices, spoke more eloquently? What if you couldn't live up to the image they had conjured? What if you couldn't face the repercussions of your past actions?

10:07. You need to shower.

You slowly ease yourself off the bed, careful not to put pressure on your injured leg, avoiding even the slightest exhalation. You pretend as if nothing’s happening as you pick up a pair of pajamas that you recognize from the closet – a familiar relic from the life you’ve always known.

It's a charade, you’re aware of it. You're but treading on fragile ice, your pain threatening to shatter the frozen façade beneath your feet, plunging you into the frigid truth at any given moment.

You walk into the shower, attempting to rinse the day's tiredness away. But moving your limbs is a strenuous task, and you can't reach over your head to wash your hair. You let out a dry chuckle as the water runs over your back, splattering across the white tiles.

Your heart swells in your chest, an uncomfortable weight pressing against your fractured ribs. Still, it beats, and you cling with all your might to this one silver lining.

Minho has made you pancakes, not the most nutritious meal but the only one you can stomach on your sick days. He's also brewed you tea, a singular sugar cube resting at the bottom of your cup, just the way you like it. Your grip on your fork tightens, knuckles paling. You wish he had put three sugar cubes, or that he made you anything but pancakes, something to reassure you that he didn’t know you so intimately. That your mind hasn’t stolen a love where every detail of you was known.

The door opens, keys clinking on a solid surface. The sound of it tugs at your heart ever so faintly, a distant bell ringing somewhere far- it quiets down before you even realize it is there.

“Good morning,” Minho greets, the corners of his mouth curving upward although his eyes remain downcast, redness tinging its outlines. You look down at your cup, unable to hold his wounded stare.

“Good morning. Thank you for the breakfast and for going to my work. I really appreciate it,” you say.

“It's nothing. Your coworkers wish you a speedy recovery.”

“Mm,” you murmur. “That's nice of them."

“Here,” he slides a phone across the table. “I bought you a new one since your phone’s screen was smashed in the car accident, but I took it to a repair shop. Maybe they’d manage to fix it.”

You go to protest when he shakes his head, silencing you. “Don’t say It’s too much.”

A surprised giggle escapes your lips at his accurate prediction, momentarily halting Minho in his tracks. You swallow the sound down as Minho clears his throat, dissipating your laughter into thin air. “I put my phone number there. Also, the ones of your family that I have. Always call me if you need anything, okay?” he pauses, locking your eyes with his. “Anything.”

“It's okay, I really don't want to bother you. You might be busy."

“I’ll still answer,” he quickly responds. “I’ll always answer you.”

There is a certain sincerity that coats Minho's words, one that softens the edges of his letters, making them easier to permeate your being, to sink into the seas of your soul.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Yes, hon- " He inhales deeply, eyes looking anywhere but at you. “Yes, Yn?”

“Thank you, for everything.”

“Of course.”

The ensuing hours blur into a hazy dance, in which you’re only awakened by Minho’s warm hand on your shoulder, as he brings you lunch, then dinner to your room, paired with the medicine you need to take. He doesn’t talk to you, only carrying out the tray outside when he deems you asleep- as if tiptoeing near your existence, afraid he’d slip into you again, knowing you won’t be there to catch him.

It's nearly midnight when you leave your room to use the bathroom. You pause near the door when you spot Minho petting his cats. You don’t even know their names, you haven’t dared to ask, still foolishly holding on to the hopes that this is but a horrible nightmare, one clawing at your tender skin even after you rose.

“You’re sad, aren’t you?” he coos softly, and the cats respond with plaintive mewls as if understanding his words. “Mm. I’m really sad too,” his voice is barely above a whisper, as though it’s a confession he isn’t ready to speak out loud. The pain in your ribs intensifies.

“But it’s okay, she’ll remember us. We are her family, she can’t forget us forever, right?” your breathing hitches. “Right,” he adds softly, as if to reassure himself; to inflate hope in a heart deserted by you.

Day 3.

Minho threw away the wilted flowers, leaving the vase bare at the center of the kitchen table.

You almost wish he hadn't- those lifeless blooms were the sole reflection of your faded spirit within this home. Now everything in the house seemed alive, grand windows ushering in daylight to cascade upon the living space, causing the ivory walls to glisten. Everything, except for you and Minho, two ghosts skirting along the existence of one another.

There is, was, love imprinted in this house. You could sense it though you couldn’t feel it anymore. By the two cat mugs that connect through their tails, your products intermingling with Minho's in the bathroom sink, the notes you found hung on the fridge- some with his handwriting, most with yours, reminding Minho how much you loved him.

Where did all that love go? Did it dissipate into thin air, gone as if it had never existed? Has it turned into something else, lurking beneath the surface of your skin, waiting for you to remember?

You can’t find the answers, and as Minho finishes up his breakfast, you find yourself longing to ask him about the past year. Who you were and what you’ve lived. But you know it’ll feel like salt on a wound, akin to bringing a mirror before his face, reminding him of all that's been lost.

So instead, you offer to wash the dishes. He refuses, not that you expected anything else given his attentiveness to you.

“It’s only two plates and two cups, I can do it,” you insist, but he just stares blankly at you, before motioning to your ribs, and your swollen ankle. “It’ll be quick, please. I-I want to do it.”

“Fine,” he concedes, gaze softening. “But if you feel pain you'll stop.”

“Okay,” you smile tentatively, eager for the sense of normalcy that this mundane act would bring. You haven't forgotten how to wash a cup, at least.

Five minutes pass, and you suddenly freeze, plates drying in your hands. You have no idea where the dishes go.

This was your home, yet you can't even remember which cupboard holds the plates.

Silent tears flow down your cheeks and you wipe them away angrily. You clutch the plate in your hands so tightly you’re surprised it hasn’t shattered. You selfishly wish it did- you were tired of being the sole broken entity in this house.

A small whimper escapes your lips, startling Minho who was mindlessly scrolling through his phone. He rushes to your side, brows furrowed, concern woven into his face.

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain? Should I call the doctor?” he questions; eyes raking through your figure anxiously.

You shake your head as your tears double over. You can feel your heart constricting in your chest, longing for comfort, for a missing piece that was snatched from you, the void it left behind pulsating achingly within your being.

“I-I don’t know where the dishes go, and yesterday I tried to w-wash my hair and I c-couldn’t do it,” you admit through hiccups, plate still in your hands. Minho gently takes it from your tight hold, and your pinky brushes against his palm. He flexes his hand at the touch.

“It’s okay, it’s my fault. I should've shown you,” his voice is gentle, reminding you of how one soothes a child during a tantrum. You're embarrassing yourself but you can't find it in you to care.

“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t p-put them back in their place,” you choke out, head turned down, tears ricocheting off sage tiles. You’ve always wanted a green kitchen. You’ve gotten it and you can’t remember.

“It’s okay, I’ll put them back. Shh, yn, please don’t cry.” He’s slightly panicking, hands tightly fisted near his body as if he’s afraid they’d act on their own accord, reaching out to touch you the way they’ve done the past few months. He sighs softly before taking a cautious step toward you.

“I’ll wash your hair for you,” he offers, smiling tenderly at you, knuckles brushing ever so gently against your cheeks. “Hm? You can sit in front of the sink and I’ll wash it.”

“You’d do it?”

“I’d do anything for you.”

There is a softness that emanates from every atom of Minho, flowing from his fingertips, molding everything he touches. You were sure of it as he stood beside you, pouring shampoo over your hair with you sitting on a stool, head tilted back to the sink, your favorite song playing in the background. As he dried your hair with a warm towel, and then settled behind you on the bed, gently lathering your hair with your familiar serum, brushing your strands with care, avoiding any tugs that might pain you.

Everything Minho does is not to hurt you.

You went to sleep with the ghost of his fingers lingering on your scalp, his warm breath still caressing the back of your neck. You found slumber came much easier to you that night. You account it to your hair finally being clean.

Day 4.

“Yn?” Minho calls out gently, his head peering through the bedroom door. “Should we go on a walk? Just around the block, the doctor said it’d be good.”

“Sure,” you nod, glancing at the bedside clock. 9:43 p.m. it reads.

“Dress warmly, it’s cold outside,” he advises softly before leaving.

A few minutes later, you're clad in a gray university hoodie that drapes slightly past your thighs and a pair of matching sweatpants. Minho halts in his tracks upon seeing you, his eyes racking furiously over your figure. He shakes his head, swallowing a growing lump of despair.

“Wait here,” he whispers, vanishing into his room, leaving you fidgeting in place. An orange cat sidles up to your feet and you slowly bend down to scratch its ears. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” you smile sadly and he purrs in response, as if forgiving you for forgetting.

You wished you could forgive yourself too, one day.

Minho comes back, a red scarf in his hands. He steps forward until only a few inches are separating your bodies. With attentive care, he wraps the scarf around your neck, securing it in place. His brows furrow as he loops the fabric through and you release a small, shaky exhale.

There is a fog dissipating before your eyes, a misty veil lifted off your irises. In the four days you've known Minho, you always willed yourself to not look at him for too long, afraid of the pain you'd discern brewing over his figure, the shadows cast across his face.

But now, he stands so near that you cannot help but look at him. Wispy black bangs fall on top of his forehead, framing his rich honey eyes. His long eyelashes flutter with each blink, pupils dilated like a constellation-laden night sky. The smooth bridge of his high nose, dotted with the smallest mole; a well-defined cupid's bow outlining rosy, plump lips. He’s beautiful, even in his sadness; with sunken cheekbones and darkened eye circles, the hunch of his back, and the shake in his hands as he gently frees your hair from underneath the scarf.

Was it wrong of you to find beauty in his pain?

His gaze softens when it finally meets yours, his hand still holding your scarf tightly, as if it's a lifeline tethering him to you, one with which he verifies your existence, suddenly so elusive now that it no longer entwines with his.

It must be strange, surely, to grieve the loss of someone who’s still alive, breathing in the room next to yours.

Minho smiles at you, his fingers hovering above your head, as though he wished to smooth down your hair. He retracts his hand back, burying it deep inside the pocket of his black sweatpants, physically trapping it, stopping it from reaching it out to you once again.

You’ve noticed his reticence to touch you, even when he wakes you in the morning to drink your medicine. His hand never fully rests upon your shoulder, it is only his fingertips that delicately graze your skin. It's as though he’s convinced you're but a figment of his imagination, and he fears that once he touches you, his hand will pass right through your body, shattering the illusion he foolishly held onto.

You blink and Minho’s already three steps away, grabbing his keys and opening the door.

Despite cautioning you against the cold, Minho doesn't say no when you ask for ice cream, paying for it before you can reach the counter. It's an unfamiliar brand, one that he advised you to try, and you don't regret following his choice. It’s a sweet mixture of vanilla and caramelized almonds, coated in rich milk chocolate- you can't stop the happy smile that graces your lips upon tasting it.

You glance at Minho to find an unprecedented softness coloring his expression, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. It isn't a smile directed at you, but rather an uncontrollable display of his feelings, splashing across his face like paint on a canvas.

You expect him to swallow this mark of affection down, to conceal it with a placid expression, but he doesn't. He only tilts his chin forward, gesturing to the ice cream.

"Do you like it?"

You hum in agreement, a grin stretching wider on your lips. "I do."

"You did too, back then, when I showed it to you," he says, almost casually, as if referring to a childhood memory that turned out to be more important to him than to you.

"You have good taste," you reply, scrunching your nose playfully at him. The smile slips away from his face, his voice somber when he speaks again. "I really do, don't I?"

Walking with Minho isn't as awkward as you had imagined it might be. He shows you the neighborhood- the nearby playground, the hidden flower shop tucked away in a corner and you make a mental note to visit it later. You point at closed shops inquiring about them- he answers each of your questions diligently.

Your accident is never brought up, and you both tiptoe around the topic, skirting the edge of a dark forest where the light no longer seeps through and dark vines cover the sun.

You both refuse to venture into the unknown.

"Just down the road, there is a bookstore. They have really great deals and I bought most-" Shouts erupt from somewhere nearby, loud slurred voices of two men under the influence. Your hand instinctively wraps around Minho's forearm, while his hand moves in front of your body, acting as a shield.

You freeze, letting out a shaky breath. "I- I hate yelling."

"I know," he responds simply, lowering his hand.

He knows you- it is a comforting thought, to realize that you exist beyond the confines of your own mind.

Day 5.

Minho’s staring blankly at his phone, your conversation shining dimly before his eyes. You’ve just sent him a text reassuring him that you indeed took your medicine since he wasn’t home today with you- his three days off work passing by in the blink of an eye.

In his mind, the past week felt like a mirage, a nightmare woven with intricate threads of his deepest fears- losing you, never getting to see the glimmer in your eyes again, and then looking at it and realizing it is no longer directed at him.

He exhales softly, tucking his phone into the pocket of his navy trousers. The salty breeze from the nearby lake grazes his senses, and he closes his eyes, yearning for a fleeting respite.

He purposely avoids watching the sun's descent into the water, which paints the sky in hues of yellow and orange. He no longer finds the sunset unfolding before him captivating, or any other scenery, for that matter, even those he once deemed beautiful. The world, in his eyes, has become lackluster and devoid of vibrancy, overshadowed by a profound sadness he never fathomed would reside in his heart.

He still doesn’t know how he managed to remain strong until now, tending to you, holding your gaze, and breathing near you when you don’t even remember him.

You’ve survived, he reminds himself, you were lucky enough to be able to draw these breaths. The thought of any other outcome sends uncomfortable shivers down his spine. You’re alive and you’ll be home, he clings to this truth as he starts making his way back to his apartment.

For how long will this knowledge offer him solace? How long will it push him to face a new day? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he wants to.

It is much deeper into the night, the sound of the TV playing softly in the background. Minho has given up on slumber since the day of your accident. He was used to the feel of your fingers playing with his hair, your goodnight kisses planted on his forehead, then his on yours.

He doesn't know how to sleep without burying his head in your neck, your chest, your stomach, wherever he saw fit that day. And he was used to your warmth- the warmth of your body as he pressed it tightly to his, the warmth of your love as you whispered goodnight to him. And the living room feels immensely cold in your absence.

He fixates his gaze on the ceiling, resolute in his effort to avoid scanning the room. Since every corner he dares to inspect serves as a poignant reminder of the life you both once shared, a life whose echoes still reverberate in the air around him. The sound of your laughter, the memory of your annoyed whines when he teased you a bit too fervently. Vivid recollections unfold before his eyes- your tender kisses exchanged under the fridge's light, warm hugs by the front door after a particularly long day, none of you willing to let go first.

He remembers your delighted giggles the first time you entered the house. It was still unfurnished, save for a floatable mattress and two empty cups of ramen beside it. But you were happy, immensely so, and your joy seemed to fill every room, painting it with shades of your love. Now the house feels empty- you're here and yet you aren't, and he is still on the sidewalk where he received that fateful call from your hospital.

The moonlight filters through the window, and Minho looks at the light without truly seeing it. It's as if darkness surrounds him entirely- a bottomless sky where the stars of your affection have fizzled out, so suddenly, leaving him alone to wander blind. He can't help but feel guilty- had he not given you a love worth remembering?

Minho sighs loudly once again, trying to coax the reluctant breaths to escape his body. He pulls himself to his feet to check on you, knowing that you had to sleep upright for the first few days so your ribs would heal properly, which is why he often found himself readjusting your body at night.

He peeks through the door, the light from the hallway casting an ethereal glow on your body. He frowns when he notices you fidgeting in your sleep, eyebrows knitted together. A soft gasp escapes your lips and Minho hurries to your side. He's witnessed your nightmares before and he knows that this one must be particularly terrifying to elicit such startled sounds from you.

“Y/n,” Minho coaxes gently, but you don’t respond. He presses his palm to your shoulder, shaking you slightly. “Y/n, wake up.” You writhe in your place, fear evident in your features, and Minho grabs both your shoulders, growing more urgent in his attempts to wake you. “Y/n, come on wake up!” he speaks louder, and you startle awake, pushing his arms away.

“I’m... Where am I?” you ask frantically, hand running through your hair. A sharp pain seems to surge through your ribs as you clutch your chest, slightly doubling over.

“Take it easy, Y/n. Deep breaths,” he wills gently and you raise your head, meeting his eyes. Recognition shines in them, but not love, not anymore. He never knew affection could alter someone’s gaze this much.

“Minho… I- I remember,” you gasp, tears trailing down your face at an alarming rate. He freezes in place, tongue thickening in his mouth, unable to move it.

“What... what do you remember?” he asks carefully, sitting on the edge of your bed.

“The accident. I remember driving and I… I was going in my lane, I- I didn’t… I wasn’t driving fast, but a truck came out of nowhere and its lights blinded me, and then… it rammed into the passenger seat side of the car and-" Your hands shake as you bring them to your face. “The blood, there was so much blood coming out of me, that’s- that’s the last thing I remember, it was in my hands and my arms and-" You’re wiping frantically at your skin as if erasing remnants of the red liquid only you can see. “I bled so much but I was… I- I don’t-"

“Can I hold your hands?” Minho cuts you off, needing the panic to dissipate from your being.

“Please,” you stutter, and he promptly grabs your hands in his warm ones, intertwining your fingers together, rubbing his thumb soothingly across your palm.

“You are safe now. You are alive and you are breathing and you are safe.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong, I drove safely, why… why was I hit?” you ask in a small, broken voice, overwhelmed by the unjust reality of the world. Minho swallows his own tears, throwing them down the pits of his pain. The one thing he wished you’d never remember was your accident, the sight of your unconscious body for those three days nearly driving him insane.

“He was drunk. And he’s in jail now. It wasn’t your fault you couldn’t have prevented it."

You remain silent, gaze lost on the wall. “Hm? It wasn’t your fault, right?" he presses, squeezing your hand lightly.

“Yeah.” You sigh, unconvinced. Minho reluctantly drops your hand to pour you a glass of water, and you diligently drink it, before curling around yourself in a ball.

“No, you can’t sit like this,” he gently reprimands and you pout.

"My heart hurts. The pressure helps."

“I know it does,” he smiles in understanding, “but we have to make sure your ribs won’t hurt more, alright?” he explains as he pulls you upright, tucking pillows beneath your arms. He grabs a hoodie from the closet and rolls it into a ball, placing it gently on your chest.

“Here, you can hug this instead.” You giggle quietly at the makeshift plushie, but your laughter suddenly morphs into fresh tears, catching him off-guard.

“I’m so tired, Minho. And I’m so frustrated and mad and sad. Is it possible to f-feel all these things at once?" You hiccup, burying your face into his hoodie, soaking it in tears.

“It is,” he hums gently, “Do you think it’d help if you talked to a therapist?” He feels you tense up beneath the comforter. “Only if you want to, on your own terms.”

“I’ll think about it,” you whisper.

“Of course,” he says. “Try to sleep again, mm?”

“I don’t think I can,” you chuckle quietly, wiping your tears away with the sleeves of your cardigan. “Do you have work tomorrow?” you ask.

“I do.”

“What do you work as?”

“Computer programming. I’m also a dance teacher on the side,” he adds quietly, feeling a bit vulnerable at revealing this bit about himself again.

“How do you manage both?” you ask in awe and he shrugs.

“My IT job leaves me a lot of free time. And I’ve always loved dance, so it doesn’t really feel like a job, you know?”

“Mm, you must work very hard at it. That’s why your body’s so toned,” you say almost absentmindedly, as Minho lets out a surprised chuckle at your words.

“You think my body is toned?”

“I mean- I didn’t ogle you I just… you know, you wear these fitted shirts it’s hard not to notice your muscles and-"

"You are sick and yet you’re staring at my body?” he tsks. “I feel used.”

“Hey,” you hit him with the hoodie he gave you. “Forget I said anything,” you pout.

“It’s okay, I work very hard for these, thank you very much,” he flexes slightly, and genuine laughter bubbles up from you both. This might be the one thing he misses the most.

You both quiet down, silence filling the room once again, but it isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable, almost as if you're the same person he's always known.

“What’s your favorite color?” you suddenly ask.

“Purple.”

“Did my favorite color change over this past year?”

“No,” he chuckles, “it’s still that obnoxious orange.”

“It’s not obnoxious, it’s peculiar.”

“it’s weird and it hurts my poor eyes,” he whines, covering his face as if wounded by the mere thought of it.

“Hey, what if it can hear us and now you just hurt its feelings?”

“Colors have feelings now?” he asks, amused.

“Everything has feelings,” you nod matter-of-factly.

“Okay then think of the feelings of this bed we are both squishing with our weights.”

“Don’t say that. Now I’m sad for it,” you pat the comforter gently, a slight pout tugging at your lips.

“I think you should sleep,” he smiles and you fake a gasp. “Is my convo boring you?”

“Yes. Now sleep, Yn,” he brings the comforter up your body, sliding away from the bed. “You’ll be okay, right?”

“Can you… can you sleep here too? I saw the inflatable mattress in the storage room. If that’s not… too much to ask for.”

"Of course not. I'll be back."

"Thank you, Minho" you smile, lower lip slightly quivering. "Thank you for not being mad at me."

Just how many cracks can one heart bear before breaking beyond repair? Minho thinks he's close to finding out.

Day 6.

The lights of your dreams have returned, but they are no longer comforting, nor warm, they glare harshly, searing your eyes as they announce your impending doom. Each second draws out in slow-motion and you find yourself counting the breaths you inhale, fearing they may be your last. One in, one out, one in, one out. The moment you dreaded unfolds- the truck collides with your car, flipping it upside down.

However, this time, flames rage within. You know that your car wasn't burned, but they feel terrifyingly tangible as they latch onto your skin. The heat becomes unbearable, you are no longer sure that this is just a mere dream. You try to scream but smokey air fills your lungs instead, robbing you of your ability to speak.

You need to wake up. You need someone to rouse you from this nightmare. Minho. You try to utter his name, but it escapes your lips in a strangled whisper. The lights won.

A cool hand clasps your own, yanking you from the fiery dream, dissolving it like sugar in a hot cup of tea. You startle awake to find Minho hovering over you, brows knitted in concern, his hand tenderly cradling yours.

“Are you okay? Another bad dream?” he inquires and you sigh in response, nodding as your head falls back onto the pillow.

He brushes your hair back, some damp strands still clinging to your sweaty forehead. "You screamed my name. Was I in your nightmare?” he ventures carefully, afraid he was one of the sources of your fear.

“No, I… I thought of you, in my dream,” you reassure, although your words seem to have the opposing effect, making Minho pause in his tracks. You’ve noticed his habit of freezing around you as if needing time to process what you just said. You wonder if you’ve ever came to learn the meaning behind each of his silences, what his blinks convey in ways his tongue fails to.

“You are heating up,” he clears his throat, pressing his hand against your forehead. “Do you wanna shower? I’ll make you tea meanwhile.”

“Okay, yeah. I’d like that,” you nod, glancing at your phone- 3.47 a.m.

Twenty minutes later, you find Minho sitting on the inflatable bed, legs crossed, two steaming mugs of tea before him. He appears drowsy, eyes shutting and reopening as if fending off slumber. It’s almost an endearing sight- the way his bangs fall before his eyes, obstructing his vision, the sleeves of his pullover dangling over his hands, hiding them from your view. He brought the mattress without you asking him to. The attention brings a smile to your face.

“Hi,” you greet softly and Minho looks up, a tender smile on his face. “Hey. Here is your tea.”

“Thank you,” you beam at him, settling on the edge of your bed, legs crisscrossed to mirror his. “I’m sorry that I woke you up.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t really asleep, just resting my eyes.”

“Isn't that what sleep is?” you snort and he chuckles, shaking his head.

“I was still conscious, you know. I can’t really sleep these days.”

“Is the couch uncomfortable?” you ask, worried, fidgeting with your lower lip.

“It’s not the couch,” he says as his eyes lock on yours, a stare so intense it forces you to look down at your cup. ‘it’s you’, you read in his gaze. You have no answer for that.

“What's your favorite food?” you suddenly wonder.

“Pudding.”

“But that’s dessert?”

“I really like the one you used to make me.”

“I cooked for you? and you liked it?” you giggle. “I’m not really good at it, usually.”

“I taught you some basic skills,” he smirks, raising his eyebrows proudly at you.

“Too bad your effort is now wasted.”

“It’s not a waste if it was done with love,” he pauses, licking his lips. “And I remember it.”

A bittersweet fog shrouds the air- he remembers that memory, but you don’t. Perhaps you will never bridge that gap, no matter how much you want to. The room in your heart may remain forever locked, the gateway to that chamber brimming with your stolen memories. Maybe you're condemned to merely stand before the closed door, straining to hear the echoes of the love that resonates behind, forever just out of reach.

You don’t fall asleep again that night. And as Minho’s quiet snores fill the room, you rummage your mind in search of a pudding recipe, hoping to retrieve the memory he spoke of so tenderly, shaky hands holding his mug tightly. Silent tears trail down your cheeks and you try your best to stifle the sound of your cries.

You want to make pudding. You want to make him pudding so badly.

Day 7.

It’s been a week since you woke up anew. Seven days adrift in a vast sea where waves of your memories lap at the shores of your mind, unable to breach the walls guarding your recollections of the past year.

Minho took you to the hospital for your weekly check-up. He sat by your side as the doctor reassured you that your ribs were healing relatively well, but you still needed time to recover, time for your body to mend, time for your memories to return. You loathed the waiting, the wasted days slipping through your fingers. You wanted a now.

But you kept all these thoughts to yourself, thanking the doctor as he exited the room.

Minho rented a bicycle to drive you around since the thought of being in a car made your anxiety spike. He installed a little seat for you, in that bright, obnoxious orange color you love very dearly. The sight of it nearly brought tears to your eyes this morning.

Minho idly pedaled around, choosing a scenic route, one he knew by heart from the looks of it. You closed your eyes, savoring the last sun rays of the year. Autumn was fading, winter clawing its way into the seasons slowly. You weren’t sure you could handle both the cold and the grief.

Miho took time off work for your doctor's appointment, and you both spent the day around one another, side by side on the couch, a new book in your hands, and an anime playing on the TV for Minho.

You could see him casting occasional, nervous glances in your direction, as you flipped the pages of the book. You didn’t understand why at first.

But then you did.

You only brought it up at night, when it was past 2 a.m. and you knew that Minho wasn’t sleeping either, the screen of his phone illuminating his face. He left the inflatable mattress in the room, no longer waiting for a nightmare to occur. You weren’t complaining. You desperately needed company.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Mm?”

“How did we meet?”

You can hear Minho suck in a deep breath at your question, before placing his phone down, the only light source in the room fizzling out. It made talking easier that way, when only your voices were heard, carried around, as if emitting from two entities that weren’t you both.

“We met… near your old apartment block. I was going to the kimbap place near yours, you remember that one, right?”

You hum in response.

“And I saw you crying, crouching near an injured cat. Some car had run over her leg, and she couldn’t walk anymore. And you didn’t know what to do, so I helped you. You insisted on coming with me to the vet where I take my cats. So, we caught a cab. And you were so worried, you didn’t stop crying, so the cab driver thought I did something to you,” he chuckles faintly.

“Then, the vet put a cast on her leg and reassured us that she’d be okay. And I told him I’d take her home and bring her for check-ups. But you were so worried, you begged me to send you updates about the cat. So, you gave me your number. And we talked.”

“What happened to the cat?”

“I took her to a rescue store I trusted since I couldn’t take her in. and we still visited her from time to time. And then, she found a good family.”

“And what happened to us?” you inquire softly, hoping that if your voice was quiet enough then your question wouldn't hurt Minho as much.

“We kept in touch," he said. "And it was… easy to talk to you, I felt as if I had known you for my entire life. When you found out I had three cats, we Facetimed a lot so you’d see them, but then we just kept on calling, every day, for nearly two weeks. Being with you felt natural, you know? I didn’t overthink it. I never did."

“And then three weeks later you came over to see Soonie, Dori, and Doongie. We ended up watching three movies in a row, and you were so tired you slept on my couch.”

“That’s embarrassing,” you chuckle.

"Yes," he laughs and you reach over to swat his shoulder playfully. "But it was also cute, and endearing. Then you came over a lot, and we just cooked together. Well, I cooked and you watched.”

“Right, that sounds more like me," you instantly agree.

“We hung outside too, whenever one of us had free time. We had a lot of common hobbies and interests so we never ran out of things to talk about. We made time for each other too.”

“How did we start dating?”

“You made the first move.”

“I did?” you shoot up from your place, hissing when the abrupt movement causes a twinge of pain in your ribs.

“Take it easy,” he giggles, as he illuminates your face with his flashlight. “You did.”

“Did you put a spell on me? I swore I’d never make a first move again after I was rejected in third grade. That was my most sacred oath."

“Well… you were ranting about this book. The one you were reading today,” he adds, and your excitement fizzles out, as the pieces of the puzzle finally fall into place. “You were sad because you had no one to talk to about it. So, I bought the book and read it. I gave you my copy, complete with highlighted passages and notes. And when I did… you kissed me, without warning,” his voice is softer now, as he fiddles with the tip of his blushing ears. "You said it was the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for you.”

“It was. It is,” you whisper, heart caught in your throat. “I saw the photograph of us both lodged between the pages of the book. Did we take it that day?”

“Yes, we weren’t dating, not yet. Because I told you I wanted to take you out on a proper date. But you wanted us to take a picture holding the book… So you’d remember.”

“So I'd remember,” you repeat, voice quivering. What good was it for in the end?

“I looked so happy in the photograph,” you whisper, tears welling up your eyes. “I looked so happy with you,” your voice breaks as you utter that last part. "Did I love you, Minho?"

"You did," he nods softly, blinking away his own tears.

“And did you love me?”

“I did. I still do, very much.”

“Thank you, for loving me. It sounds like I’ve lived a happy year with you.”

Minho's pain is akin to a polite guest; it lingers by the corner, speaking in whispers, hardly ever raising its voice. You'd never really notice it, unless you strain your ears, as you're doing now. Only then would you discern the tremors of his quiet sobs- broken, stifled, determined not to make themselves known, only escaping his lips when he thinks you've fallen asleep.

Day 8.

Whenever an overwhelming emotion ran freely along the corridors of your soul, you'd often find yourself curled in a fetal position, knees drawn to your chest, like a fragile leaf.

Your teacher once explained that it reminds us of safer times in the wombs of our mothers, when the cruelty of life hasn’t yet reached us.

It is the way you’re resting now, upon the cold, hardwood floor, dozens of books surrounding you. You decided to go through each book in Minho’s library, the need to satiate your curiosity overtaking you. You didn’t know what you were looking for, exactly. Other photographs, surely, in the hopes that one of them would spark up your memory, ignite the flame of remembrance.

What you didn’t expect was to find Minho talking to you through books. Within the pages, amid the words, scribbled in small, dainty handwriting, threads of his thoughts all relating to you. Quotes he thought you’d appreciate, highlighted segments that reminded him of you. And dedications, so many dedicated lines you felt like you could drown in them. It felt as if Minho was on a quest to find love within every line, only to inscribe your name beside it.

Putting down the last book, you were left with a huge void, akin to a black hole eating away at your heart. So, you laid on the floor, one arm underneath your head, knees held tightly to your chest- as if trying to create borders for your sadness, to stop it from spilling out of your body, drowning the house in even more sorrow. Those four walls have had enough, more than they could contain. And so did you.

You suddenly longed for the very beginning of your life, when time was but a tranquil stream, when you were unaware of the hurtful years it would carve into your existence. Back to when your spine was still curled around itself; for it was never meant to be straightened. Your spine was never strong enough to bear your pain.

You wanted to talk to someone, but you didn’t know who you could turn to. You didn’t know how to articulate these emotions into words, tangible enough for someone to understand them. And you couldn’t talk to Minho about it, not when he was hurting on his own.

Because he smiled down at his cats, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. His laughter echoed around the room when he talked to his friends on the phone. And sometimes, he even hummed under his breath while making you breakfast. But this happiness never reached his eyes, behind his pupils the sadness seared itself into his veins, casting a gloomy shadow that followed him everywhere he went. It was a palpable ache, one that filled the very atmosphere with the metallic taste of grief. Making it almost impossible for you to breathe in. Even more so when you remember it was all your fault.

These are the thoughts that haunted you all day, as they have been doing for the past week. Minho must have noticed that you were feeling gloomier than usual, a silent storm raging by his side, since he put up a romcom for you. “It made you laugh a lot when you watched it months ago.”

“How do you remember all of these things about me?” you ponder, scratching the fragile skin near your nails, easily torn, just like you.

“Does it make you uncomfortable? Should I stop?” he asks quietly, deflecting your question.

“No,” you say the truth. “It'd be weird if you were an actual stranger, but… you knew me. And I knew you. and I still feel safe around you.”

He nods silently, but something in his gaze compels you to keep talking.

“I mean, I never felt uncomfortable around you these days, which surprised me too. I just… I suppose that even if my mind doesn’t remember, my heart does, in a way?”

“My heart will always remember you,” he whispers, gaze adrift in a faraway memory.

A gear shifts in your mind, a sudden light flooding your vision. You find yourself within a grand canopy bed, its pure white curtains swaying to the rhythm of a whimsical breeze, their delicate fabric brushing lightly against your cheek. It’s slightly cold from the wide-open windows, but then it’s warm, as a gentle hand finds its place on your thigh, kindling an ember deep within, setting your very soul ablaze.

The curtains sway with the wind, obscuring your view, but you can still discern the sound of your laughter, echoing like distant chimes. And a tenderness, so delicate it seemed almost otherworldly, trailing along your skin, as warmth caresses your cheek and gently traverses the curve of your collarbones, peppering it with the softest kisses. You can't quite behold it, but it is unmistakably there, an ineffable presence that threatens to burst your heart at the seams—a memory of your love for Minho.

It is a blurry sight, like peering into a worn-out photograph, its details softened by the sands of time. But you clutch to it- to your fading laughter and hushed conversation, and then your voice ringing clearly in your mind, the promise you made to Minho.

'My heart will always remember you'.

You startle back in a jolt; the light and warmth have extinguished. They are now dull, withered down, sitting next to you with their head hung low.

It takes you an inhumane effort to swallow down the lump in your throat.

Day 16.

This week has been particularly cold. Not temperature-wise, October has always harbored these same frigid temperatures and you've gotten used to them, to the relentless winds brushing against your skin. Only this time they pierced right through your soul instead.

You knew what had changed. You had felt the sadness, the frustration, the guilt- all blending into one sorrowful symphony, pulling at your heartstrings the way one does to a harp. Yet, amid these familiar emotions, a new feeling loomed large this past week- anxiety.

It arrived in sudden, icy bursts, cold beads of perspiration cascading down your spine, feet suddenly freezing no matter how fuzzy your socks were- the physical telltales, then came the emotional ones. The shadows of dread, for we fear the unseen more than that which we can touch. The growing panic gnawing at your heart, hinting that something profoundly disastrous lurked on the horizon.

Anxiety held you suspended in the air, bound by invisible ropes that compelled you to watch from above as the days drifted past you. You were a ghost haunting an empty shell, hollow and resonant with anxiety's clang, akin to an empty can's descent to the ground.

Your appetite had fled, leaving you alone to grapple with the chore of feeding yourself, mechanically ingesting food only to pacify Minho’s concerned gaze. The TV’s volume blared, since you desperately needed the voices of other people to invade your mind, to render your thoughts merciless, forcing them to put their sword-like tongues down.

And the exhaustion, not accounted to your broken ribs, for Minho had meticulously overseen their recovery. It was an emotional fatigue, a weariness that clung to your every breath, trapping them within your ribcage, far beyond their time, until they tethered on the brink of exploding in your lungs- a supernova of darkness devouring your essence. Only then did the breaths release their hold on you.

So, you patiently awaited the inevitable unraveling, because you knew this wasn’t an ordinary anxiety. Your soul whispered to you in a language your mind could no longer translate, throbbing with a message you couldn’t quite recollect, striving urgently to jog your memory of a monumental truth.

But you didn’t remember– you should have.

You should've known it was Minho’s birthday.

It is near midnight when you venture out of your room, the inflatable bed by your side unusually vacant. A dim glow draws you to the kitchen, and as you stand by its entrance, an intensified cold grips you. It chills the blood in your veins, transforming it into splintered shards that prick uncomfortably beneath your skin.

Minho is sitting by the table, a small, muted cake before him, a shoebox by his side. A solitary candle flickers in front of his face, casting elongating shadows on his chiseled features. The flame is about to fizzle out- you feel like your heart will closely follow suit.

"Minho..." you call out gently, careful not to startle him from the trance ensnaring him. He doesn't react to the sound of your voice.

"Minho, I…"

"Today was my birthday."

His tone is cold, like the darkening clouds before a stormy night. His words feel like lightning bolts piercing your core.

"It would be stupid to blow this candle out, wouldn't it? Because you and I both know my wish won't come true. Maybe it never will. And it's killing me, yn." His voice quivers as it utters your name, a slight shake taking over his lips. His cheeks are tear stained- glimmering reflections under the golden flame. You've never seen him this sad. You don't know how to comfort him in his sadness.

A rush of nausea overwhelms your being, a yearning to expel every emotion, methodically, until your heart transforms into a tranquil organ, solely pulsing life's crimson essence through your frame. Nothing more, nothing less.

"This shoe box is yours. You kept it under the bed, filled it with everything that reminded you of me. You told me..." he pauses, taking in a deep breath. "You told me that you wanted to remember everything about us, every single detail. But I... I don't care if you don't remember every date we went to. I just-" his forehead rests on his palm, as he squeezes his eyes shut. "I just want you to remember that you love me."

Hot tears are rolling across his cheeks, splattering across the table like a broken mosaic. He doesn't try to hide them or wipe them away. He's had enough.

"Minho, I’m-"

"I mean- that's not too much to ask for, right?" he finally lifts his head, locking his eyes with yours. A black abyss, a dark void. You are the one who sucked out all the light.

"You- you said you loved me. And I- I felt it, y/n, when you looked at me, when you touched me. I felt it, it wasn't- it wasn't just words, I-" he pauses, running a hand through his hair, tugging at his black locks furiously. "You loved me," his voice breaks. "Why- why can't you remember that you loved me?"

Your tongue bursts to flame in your mouth, its grey ashes choking you from within. What could you even say? How do you stop the bleeding of a heart when you carry knives for fingers?

Minho abruptly stands up, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. "We talked about marriage, a-about kids, you said- you said you'd choose me to be the father of your children, you said you wanted a big house w-with me and you-” he points at you, chest heaving, eyes rimmed red. “You said you wanted us to sit at the patio when we're eighty and you wanted us to hold hands still," he chuckles bitterly, his arms falling limp by his side incredulously. "And now you don't even remember me."

He grabs the box, rummaging through its contents furiously. "You see this?" he waves dried flowers before your eyes, their petals falling to the floor from the force of his agitation. "These are the flowers I got you for our first date. You dried them and put them here because you- you said you wanted to preserve it, to remember."

"And this, the cinema tickets from our first movie date. You were so tired you just slept on my shoulder all the time and then I- I carried you home and you kissed me." He's growing more frantic, rifling through the shoe box in a frenzy. You remain rooted by the kitchen's entrance, a sense of powerlessness holding you captive, an unbreakable vice around your being.

"This is the napkin from our favorite cat café, and look," he grabs your hand, clammy palm pressed to yours, pulling you toward the table." This is the receipt of the first time we went grocery shopping together and-" he waves it in the air, before slamming it onto the table. "And, you e-even kept this stupid rock I gave you right before I told you I love you for the first time, because you said it was the happiest day of your life, my god Yn how can you not remember?"

A broken, sob-laden chuckle escapes his lips, a sound so heart wrenchingly human, so painfully poignant that for an instant, it fills you with a bitter aversion to your own humanity- it was never meant to inflict this much pain upon someone else.

Your thoughts shatter as Minho tenderly cups your face, urging you to confront his turbulent gaze. He seeks something within your eyes, and you desperately hope he'd find it, whatever it may be, anything to stop the tremor in his hands as they anchor you in place.

"Why did you- why did you keep all of this if not to remember me.” He asks, unblinking, lip quivering. “Please, please, remember me, just- just try, okay?"

"I’m so sorry-"

"No. No. Don't- don't apologize like it's final like you could never love me again," his hands glide to your shoulders, shaking you slightly in place. "Don't you understand? I-I don't want an apology I want you to remember me."

"Minho..."

"Just look through this, it's our happiest memories y/n, okay?" he let goes of you, circling the table before shoving the box into your hands. He smiles- attempts to, it is an unnatural presence amidst his tears, so out of place it sends shivers down your spine. "Look at it, yn, please," he pleads as your hold on the box falters. "I can’t remember us alone. I’m crushing under the weight of everything we lived it’s exhausting me!"

His voice ascends pitch, the end of his words hanging into the air, searing themselves into the particles you breathe. His voice leaves a painful echo on his trail. You’re exhausting him.

You put the box down, taking three cautious step forwards.

And then you hug Minho.

He can't even hold you back, body trembling with the sobs rippling through him as soon as your chest presses to his. He sinks to the floor and you follow suit, arms enfolding his concaved shoulders tightly, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "Im sorry, I'm so sorry Minho. I- I wish I could remember."

You want the kitchen to collapse upon itself. There is too much grief in such a small room- it stains the walls like blood droplets, absorbs his cries like a saturated sponge.

You don’t think you could ever sit at this table again.

He finally clasps your back, drawing you even nearer to him. "Can- can you pretend, just today, please? For my birthday. Pretend you still love me."

"Of course. It's okay, I’m here, honey. I'm here."

"I love you. I love you so much," he whispers, lips pressed against your neck. "And it hurts to love you, so much." He brings your hand to his heart. "It hurts so much right here."

He doesn't let go of your hand, softly caressing your knuckles. His breath hitches as his thumb hovers over your ring finger. "I... I was going to propose, you know? I even bought the ring, stored it away for when the time is right. Do you think you would have remembered if you woke up wearing it?"

He knows your answer would've been yes. You know that too, in the matching cat mugs and the book annotations and the way Minho gently held your face, even in the depths of his despair. Everywhere you look, your answer echoes back- yes, the home chants in unison, that's what you would've said. Yes, yes, yes.

Day 17.

In the cracks of concrete sidewalks, tenacious flowers manage to sprout. Just how in the depths of Minho’s pain, small joys bloomed, nestled in the vacant spaces between you and him.

You'd greet him each time he opened the door, your voice resonating through the apartment like the sweetest sonnet. And he would always pause by the doorknob, basking in the sound of your voice that hadn’t changed in the slightest. Your tone still held that same dulcet timber, a golden honey that once dripped freely upon his soul.

But today, Minho swung open the door and an eerie hush greeted him instead. He ventured in, calling after you, only to be met with utter silence. He anxiously checked the rooms, opening the doors hastily one by one. But you weren't there. You weren't home.

Minho felt the familiar tendrils of worry coiling around his heart, constricting it with each passing moment. He quickly grabbed his phone, dialing your number, only to fall into your voicemail, the robotic voice chilling him to the core.

In the past two weeks, you had made sure to text Minho each time you went outside- a precaution you took due to your fractured ribs which came with frequent fits of dizziness. It was a safety measure for one person, at least, to know where you are.

But you didn't text him today. And he had no idea where you might’ve gone to.

Minho tried to suck in a deep breath, willing the fear to relinquish its icy grip on his body so he could think properly. Maybe you had simply forgotten, he reasoned. Yet, he knew that you never back out on your promises. They were sacred for you since they were once senselessly broken.

For the second time in a mere three weeks, Minho’s deepest fears unfurl like a nightmare before him, ensnaring him in a tapestry woven with the bloody threads of everything that went wrong yesterday.

He carried his shame akin to heavy bricks on his shoulders, causing them to hunch forward- a coward, leaving the house before you even rose, and on his trail, your breakfast and a hastily written note. He couldn’t fathom eating at that kitchen table with you, not when his sobs still echoed around those sage walls, as did your quiet voice as you tried to soothe his cries, holding him between your tender arms.

Minho was scared. He was terrified you’d never come back home after everything that had happened, the words he said and the way he pleaded, nearly at your feet, consumed by a sadness grander than anything he’s ever known.

So, he storms out of the apartment in a hurry, scouring the nearby playground. But you aren’t there. The grocery store is next, the library, the flower shop, the cat café tucked in a corner that you may have stumbled on.

You were still nowhere to be found.

A dreadful sense of foreboding overcame him, akin to how he felt when his phone rang two weeks prior- the unfamiliar number of the hospital shining before his eyes. What if something happened to you, a fit of dizziness but no one was around to help? Life doesn’t grant you a second chance. No one has ever brushed against death’s shoulder twice and lived to tell the tale. What if he receives another call?

He couldn’t survive another call.

Minho stands in the midst of the road, clutching his head with a tight grip, desperately searching his memory for the places that once brought you solace during the months he spent knowing you. However, he quickly remembers that you no longer know of those places.

So where could you have gone?

An epiphany dawns upon Minho- the bridge you had pointed out to him from a distance on one of your walks, the first place you claimed as your own in the city. It towered above the ocean, suspended several meters in the air. He couldn't accompany you there that day, bound by a paralyzing fear of heights.

He prays with all his might that he's right.

He dashes towards the bridge akin to a madman, the desperate rhythm of his pounding feet mirroring the urgency in his heart. It looms tantalizingly close, a mere 15 minutes away, and Minho, in a state of disarray, knows he's not fit to drive right now. He was never fond of running, he didn't enjoy the searing ache in his lungs, robbing him of his ability to breathe. But he welcomes the pain today- it means that he's running fast enough to reach you. He hopes, he prays.

Minho spots you from a distance, a mere silhouette standing at the bridge's edge, your figure unmistakable with the red scarf tightly wound around your neck. Relief nearly brings him to his knees - you're alive.

Minho doesn't think as he sprints to you, eyes solely focused on you and not the void beneath his feet.

"Yn!" he calls out from afar, and you startle, snapping your head back to look at him. He wonders what he must look at you, disheveled hair, the wind knocking down his jean jacket. But he doesn't care.

Minho stands before you without pause, instantly pulling you into the shelter of his chest, his hand cradling the back of your head. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling the familiar smell of your shampoo, a constant through the months of knowing you. He clings to it, to the familiarity of your scent and the way your heartbeat seems to pour from your body to his, speaking in a language only your souls can comprehend. His arms clutch at you tightly, rugged breaths escaping his body, dew tears gathering in his eyes and dropping down your shoulders.

Your arms hang limp by your side, confusion etched across your face at the urgency, the frenzy in which he pulled you to his chest, an emotion you hadn’t known in him in these past weeks.

You tentatively raise your hands, patting his back slowly. "Minho, what’s wrong?" you whisper, and he shakes his head.

"You weren't home. I- I thought something happened to you."

"No, I just went on a walk and lost track of time," you reassure him and he pulls away, warm hands cradling your cheeks.

"You're okay, right? Tell me you're okay," he pleads and you smile, nodding your head. “I'm okay, don’t worry.”

Minho drops your face, embarrassment flooding his being at his outburst. It morphs to panic as he realizes the expanse beneath—nothing but the vast ocean, the wind slamming into his body, making him lose his footing.

"Are... you okay?" you ask cautiously. "Minho, you're shaking," you point out, a frown tugging at your lips. "Are you cold?"

He stays silent, unable to place a word beyond the stutter of his lips.

"Here," you hurriedly unwrap your red scarf, enclosing it around his neck. "You're shivering, Minho," you grab his hands, rubbing his fingers, blowing warmth into them, an attempt to kindle fire into him.

"I'm not- not cold. I- I’m scared of heights," he admits through a stutter, eyes tightly closed.

"Then why are you here?" You ask, surprised.

"Because you are."

His confession comes out quietly, softened by the blow of his fear. His eyes remain closed, missing the tears gathering in your eyes, the ones you swiftly try to blink away.

"Let's go, just keep your eyes closed. Hold my hand," you entwine your fingers with his, squeezing it lightly to signal you're there, as you walk across the bridge.

You don't let go until you finally regain solid ground.

"You're safe. you can open your eyes," you say quietly.

"You're okay, right?" he inquires again, stepping closer.

"Why are you asking me this when you're the one shaking?" you chuckle, almost exasperated, nothing funny in the sound.

"I was worried about you, and I thought you left… after yesterday."

"Why would you- My god Minho why would you even come running across this bridge? Why would you do something like that when you're afraid?"

"Because I love you," his voice is resolute, soft as a whisper, as he states a simple truth. It only makes yours reach new heights.

"But why- why do you love me? Why would you still love me after everything I put you through?"

"You didn't put me through anything," he shakes his head, and you take a step back, facing away from him. He can see your body heaving up and down, the weight of unspoken words making your heartbeat race. And then you snap.

"You broke down yesterday," you pivot back, pointing at his chest. "You broke down in my arms because of me. Why would you still love me after all this Minho I don't- I don't understand."

"I shouldn't have done that, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I know I probably made you uncomfortable and I shouldn't have asked something like that out of you-"

"No, no, Minho, you don't understand, you shouldn't apologize, I should. I’m the one who hurt you-"

"You didn't hurt me. It's something out of your control, you didn't choose this."

“Stop- just stop being so nice and understanding for a minute. I don’t deserve it!" you shout exasperated, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. "You can't look me in the eyes half of the time you can't even fucking breathe in your own home. It's now a- a cemetery for our memories and it'll soon become yours too because I suck the life out of you, can't you see that?"

"I'm not asking you to remember me,” he holds his hands up, in surrender, “I was wrong yesterday, you don't have to remember us."

"There is no us!” you yell, hands thrown in the air, “Not anymore, Minho, maybe never."

You suck in a deep breath, shutting your eyes, willing your voice to ebb and flow into calmness.

"I thought about it. It'll hurt less if you don't see me, time will pass and you'll get used to it, I'm not worth this."

"You are,” he interjects. “You don't get to pick for me, Yn."

"Stop- stop talking like this is normal, stop being so complacent with your pain, Minho you shouldn't love someone who hurts you!"

"Then make me stop loving you. Spare me. Tear open my heart and bleed it dry at your feet or else it won't stop beating for you. Don't you understand? If you are near or if you are far, I will still love you. The only difference is that I'd worry more about you. I'd worry if you're eating, I'd worry if you're taking your medicine, I'd worry if you're drinking out of your favorite cup or if you have a spare shampoo in your drawer because you hate running out of it. I'd worry out of my fucking mind, Yn don't leave."

It had been an encompassing sadness that made his true feelings surge yesterday, breaching the myriad of cracks in his heart. But today, it was fear that cast a revealing light upon his feelings, hidden in the recesses of his being. They surged forth in a transparency you were still not used to, the way the ocean throws on its shores the debris of sunken ships, allowing the grieving families of sailors to finally discover the terrible truth.

Still, his honesty, his soul bare at your mercy isn’t enough to make you stay.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I just... I can't- I'm sorry."

You take three steps back, before turning your back to him and walking away. A numbness, like icy talons, seizes his limbs, his gaze fixated on your diminishing figure—carrying away everything he's ever loved. Paralysis envelopes his very essence, a haunting realization that the distance between you is more than a mere physical space. You're vanishing beyond the horizon of his reach, slipping through his desperate grasp. The fear of never seeing you again fractures the stillness, snapping Minho out of his trance.

"To love someone is firstly to confess, I'm prepared to be devastated by you." He shouts, making you pause in your tracks. "Isn't that your favorite quote, Yn? You told me this is what love is about. To place your heart in the palm of the person you love. And your hands are soft, Yn. I don't mind if I'm bruised by them."

"I lied then!” You yell back, tears cascading down your cheeks akin to a waterfall, “Belcourt lied and I lied when I told you this and when I promised that I'd always remember you in that canopy bed-"

"What did you just say?” Minho quickly walks to you, chest heaving. “What canopy bed?"

“It doesn't matter now,” you speak in a small voice, avoiding his eyes, seeking refuge in the ground beneath. Yet, Minho, gentle and determined, cups your face, guiding your gaze to meet his.

“It matters to me, Yn, please. What do you mean?"

“We were in that white canopy bed, when I told you that my heart would always remember you.”

“We were,” he whispers, eyes glazed over as the memory washes over him too. “Did you remember?”

“Not clearly, it was really hazy in my mind. But I remember that the windows were open, I was supposed to feel cold but… your hands on me, and they were warm. And I…” you suck in a deep breath and Minho smiles encouragingly, running his thumb in a tender caress across your cheek.

“I remember feeling that I loved you,” you finally confess. “Even though I couldn’t see you. That's why I said that I'd always remember you. Because you filled every chamber in my heart, so much that it'd still hold your name even if you left it…that's how I felt.” You pause, as Minho forcibly swallows the lump down his throat.

“But it didn't unlock any new memories and I-”

“It's okay, it’s okay. You still remembered,” he smiles and the gesture brings you to his lips, rosy, plump. Were they still as warm? Still as soft?

“I did…” you trail off. “You also kissed me, in my memory. Your lips were everywhere and… they were soft.” You add quietly, eyes fixated on his mouth, the smile that once adorned it slipping away.

A tentative warmth courses through your being, a subtle blaze that ignites your cheeks in a shade of crimson. In this moment, a need unfurls within you, a yearning that eclipses the delicate boundaries of restraint. The memory of his lips on your skin becomes a beacon, standing tall amidst the tumultuous winds of uncertainty. You want to taste the warmth again. You want to kiss Minho.

“I kissed you.” His hands, once gentle on your cheeks, now slip down with purpose, cradling your jaw in a gesture that speaks of both reassurance and longing.

“You did.”

“And my lips were soft,” he repeats, his red scarf brushing against your throat.

"They were," you respond, breathless. His mouth stands electrifyingly close, a mere hairbreadth away, as you contemplate the simple act of tilting your head, closing the tantalizing gap. All that stands between you and the echoes of the love that was is the lift of your head, a movement that could breathe life into the dormant embers of your heart.

"Yn," Minho speaks softly, his words a gentle brush against the canvas of your shared vulnerability. His minty breath tickles your nose, as you hum, a wordless acknowledgment that hangs in the air. Your eyes remain closed, your heart beating loudly in your ears, drowning out the sound of the waves nearby.

“Use me. Use me to remember.”

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pin-k-ink · 15 days

Text

vestige // oikawa tooru

tw ⇢ exes to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, mildly suggestive at the end

wc ⇢ 2.7k

The sting of failure hung thick in the night air as Oikawa and Iwaizumi trudged home, shoulders slumped heavily under the weight of their devastating loss against Karasuno. Every step lanced through Oikawa like a searing reminder that his high school volleyball journey had reached its brutal end. No nationals, no final showdown against Ushijima - just the bitter taste of crushed dreams.

He stole a sidelong glance at Iwaizumi, his best friend's expression was stony, wisps of hair still disheveled from running his fingers through it one too many times in frustration. A fragile silence stretched between them, loaded with unspoken consolations neither quite knew how to voice.

As they reached the intersection where their paths diverged, Iwaizumi finally broke the hush. "Don't stay up all night dwelling on it, Shittykawa." His tone was gruff but laden with concern.

Oikawa mustered up a hollow smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "No promises, Iwa-chan."

Iwaizumi sighed deeply but said no more, offering a solemn nod before turning down his street. Oikawa watched his friend's retreating back until it disappeared into the inky darkness.

With Iwaizumi's steadying presence gone, a spiraling anguish seemed to constrict Oikawa's chest. His feet began moving seemingly of their own accord, carrying him aimlessly through dimly lit residential streets. Unbidden, images and sensations bombarded him - the searing impact of that final rally, and most viscerally, the hollowing devastation of knowing this was the abrupt end of his high school career.

So lost in his turbulent haze, Oikawa didn't even register his surroundings until he jerked to a disoriented halt. Suddenly, terribly familiar scenery surrounded him - the park where you had shared your first kiss, the convenience store you used to linger outside of pretending he didn't see you sneaking away after curfew.

And there, just ahead around the bend, the warm amber glow of your house beckoned to him like a siren's call amidst the crashing waves of his innermost turmoil. His heart stammered hard against his ribcage as he drank in the sight. What was he doing here?

Before Oikawa could attempt to logic himself out of this reckless backslide, his feet propelled him forwards until he stood motionless on your porch. Each ragged inhale tormented him with the lingering scent of the jasmine vines twining up the trellis just like he remembered.

With a trembling hand, he reached for the doorbell, fingertips hovering featherlight before finally pressing down. The resounding chimes reverberated through his hollow core, mocking the frantic pounding of his pulse.

Shuffled footsteps approached from within until finally the door swung inward, and there you were. Your widened eyes raked down his disheveled uniform, the dusky streaks of dried tears on his wan cheeks, and the anguished despair swimming in his coffee irises.

"Tooru?" The worry coloring your utterance of his name nearly buckled his knees. "What are you doing here?"

He opened his mouth, but all words shriveled up on his too-dry tongue. You searched his stricken face as a heavy beat ticked by.

A broken noise hitched from Oikawa's tight throat. "I...can I please come in?" he rasped hoarsely.

Conflict flickered across your features for an extended moment. But then you stepped aside, silently ushering him into the entryway thick with memories that seemed to leach the air from his lungs.

You led the way to the living room, taking a seat on the plush sofa as Oikawa hovered uncertainly by the armchair before sinking into it. His elbows dug into his knees as he cradled his face in his calloused palms, drawing a shuddering breath.

He was painfully aware of you watching him, waiting.

The weighted silence seemed to smother Oikawa as his shoulders slumped further, fingers raking agitatedly through his sweat-dampened chestnut locks. He could feel your searching gaze burning into him, the unspoken demand for an explanation ratcheting up his inner anguish.

Swallowing hard, he finally met your eyes, immediately wishing he hadn't at the sight of the guarded wall there. "I...I'm sorry for just dropping by unannounced like this," he began haltingly. "I didn't mean to impose or anything, I just..." His words trailed off uselessly as he shook his head.

"You just what, Tooru?" you prompted, unable to keep the faint thread of challenge from your tone.

He flinched slightly at the bite in the way you said his name. Inhaling a fortifying breath, he pressed on. "How have you been? Staying busy with school and everything, I assume?"

A delicate scoff filtered past your lips. "I've been fine. Just working and focusing on my classes like usual." The clipped response hinted at darker depths simmering beneath the surface.

Oikawa nodded jerkily, grasping for a new toehold in the conversation. "That's good, that's good. I'm glad you're doing well." The meaningless platitude fell horribly flat between you both.

"And you?" You arched an immaculately shaped brow. "Still playing volleyball nonstop?" Despite the neutral lilt, he could hear the undercurrent of passive aggression.

A muscle ticked in his clenched jaw as the night's failure washed over him anew. "My high school career just ended tonight, actually," he replied tightly. Seeing the brief flicker of surprise in your eyes provided no satisfaction.

"I see..." You chewed your lower lip for a moment, clearly weighing your next words carefully. "Well...there's always college ball to look forward to, right? Assuming you can juggle that with a full course load."

The attempt at subtle rebuke wasn't lost on Oikawa. His throat constricted as he fought against the burning swell of emotion. "Actually, I'm...I'm not sure what my plans are for after graduation yet," he managed in a strangled tone.

The full magnitude of the opportunities he had squandered, the ambitions left in shambles, came crashing down upon his shoulders then. He blinked hard but couldn't stop the hot tears from spilling over, silently trailing down his flushed cheeks as his chest constricted with guilt and regret.

You noticed the treacherous moisture immediately, your expression shifting almost imperceptibly. Though you didn't move from your seat or make any gesture, your eyes softened at the naked emotion playing across Oikawa's features.

He couldn't bring himself to meet your gaze, utterly ashamed at this loss of control in front of you. His jaw clenched hard as he struggled to rein in the turmoil wracking him from within. The tears kept flowing in quiet streams, each one a searing reminder of how deeply his mistakes had cut both himself and you.

The silence stretched unbearably as Oikawa's breaths came in harsh, stuttering draws. His fingers dug ruts into the plush upholstery as wave after wave of guilt and regret crashed over him. In your presence, every wrong decision, every selfish action that had ultimately torn you apart felt magnified tenfold.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but your face - cheeks glistening with shed tears - blazed behind his lids. The anguish became too visceral, too overwhelming to contain any longer. With a shuddering exhale, Oikawa slid boneless from the sofa and crumpled at your feet in a silent show of contrition.

For several beats, he couldn't bring himself to look up at you. Shame burned through him as he pressed his forehead against the plush fibers of the rug. His shoulders curved inwards as broken murmurs tumbled from his lips.

"I'm so sorry..." The tremulous whisper was thick with remorse. "For everything I put you through, for all the pain and heartache...you never deserved any of that." His fingers twisted in the soft carpet as he struggled for measured breaths.

"If I could take it all back, every mistake, every moment of selfishness...I would in a heartbeat." The depth of Oikawa's sorrow left his words halting and raw. "You have every right to hate me, but I'm begging for your forgiveness...even though I'll never be able to forgive myself."

A profound stillness reigned in the wake of his ragged plea. You remained utterly motionless above him, not making a sound or offering any reaction. The weighted pause seemed to stretch into an eternity of taut silence.

Then, almost imperceptibly, you shifted closer until the whisper of your exhales caressed the top of Oikawa's bowed head. A featherlight touch grazed his chin, gently but insistently guiding his face upwards until your eyes finally met. In that soul-searing moment, everything extraneous fell away - the past hurts, the messy history, the unbridled guilt and fury of a million unsaid words.

All that remained was the searing, visceral connection between your locked gazes. As if the world around you had ceased spinning on its axis, leaving just this single point of bared truth.

So much remained unspoken between you, yet in that suspended beat of stillness, no words were necessary. An unraveling understanding blossomed forth as Oikawa watched your nuanced features shift and soften before him.

Your touch lingered upon his jawline for another breath before trailing downwards. You took Oikawa's calloused hands in your infinitely gentler grasp, savoring the comforting weight and warmth. Then, with the barest hint of insistent pressure, you pulled him up and into the protective circle of your embrace.

Oikawa's forehead came to rest in the sloped curve of your neck as you enveloped him fully. His damp lashes fanned across the exposed skin there as he gulped in the painfully familiar scent of you - warm cotton, sweet florals, and the lingering hint of citrus from your favorite lotion. The soothing balm of your proximity finally severed the tenuous threads of his restraint.

A ragged, wrecked sound tore from Oikawa's very core as he crumpled against you, hands clutching at the soft material of your shirt. His frame shuddered with the force of his muffled sobs as every pent-up fear, insecurity, and incomprehensible loss bled from him in wave after breathless wave.

Yet through the deluge of his grief, you were his anchor - cradling his trembling form with tender strength, one hand splaying broadly across the quaking expanse of his back. The other stroked along the nape of his neck in featherlight sweeps, weaving through the sweat-dampened russet strands in a soothing cadence.

As the harsh sounds of Oikawa's unchecked cries began to ebb, you shifted minutely, tucking his forehead more securely into the reassuring cradle of your chest. You held him tighter still, sheltering him in the steadfast comfort and solace he'd relinquished any right to long ago...yet you offered without reservation.

Oikawa remained burrowed against you, his face pressed into the comforting warmth of your chest as the sobs wracking his body slowly subsided into uneven breaths. You continued holding him close, one hand cradling the back of his head while the other rubbed soothing circles across his back.

Several long moments passed in silence as he regained some composure. Finally, Oikawa slowly pulled back just enough to look up at you with red-rimmed eyes. His expression was a raw mixture of guilt, gratitude and something more profound he couldn't quite put words to.

"I'm sorry...I never should have showed up here like this and put you through that," he said hoarsely, gesturing vaguely at the tear stains on your shirt.

You shook your head slightly. "It's okay, Tooru. Clearly you were hurting..."

He squeezed his eyes shut briefly against a fresh pang of emotion. When he reopened them, his gaze was impossibly soft yet pained. "That's no excuse. You didn't deserve to see me like that after everything I put you through."

Throat tight, you stroked your fingers through his disheveled hair in a comforting gesture. "Maybe not. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't still care about you, even after all this time."

Oikawa's breath hitched at your admission, his eyes shining with unguarded hope and longing. "You have no idea how much I've missed you," he whispered roughly. "How many nights I've lain awake replaying every stupid mistake over and over, wishing I could take it all back."

You held his searching gaze steadily. "I've had those nights too, you know. Thinking about the good times, and the bad, and how we let something so special slip through our fingers."

A muscle ticked in his clenched jaw. "It was my fault, all my selfishness and inability to prioritize what truly mattered." He dropped his forehead against yours defeatedly. "You deserved so much better."

"Maybe so," you murmured, stroking the side of his face lightly. "But that doesn't mean we can't start over, learn from our mistakes..." You hesitated, worrying your bottom lip. "If that's something you might want?"

Oikawa's gaze searched yours with an almost desperate intensity. "You mean it? After all this time, all the pain, you'd be willing to give me another chance?"

You gave him a watery smile. "I think we'd be foolish not to at least try, don't you?"

A choked laugh escaped him as his eyes slipped closed, tears clinging to his lashes. When he reopened them, relief and cautious hope shone through. "God, I've missed you so much," he breathed out fervently.

"I've missed you too," you admitted, stroking his cheek tenderly. "More than you'll ever know."

As your foreheads pressed together again, the shattered tension between you gradually unknotted into something newer, tenuous yet shimmering with fragile promise. While so much still hovered unspoken, in this quiet moment you allowed yourselves to simply bask in the first rays of reconciliation.

You and Oikawa remained with your foreheads pressed together, simply breathing each other in as the weighted tension between you slowly unwound into something newer yet fragile. His warm breath fanned across your parted lips in a tantalizing caress.

"Tooru..." you murmured, voice already husky with longing you didn't bother trying to veil. "I've missed this...missed you."

His expressive eyes fluttered open, clouded with undisguised want and remorse in equal measure. "Missed you more than you could ever imagine," he rasped roughly. "Every single day without you was torment."

You shivered at the deep timbre of his voice, at the molten heat blazing in those endless amber depths. Tentatively, you nuzzled your nose against his, savoring the intimate glide of warm skin. "Show me then," you breathed against his lips. "Show me how much you missed me."

A ragged groan tumbled from Oikawa as his restraint finally shattered. With an urgency bordering on desperation, he surged forward and sealed his mouth over yours in a searing kiss.

You sank into the achingly familiar heat and spice of him, lips slanting needily as you returned the fevered motions with equal fervor. This wasn't some polite, chaste reunion - it was a messy deluge of pent-up starvation, of anguished yearning abruptly unleashed.

Oikawa's calloused palms cradled your face with ardent possession as your fingers tunnelled through his sweat-dampened chestnut locks. You tasted the saltiness of his lingering tears, but it only seemed to add a delirious edge to the dizzying exchange.

When you finally broke for air, Oikawa peppered lingering, opened-mouthed kisses along the curve of your jaw and throat as you panted against him. "Missed this so damn much," he groaned between each scorching brand. "The taste of you...the little sounds you make..."

His words were deliciously suggestive, the rumbling timbre of his voice coupled with the bristled graze of his sculpted jaw along your sensitive skin making you shiver violently. You fisted the material of his uniform top, tugging him impossibly closer as desire blazed white-hot through your veins.

"Don't stop..." you pleaded breathlessly. "Tooru, I need..."

He answered your silent entreaty with a molten kiss that robbed you of oxygen and rational thought alike. Hands began roaming, caressing feverishly as you lost yourselves in the heady rediscovery of each other's tastes, textures, every mapped path and memorable pleasure point.

For this suspended moment, nothing else existed beyond the scorching exploration ofrecaptured intimacy and connection. You clung to Oikawa tightly, utterly intoxicated by his earthy, masculine musk and the perfect familiarity of his weight, his solidness surrounding you.

As your ardor momentarily overwhelmed your good sense, you couldn't find it in you to regret a single reckless second of it. This was a starvation borne from years of self-denial, of always wondering 'what if?'. And now that you'd ripped away the floodgates, you had no intention of holding anything back from the man you'd never stopped loving.

#haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x reader smut #oikawa smut #oikawa tooru #haikyuu oikawa #oikawa x reader #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa x reader smut #oikawa tooru smut #oikawa tooru x reader smut

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mpreglover225 · 1 month

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In the bustling delivery room, with monitors beeping their steady rhythm, Dan gritted his teeth, each contraction a wave that tightened its grip around him. Across from him, his partner, Chris, held his hand, worry creasing his brow.

"God, Chris, this is intense," Dan panted, his face flushed with effort.

"You're doing amazing, Dan. Just breathe, okay? In and out, like we practiced," Chris coached, squeezing his hand in time with the breathing.

"Easy for you to say," Dan managed a half-laugh through the pain, his humor a lifeline in the storm. "This little guy's a future linebacker, I swear."

A nurse, standing by with a warm, encouraging smile, checked the monitor. "You're almost there."

Dan nodded, beads of sweat rolling down his temple. With a deep breath, he hunkered down, summoning strength from the core of his being.

"I'm right here with you," Chris whispered. "I can't believe we're about to meet our son."

A new surge of determination washed over Dan. "Okay, let's do this," he said, and with a mighty exhale, he leaned into the contraction, the room filling with the raw intensity of life about to break forth.

Dan bore down with a fierce concentration, Chris' presence a steadying force beside him. "Big push, Dan, you've got this," Chris encouraged, eyes locked onto Dan's, transmitting silent strength.

"His head... it's so big," Dan grunted, the intensity in the room cresting with each push. Nurses surrounded them, their faces a blend of professionalism and empathy.

"Another push, Dan," the nurse instructed, poised to assist.

Gathering the remnants of his waning energy, Dan pushed with all his might, and with a moment that seemed to both pause and accelerate time, the room erupted into a cascade of motion as the baby's head emerged.

"That's it, that's it!" Chris exclaimed, tears of joy welling up. "Shoulders next, love."

The final pushes were a symphony of encouragement and Dan's grunts of exertion, culminating in the miraculous moment their son was fully delivered, the sounds of his first cries a melody to their ears.

Exhausted but elated, Dan collapsed back against the pillows, a smile of relief spreading across his weary face as their baby was placed onto his chest. The connection was instant, a bond of love that pulsed with every heartbeat.

Hours later, after the adrenaline had faded and their little one had been nursed, Dan drifted into a much-needed sleep, the trials of labor a fading memory. Chris, still riding the high of becoming a dad, sat in the recovery room, their son asleep against his chest, wrapped in a soft blue blanket.

The door opened quietly, and Matt stepped in, his face breaking into a grin. "Chris, he's perfect," he whispered, not wanting to disturb the peace.

"Thanks, Matt," Chris whispered back, a protective arm around his son. "It's unreal, holding him like this. Makes you feel like you've become a guardian to the world, doesn't it?"

Matt nodded, looking down at his own slightly rounded belly, where Alex's hand rested. "Three months along and already feeling it."

Chris smiled knowingly. "It changes everything. The moment they arrive, you're not just living for yourself anymore. There's this... fierce need to protect them, to make the world a better place for them."

Alex stepped closer, his eyes on the baby. "Looks like Dan's out cold," he noted, a gentle tease in his tone.

"Yeah, he's earned it. He was incredible," Chris said with pride. "And soon, you'll know exactly what it's like. All the pain forgotten the second you hold your baby."

Matt nodded, a mix of anticipation and nerves dancing in his eyes. "Can't wait, honestly."

As the four men shared the quiet joy of the moment, the sense of a shared journey was palpable — the beginning of a new chapter not just for Dan and Chris, but for Matt and Alex as well, each step forward a movement towards a future crafted with love.

#male pregnancy #mpreg #mpreg belly #mpreg birth #mpreg kink #pregnantman #mpreg art #mpreg ai #mpreg story #mpregbirth

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strawberryspence · 1 year

Text

this is ridiculously late but belated happy birthday, mackie! (@stevethehairington) everything you do is golden and being able to call you a friend is an honor. here’s some cheesy fluff for my friend. ily. 💛

“Where’s this one from?” Featherlight warmth spreads through Steve’s core. Eddie’s finger touches his taut skin, a memory weaved in between blood and skin.

Steve presses against the touch, “That one is from when Billy Hargrove broke a plate in my head.”

Eddie’s mouth gapes open, blinking at him in disbelief, “What now?”

Steve laughs, pressing his head at the blade of Eddie’s shoulders. He basks at the heat, like a kid in a summer field, remnants of passion and magic still in the air.

“Have I never told you that story?” Steve says, muffled as he presses kisses into Eddie’s shoulders, skin and scars making up his person.

“No?!” Eddie yelps, pushing him away gently, his face slacked with confusion and concern, “Does this look like the reaction of someone who knew that Billy fucking Hargrove broke a plate on your head?”

Steve smiles, pressing his thumb against Eddie’s forehead and smoothing the furrow away, “Well, I told you that story, right? Our second time with the Upside Down. It was around that time, when Billy attacked Lucas and we got into a fight.”

“Oh.” Eddie sighs, “I really don’t want to speak ill of the dead. But— Billy.” Eddie makes a face of disgust and cringe, that makes Steve laugh.

“Let me do one.” Steve urges on, making Eddie smile and nod.

There is something so magical with the way Eddie maps out Steve. Some nights, they stay up way past making love to learn every bit of skin. Steve never understood why, no one really stayed long enough to learn the stories burrowed in his skin.

Eddie says— like a person from an actual fucking fairy tale— that Steve is a map, a map of constellations and stories, all formed from years of journey and life. If anything, Eddie says, he’s very happy that he’s the first one to do it, to discover it, to write stories about it. Steve isn’t the best explorer, but he does his best to do the same for Eddie.

Steve lets his finger dance on skin, weaving through stories he hasn’t learned yet. He wishes— hopes— that his touch is just as gentle and as warm as Eddie’s and that it brings him the same comfort his touch does for Steve.

Steve pauses on a scar too small under his jaw, barely visible now that it’s been swallowed whole by bursts of scars from where the bats gnawed at him.

“How about this one?”

Eddie smiles, brown eyes lighting up with recognition, “Oh. You found that one, huh?” Steve hums.

“Well, that one I got from dancing on stairs. I was holding a fire truck, and I slipped and fell down the stairs. My mom said I was very smart and I was trying to brace for my fall, but the fire truck got me instead.”

Steve caresses the scar, like it’s still healing and bleeding in his hands, like the same way he did some months ago, when he found Eddie bleeding to his— almost— death.

“Did you need stitches?” Steve whispers, scared that it might’ve hurt for a younger version of his Eddie.

Eddie chuckles, smoothing over his hair and leaving a kiss on his crown, kissing away the worries, “Nope. Just bled a lot, but it did stop. Left a scar though. Had so much worse since then.”

Steve nods, pursing his lips into a smile, as his hands explore against bursts of red painted on Eddie’s skin. It’s the biggest most prominent scar, the ones they’ve barely talked about since they started exploring.

“Well, that one, I am not ready to talk about yet,” Eddie says, his hands shaking as it makes contact with Steve’s scar, directly mirroring his scar, “But one thing is for sure, it’s pretty fucking metal that we have matching scars.”

Steve chokes out a laugh, batting his hands away, “One day, when you’re ready to talk about it, it’ll be a story of survival and bravery.”

Eddie doesn’t speak, but he does pull him closer, forehead against Steve’s. That’s okay, if Eddie doesn’t believe it right now. He will, someday. Because that’s what healing is, bleeding and healing and living to tell the story.

It’s okay, because Steve will be there, until stories wrinkle and fold. To explore every scar and bump and listen to his stories as Eddie writes stories about bright stars engraved on his skin.

For now, he finds another one.

Steve smiles and says, “How about this one?”

#i dont know if this made any sense #they make me want to be cheesy #happy birthday mack!!!#two weeks too late now i think LMAO #but i love you and i hope you love this.#steddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #dae writes #daeheadcanons #steddie headcanon #steddie hc #steddie ficlet #steve x eddie

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dronebiscuitbat · 5 days

Text

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 12)

It took a lot of convincing to make N go home after that, too busy fretting over her to look at the time and his own needs for oil.

But eventually, with a promise to see him in the morning with their planned visit to Tera, he reluctantly made the journey home, the vision of Uzi injured and terrified stained in his permanent memory as he flew back to the spire.

He wanted to protect her, he ached to in a way he wasn't sure until today he was capable of. It was overwhelming, how badly he felt the need to. He'd felt like this before, at the manor, over V, and over Cyn, but at that time the only thing he could do for either of them was take the punishment meant for them on himself.

If Tessa hadn't been so good with machines, he was certain he wouldn't be around today to spend time thinking about it.

But Now? He unsheathed his claws and flexed them, and felt his wings on his back.

He had everything he could ever need to protect her, armed until his chassis was overcrowded with weaponry. Made for killing as quickly and as brutally as possible.

That made no difference when the thing that was threatening her was part of her. It wasn't something he could kill, or threaten or scare off. So how?

He didn't know. He didn't even know if it was possible. But he was going to try.

Those thoughts lingered when he flew directly into his nest, not even taking the time to say hello to V before crashing into it. He likely wouldn't get any sleep, despite how tired he felt. Screw getting oil, he'd had enough to get by for another day at least.

“What's got you in a mood?” V's voice wafted towards him, she sat on the edge of his nest, looking both curious and annoyed. Her stilt-like legs hung over the side and her hand was holding her face, looking mildly bored.

He was absolutely not in the mood.

“Since when do you care?” He barked back, crossing his arms and glaring at her in a quite convincing impression of Uzi. V looked taken aback for a moment before smirking.

“Purple Thing's rubbing off on you.”

He felt the heat rising to his visor, he could almost taste the “Bite me.” that threatened to fall from his mouth, but that would only prove her point, wouldn't it?

“Just…” He deflated, he wasn't angry at V, not really. Just upset at himself for being unable to protect his best freind possibly love of his life for the umpteenth time. “Leave me alone tonight V. You don't want to talk to me anyway.”

If he'd been looking at her, he would have seen her wince at that before looking a little bit guilty.

“Normally, No I don't.” V said, although something in her voice told N that she wasn't entirely telling the truth. “But I don't think I've seen you this upset before.”

He was uncharacteristically silent before he turned to her, searching her face for some resemblance of the girl back at the manor, and was mildly surprised when he found it her eyes were soft.

“I'm useless…” He murmured. Avoiding her gaze, feeling… not butterflies but definitely something as old and familiar, rise into his core.

V… didn't know how to respond to that. Any other day she'd agree and make fun of him, but hearing him say it about himself and mean it. Seemed to momentarily turn off that part of her brain.

“For what?” She asked, she refused to show any kind of weakness to him, voice still having bite.

“I don't know! Everything!” He stood up suddenly, throwing his hands forward in a display of utter frustration, something V was noticing him expressing more of recently. No longer was he N the doormat, he was N, the guy who called her out and was starting to speak his mind.

Some part of her was happy for him. Not that she'd ever admit it to him.

“I can't protect Uzi, I couldn't protect you, I live in a mound of freaking corpses! Corpses! This isn't a house V! We're essentially homeless!”

“I'm useless! I've always been…” He deflated again as he trailed off, anger shifting into quiet misery. He leaned his head on one of the walls of the spire.

“Ugh. Stop.” V said, annoyed.

“For the record. I can protect myself.” She proved it by unsheathing her claws and giving him a feral smile. He wasn't fazed, that had been V's default expression for a long while now.

“And I'm pretty sure your little purple girlfriend can too. She's not fragile. If you want proof go look at J's empty nest.” He didn't even register she'd said “girlfriend” only continued to wallow in his sorrow.

“So it doesn't matter if you're useless at that. Those bases are already covered.” She shrugged, smirking again, but it gradually left her face as she realized he still didn't look like he felt any better. He grumbled at her, sitting back down. Clearly still in misery.

“And if living here bothers you so much, move out!” She shouted, and that caught his attention. He shifted his gaze to look at her, cocking it like a curious puppy.

“I promised I'd always be there for you…” His voice was so quiet she'd barely registered it, but once she did she felt all her processors stop at once, an old yet familiar feeling rising in her chest.

She answered it with violence, growling like a feral cat until it was buried in her once again. No. She didn't feel that way about him, not anymore.

“That was years ago. I'm not…” She trailed off, she remembered how terrified she used to be and how powerless she was. N had been the only good thing the manor had ever offered her. And while she didn't feel the same way she used to about him (stupid in love) it wasn't like she wasn't appreciative. Or that she didn't care.

“I'm not the same terrified little girl you need to protect anymore. I've changed.”

“I know you have…” She dared to glance at his face and found some part of her aggression instantly melting, he was smiling softly at her, reminecent of their time at the manor and yet not quite the same.

“I'm… proud of you. You know?” He choked out, something that surprised even himself. He looked down for a moment, thinking more about his words before meeting her eyes again.

“You don't need me anymore, and yeah that hurt for awhile. But… I am proud.”

V had to look away, feeling something bittersweet crawl up her throat. She wasn't about to cry was she?

“I just wish you didn't feel like you had to close yourself off. I do miss talking to you.”

This conversation had gone a very different direction then either of them expected, and it was probably the longest one they'd had in a very long time.

V didn't have a response for that, at least not one that wouldn't completely ruin any semblance of self respect she had. But she didn't want to just say nothing. It had been nice… to hear that from him.

“I don't need that from you.” She said, aggression trying and failing to lace her voice. His face fell a little, and she felt the pang of guilt hit her harder than usual.

“But me too.” She said softly, and N couldn't help but smile. For a moment just a moment, he heard that sweet girl from the manor again, the one who's eyes lit up whenever she saw him and he'd spent many nights huddled under a blanket with, reading a stolen book from the library.

They made eye contact and V found herself blushing, not because of any lingering feelings, but because she'd been vulnerable and was still vulnerable and she didn't like it.

He warily opened his arms, silently asking if she wanted a hug. It wasn't the usual, “please hug me, I like you.” Kind she'd come to expect from him either, it was… more familial, less urgent.

Maybe that was why she crawled toward him and accepted, wrapping her arms around him loosely. She remembered being wrapped in his arms before, it had made her feel so safe. And it still did. Just… not in the same way.

“I really did miss you… you still into reptiles?” He asked softly, making a genuine laugh escape her before she answered.

“Yeah.” Was all she replied with, hiding her smile by looking away. This felt good. This felt right, and it lacked the weird tension that had lingered between them for a long time.

It only took another minute before she decided that the hug had reached it's end. N would cuddle with anyone who'd let him, and so she started to back away far enough to get out of his reach, but still sat beside him.

“If it really does bother you… you can move out.”

“I might, if I do though, would you want to too?” He asked, still looking at her, thankfully he didn't look as upset, still smiling softly.

“Like… with you…? N I thought we were-”

“No. Like, just out of here, in your own apartment. Like the one Uzi has.” He clarified, without any stammering either, so he wasn't covering his ass in a unsubtle confession.

“Am I even welcome there?” She asked, pure confusion on her face.

“I mean, you go to see Lizzy all the time. Why wouldn't you be?” With that she did blush, she hadn't realized he'd noticed her gone that much. Was she gone that much?

“I guess. The tower of corpses is menacing though… think they'd let me drag some of it in?” She gave him a feral smile, both hands switched back into claws, N just looked deadpan.

“Do not.”

She laughed, taking a liking to the fact he wasn’t all fun and games now. It made him more interesting, at the very least.

“What? Are you gonna stop me? Aren't you a lovable little sweetheart who's so worried about. “Protecting Me?”” She fluttered her eyelashes at him, sealing the mock with exaggerated kissy lips.

“I swear to robo god…” He mumbled under his breath, but he was amused, and happy oh so happy that she was talking to him. And being goofy! Wasn't that a sight.

“I don't sound like that.” He complained, but he was smiling, begrudgingly. For whatever reason it didn't sting as bad as her usual mocks.

“You do. If it makes you feel better, purple thing likes that about you~” V was satisfied, N felt better and honestly, she felt closer to him then she had in a long while, so falling back into teasing the life out of him felt safe to do.

He flustered, way more than she figured he would. A golden blush appearing at the bottom of his visor. She saw him glance to the floor and he gulped.

“Oh my robo god. You have a crush on her!” She cackled, letting out a wheeze as his blush only grew, he tried to look angry again, but it only made him look pouty.

“No! I-I Don't!” He stammered out, voice cracking like the liar he was. V continued to die of laugher, using her claws to dig into the wall of the spire to hold herself up.

“W-when did you. OH haHaha. When did this happen?!”

“It just sorta happened okay!” He yelped out, looking so embarrassed she was a little concerned he would bury himself in the corpse spire.

“Figures, she's you're type.” She finished, still laughing lightly. Honestly she saw a lot of herself in Uzi (yes she did actually know her name) her fiery personality tended to make them butt heads, but the little worker had a sweet side. And that was the side she assumed he'd fallen for.

“Wait Wait, don't tell me. Is she really shy around you? Does she let you cuddle with her? Do you make her feel safe?”

He blinked, how did V-?

“HA! You totally do have a type!” She dissolved into a fit of hysterical laughter. Watching as N looked at her with wide eyes.

“What do you mean by that?” He squealed, trying to think back, the only other person he'd ever had a crush on was the one currently laughing at him. But she wasn't shy, didn't let him cuddle her, and he seriously doubted she felt any safer with him then with her own claws. So what gives?

Well… she was shy at the manor, always more soft spoken and seemed to avoid speaking when she could. Plus all the little blushing, and then… well… they did often crawl under the blankets together, sometimes falling asleep in a heap until Tessa or J woke them up. And he'd been bigger than her then… always keeping her safe.

“Oh…” Was all he said, feeling the fluster even worse now. Crap did… did he really have this specific of a type?

“Uzi isn't shy! She's determined! And fiery!” He defended himself, while also convincing himself that he wasn't that predictable.

“That's true. But how is she with you~?” She asked teasingly, as if she already knew the answer.

Soft was the first thought. Sweet was the second.

Oh come on.

“Bite me!” He yelped before clasping his hand over his mouth. Blushing furiously. If anything V howled in laughter, digital tears pouring down her visor.

“Awww. The soft boy has a thing for soft girls~” She teased again, watching as N became more and more flustered.

“V!” He shouted, so what if he did?! It didn't give her the right to tease him about it. He liked feeling soft. It was comfortable. And it wasn't like he didn't like all the other aspects of her too!

“That's not- There's other things I like about her!”

“Oh? Does she look good in a little maid outfit?”

He kinda wanted to see that.

No. Don't prove her right!

“She's really smart, and brave. She always has a plan and… she's so strong.” His voice lightened up a bit, getting lost in it for a moment.

At that V ceased her laughter a little bit, she could keep teasing him telling him that “She was all those things too.” But at this point she'd had her fun. And wasn't all that interested in listening to him swoon over her.

“Alright, Alright… You totally wanna see her in a maid outfit though.”

“V!”

#murder drones #uzi doorman #serial designation n #serial designation v #past envy #biscuitbites #nuzi #n and uzi #V tries #N suffers #then he doesn't #look manor N and V have so much baggage I need to talk about them #Now they have sibling energy though

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vizslasaber · 24 days

Text

FRIENDLY FIRE ──── i.

summary: after landing on the umbaran surface, you butt heads with your fellow general—but get along swimmingly with your temporary clone captain.

pairing: captain rex x female jedi!reader

word count: 3.9k

warnings: combat/action, mentions of injury + death, krell being a bitch, reader with a name instead of y/n because i hate it

a/n: it’s back!!! previously i posted this series on my main, @brrmian, but i changed that blog’s username and have mostly shifted over to fanart and general SW content. i’ve decided to dedicate this new side blog’s content entirely to fic writing under my old username, posting reader insert on here and everything else on ao3! this fic will be updated sparsely but definitely more often than it was on my main. i’ve changed a few things regarding the plot of this series specifically, and i like it a lot more now!!

series masterlist | click here to add or remove yourself from the taglist!

You hadn’t wanted to leave the Temple behind—you still don’t, even lightyears away from the Core.

When the Jedi Council had first made you aware of the plan to have you and a Master you’d never met capture an Umbaran airbase with troops that were not your own, you had put up something of a fight. What right, you demanded, did the Chancellor have the right to simply pull a Jedi from their sacred duty for a trivial air-to-ground assault?

The Council had either not wanted to answer this question or had not known how to, so now you stand on a transport gunship with two clone troopers and an intimidatingly tall Besalisk Jedi Master by the name of Pong Krell. Both of you are holding onto the grab handles hanging from the ceiling; you’re gripping the handle so tightly your knuckles are slightly pale, but Krell looks perfectly steady.

Of course he is, you think bitterly. He has four arms.

The atmosphere of Umbara is breathable but strangely thick—fog seeps through the blast door openings, and the lights inside the gunship’s passenger bay seem to have dimmed. Your lightsabers bump against your hips and you wince slightly as sounds of frantic gunfire reach your ears.

This will be your first campaign.

You have seen death before, on missions as a Padawan before the war—but never on this scale, if the reports of your already-knighted friends from the Temple are anything to go by. You only hope that you will be assigned your own battalion soon, so you don’t have to go running around replacing wayward Generals.

It’s hard, standing at the side of an imposing Master, not to feel like a Padawan. The skin behind your right ear burns with the memory of the braid that had been there just last week, waiting to be sheared off as you prepared for your ascension to Knighthood.

While your battalion assignment is pending, Master Windu told you as you stood in the center of the Council Chamber, the Senate has requested that we send two Jedi Knights to replace Skywalker on Umbara.

Master Krell is already on-world, assisting Master Kenobi, but he will need another Jedi’s help if he and the 501st are to take the capital in Skywalker’s stead, Master Plo explained, his hologram flickering as he called in from some faraway world.

All due respect, Masters, you remember asking as you willed yourself not to tremble, but why me? I’ve never been anywhere near the front. I wouldn’t be much help.

Believe in your potential, we do, Master Yoda said. An opportunity for you to do good, the Force has given you.

And that, it was decided, was that.

Even now, after meditating on your anxiety for practically the entire journey through hyperspace, your nerves feel impossibly frayed. The transport jostles, but you only sway slightly, arm already holding onto an overhead handle for balance. There’s a shiny new military-issue commlink attached to your right vambrace. A morbid thought, of calling in a medevac for injured soldiers with this very communicator, crosses your mind—but you let it dissipate.

The gunship suddenly makes a sharp dive, and your stomach swoops—you must be about to land. You spare a glance at General Krell, who has now let go of the grab handles and has crossed all four of his arms over his chest. For a moment, you’re almost tempted to ask how he manages to stay so balanced while the ship is moving, but then the blast doors slide open and the gunship lands in shadowy darkness.

The first person you see is Anakin Skywalker. He’s around your age, maybe a bit younger—despite having been knighted several years earlier, as one of the first Padawan victims of the Jedi Military Integration Act. Your Master, ever traditional even when the Order began to stray from its centuries-old teachings, did her best to keep you apprenticed for as long as possible, but even that eventually proved futile.

In the end, you and Anakin are practically of the same age, and yet he has infinite more experience than you. Uncertainty wheedles its way into your chest and slips a pin into your lungs; you’re holding your breath as you follow Krell off the gunship.

Being far shorter than the Besalisk, you have to jump down. When you hit the ground, you shiver at the misty atmosphere, watching as bioluminescent specks of dust fly up underneath your boots.

As the two of you approach, you hear the troopers of the 501st legion mutter amongst themselves, but you push it aside and focus on the pleasantries.

“General Krell. General Neridian,” Anakin says, smiling graciously. “My thanks for the air support.”

“Indeed, General Skywalker,” Krell replies, bowing politely. “The locals have proven to be more resourceful than we anticipated.”

“We managed to get here in one piece, though,” you add jokingly, and Anakin smirks, his eyes twinkling. You gesture to the troopers unloading the gunship behind you. “And we brought ration resupplies.”

Anakin nods appreciatively, then raises one eyebrow after a moment, looking slightly confused. “But—that’s not the reason for your visit.”

“No,” Krell admits. “The Council has ordered you back to Coruscant, effective immediately.”

“What?” Skywalker demands. “Wh-why?”

“The Chancellor...” you pause, searching for a word, before you settle on, “insisted that you return. The Council had no say on the matter.”

“That is all they would tell us,” Krell adds, though he doesn’t sound displeased.

“Well, I—I can’t just leave my men!” Anakin protests, and for the first time you notice the trooper standing at attention beside him.

He’s identical to all the clones you’ve met, of course, except for one detail—his hair is blond. You wonder vaguely if it would be polite to ask him whether or not it’s natural as you survey his armor. The pauldron on his left shoulder indicates a position of command, but he carries a sense of individuality in the Force that, despite your inexperience with working with them, you’ve come to realize every clone has. His helmet is painted with a distinctly Mandalorian sigil, but it’s not one you recognize.

His gaze is pointed directly ahead; he makes no eye contact with you. Probably just as annoyed at the change of plans as Anakin is, you realize.

Krell moves to speak, jolting you from your thoughts. You recognize Anakin’s agitation, however, so you calmly move to intercept.

“The Council would not just leave your troopers to fend for themselves—not that they aren’t perfectly capable of doing so, of course,” you add, which merits the barest hint of a smile from the trooper standing beside Anakin. “It’s just… well, the Senate needs a Jedi to be at the head of every campaign, and I guess they figured subtracting one of you would mean—”

“—adding two other Jedi,” Anakin says with a snort of derision. “Yeah… sounds like the Senate. But you guys’ll probably get it done faster anyway.”

“Don’t worry about a thing, sir,” interjects the trooper, and Anakin looks to him. “We’ll have this city under control by the time you’re back.”

“Generals, this is Captain Rex, my first in command,” Anakin says fondly, and you see something like pride show itself in Rex’s eyes. “You won’t find a finer or more loyal trooper anywhere.”

“I don’t doubt it,” you affirm earnestly.

“Yes, that is good to hear,” Krell agrees, then places a large hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “I wish you well, Skywalker.”

Anakin simply nods at him, then stops beside you and says, “I hear you passed the Trials.”

You gesture to your hair, now void of a Padawan braid. “Apparently so,” you reply. “Funny, I didn’t think you were one to get swept into the rumour mill.”

A grin, boyish and bright, springs to Anakin’s face. “Nah, I’m always one for good gossip.” His expression turns softer, then, and he puts a hand on your shoulder. “Seriously, though… congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you say, but he’s already approaching the gunship and taking hold of one of the grab handles. The ship is off within seconds, and you can’t help but feel apprehensive as it flies away, up into the fog.

Taking a moment to gather yourself, you turn to Rex and offer a polite nod. He returns it, then says, “It is an honour to be serving with you, Generals.”

“The honour is all mine,” you return graciously, and Rex looks like he’s about to say something else, but stops when Krell begins to speak.

“I find it very interesting, Captain, that you are able to recognize the value of honour,” he begins, then—almost as an afterthought—adds, “for a clone.”

Silence.

Your eyebrows shoot up, and as Rex stares at Krell in shock, you feel your armored chest tighten—with frustration or shock, you don’t yet know.

“Stand at attention when I address you,” Krell snaps, turning to face the other troopers, and as Rex obliges, you narrow your eyes and step forward.

“Master Krell,” you start, your jaw tightening, “I do believe it would be far more... prudent to show respect to the soldiers who have so graciously agreed to undertake this mission with us.” You tilt your head questioningly, sending your ponytail swaying. “After all—we are the ones who just arrived.”

A ripple of white-hot anger moves through the Force with lightning speed, but it’s gone before you can take time to process it. Now, all you can feel is something akin to gratitude, trickling like a cool waterfall from where Rex stands, back straight and eyes ahead.

“They agreed to nothing,” Krell counters, and you blink as his wide upper lip curls back to reveal a row of dangerously sharp teeth. “Do not forget, young one, that we are the Generals they serve under at present.”

“I...” you pause, momentarily at a loss for words, then clasp your hands behind your back and force your jaw to unclench. “I haven’t forgotten that. But I also haven’t forgotten that the only way to succeed in this endeavour is to work together.”

“And with what experience do you so kindly bestow this advice upon us, Knight Neridian?” Krell asks, and the question is like a bucket of ice water down the back of your robes.

You swallow, and search for the words to say, but none come. Cheeks burning with shame, you stare determinedly at the ground.

The tension in Krell’s Force signature disappears, as sudden as the crack of a whip, and he draws in a deep breath. You look up as the pouch-like piece of flesh under Krell’s chin grows in size and he begins to pace.

“Nevertheless,” Krell brushes off, acting as though none of your words register with him, “there’s a reason my command is so effective, and it’s because I do things by the book.” He walks past a soldier in an ARC Trooper uniform who has the number five tattooed on his right temple. The trooper doesn’t move as Krell passes him, but you can see a vein on his forehead bulge.

“And that includes protocol,” Krell puts in. He turns to you. “Have all platoons ready to move out immediately.”

You bristle. “I—I thought we were to make decisions together,” you protest, raising your chin defiantly.

Technically, there’s nothing to defy, seeing as you hold equal rank with Krell—but the Council specified in their briefing that this was supposed to be a learning experience, an introduction to combat before receiving your own battalion. And something about Master Krell demands respect, or at the very least obedience, despite the fact that you’re starting to want to do everything you can not to give it to him.

Krell simply huffs and turns around, his yellow eyes flashing, and walks away, leaving you surrounded by a platoon troopers.

You frown after him. “Well, now I know why Master Venn wished me good luck,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. Some of the troopers snicker, but you hardly notice.

Your former master, Esya Venn, had pulled you aside just before leaving. The look on her face had been nothing short of concerned, but you’d shrugged it off in the moment, even when she’d told you to be careful, Padawan. She never told anyone to be careful—it was simply a reflex to think twice about your actions around Esya.

But now you understand.

Scrubbing a hand over your tired face, you take a deep breath and turn to Captain Rex. “Shall we set off?” you ask, and he nods, promptly putting on his helmet.

“Move out, soldiers!” he shouts, starting down the path after Krell. “Come on, let’s go!”

You give Rex a grateful smile, and though you can’t see his face, you know he’s returning it. With one last glance at the battalion, you hurry to the front and fall into step next to General Krell.

It’s silent for some time. Krell doesn’t deter, no matter how dark it gets, and after a while you begin to grow uncomfortable next to him. The anger you’d felt in the Force earlier is dormant, but certainly there, and it makes chills erupt down your spine.

"I’m going to check on the Captain,” you say, and Krell only nods when you turn around and quickly find Rex, who’s walking about two meters behind where you previously were.

The Captain salutes briefly. “General.”

“Captain,” you reply politely, before glancing back at Krell. “I can’t help but notice that there’s—” you pause for a moment. Do these troopers know enough about the Force to have conversations with you about it?

Knowing Anakin, you realize, they probably do, so you clear your throat and continue. “I get a strange feeling from Master Krell,” you say quietly.

Rex’s shoulders relax just slightly. “How so, sir?”

You bite your lip and shake your head. “I don’t know, exactly,” you reply, then gesture vaguely in front of you, where Krell is half-visible in the murky fog. “The Force around him is unclear. It’s... hard to explain.”

“Hard to explain, as in it’s a Jedi thing?” Rex guesses, and you grin widely.

“Yes,” you say. “It’s a Jedi thing.” Reaching up, you curl a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I may not be a Jedi, sir,” Rex says after a moment, “but I think I know what you mean by strange feeling.”

“Quicken that pace, battalion!” Krell suddenly shouts over his shoulder, and you jump. “This isn’t some training course on Kamino.”

You sigh and raise your voice, turning to the troopers. “What General Krell means,” you call, pointedly shooting a glare at the Besalik’s back, “is that we must continue to make good time. Keep up the good work.”

Krell gives no answer, but you feel a ripple of frustration coming from his direction. There’s another thread in the Force, one of gratitude, but you can’t tell where exactly it’s coming from. You latch onto it nonetheless and file the feeling away for later, letting yourself make an easy pace just ahead of Rex.

“He certainly has a way with words,” you hear one of the clones say, and when you glance behind you out of the corner of your eye, you can see that the source is someone with similar armor to Rex’s. Another ARC, or someone of similar rank.

There’s a sigh. You think it’s from Rex. The troopers obviously don’t know you’re listening, so you direct your gaze ahead, keeping your pace steady.

“He’s just trying to keep us on schedule,” Rex explains, voice hushed and sounding a bit sheepish.

"By raising everyone’s ire?” the other trooper grumbles.

“Either way, he’s in charge,” Rex protests. “And we’ve got a job to do.”

“She’s in charge, too,” hisses the trooper, and you purse your lips, knowing he’s pointing to you.

Another sigh, again from Rex. “Just—treat them both with respect, and we’ll all get along fine.”

You’re about to turn around when your neck stiffens. It’s an instinctual reaction, like the Force tapping you on the shoulder—one that you’ve learned to interpret as a warning. Less than a second later, a loud screech echoes above your head.

“Ready your weapons!” Rex shouts, at the same moment you draw one lightsaber.

Faster than your eyes can process, a winged creature swoops down and grabs a trooper—but you don’t need your eyes. The cyan beam of your lightsaber casts a glow on the shadowy ground, and you jump upwards, landing on a large plant that allows you to swing from a vine and graze the blade across the wing of one of the creatures. It falls to the ground with another screech before flying away, relatively unharmed.

One to go.

You’re about to grab hold of a second vine and swing towards the other creature, but a flash of blurred blue and green makes you pull back—Krell beats you to it, landing on top of the creature and wrestling it to the ground.

“Wait—stop!” you shout as he draws his lightsabers, but it’s too late. He’s already skewered the creature mercilessly, and it lies dead on the ground, life blinking out of the Force in an instant.

You jump off of the large plant, landing on both feet, and hook your now deactivated lightsaber onto your belt. “Why did you kill it?” you demand, pushing past several onlooking clones.

“It is nothing more than a violent inhabitant of this area,” Krell dismisses, and you feel your jaw drop.

“But…” you start, at a loss for words. “The Code decrees—”

“The Code,” Krell says coldly as he turns to stare at you, “allows for self defense.”

You draw yourself up to your full height, switching off your lightsaber with a snap-hiss before hooking it back onto your belt. “That’s not what—”

Krell’s lightsabers deactivate loudly, cutting you off, and he returns them to either side of his belt before turning away and continuing on the path. “Anyone else want to stop and play with the animals?”

No one answers, but you feel your fists clench as if of their own accord.

This is going to be a long night.

Umbara’s plant life is fascinating. Observing the bioluminescent life forms is the only thing that serves a proper distraction from both the grumbling clone troopers and the pit of apprehension in your stomach. You’d been walking for twelve hours, give or take, and every time you’d tried to suggest a break to Krell, he’d snapped at you.

This can’t be allowed, you think bitterly, skipping over a glowing pink tree root, boots skidding on the dark purple ground.

You chew on your bottom lip and glance at the clones behind you. They are understandably worn out, and even with the extensive survival training Master Esya drilled into you as a Padawan, you were starting to get tired, too.

“Sir,” says a voice from behind you, and you jump, expecting in your exhaustion to see Krell—but it’s just Rex.

“We’ve been keeping this pace for almost half a rotation,” Rex points out, sounding vaguely nervous. “The men are... starting to tire. General Krell is...” he tilts his head, expressionless visor unreadable. “You know.”

You muster a smile, hoping you look at least a little like Master Enya, and nod.

“I know, Captain,” you say, and he shifts slightly, as though his blue-painted pauldron is uncomfortable. You can’t blame him. Running a hand over your ponytail, you blow out a breath and frown at the puff of air that appears in front of you. “Let me talk to him. Tell the men to start searching for a good spot to camp for a few hours.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Rex giving an affirmative thumbs up to the troopers behind him, but by then you’re already approaching Krell, clasping your hands tightly behind your back.

“Master Krell,” you start, and Krell turns his head just a bit. “I’ve told the men to scout for a place to rest. I reviewed the mission plan on the way here, and we can spare three hours without being delayed, possibly more—”

“The men don’t need rest,” Krell interrupts, and you feel your cheeks flush with anger. “They need resolve to complete the task at hand.”

“Apologies, Master,” you say, squaring your shoulders as frustration heats your neck and face. You breathe deeply. There is no emotion, only peace. “But I don’t think the men will be on their best game when we reach the capital if they don’t take some time to gather themselves.”

“That they need to ‘gather themselves’ is a sign of weakness,” Krell cuts in, stopping and turning to face you with a sneer. “That is not what these clones were bred for.”

Not far away, many of the soldiers bristle at Krell’s choice of words, but you keep your focus on the yellow eyes staring you down for the second time that night.

“They weren’t bred to be mindless droids, either,” you argue, crossing your arms over your chest and making sure to keep your voice even. “And in case you’ve forgotten, even battle droids need to recharge. If we march on the Capital without any sort of break first, I promise you, this mission will not go as planned. Exhausted and underfed soldiers are a guaranteed disadvantage.”

Krell studies you, a sneer forming on his lips. “I see you take after your Master’s incessant need to get the last word on anyone she disagrees with.”

You scowl. “I beg your pardon, but Master Venn is—”

He ignores you, cutting past where you stand and walking away. “Do what you wish, Neridian,” he dismisses, then walks away to stand by a glowing tree.

A sigh escapes your lips, and you close your eyes. It’s becoming harder and harder not to snap at him—but you know what the Order’s teachings require of you. Emotion, yet peace.

You grimace as Krell retreats to the back of the line, then turn back to the troopers nearby and give Rex a nod. The captain returns it in what you hope is a grateful manner, then calls for the men to make camp at the top of the ridge your group has been climbing.

By the time you gather all the troopers together, the battalion has put together a hasty campsite, with half the troopers having fallen into a fitful sleep and the other half keeping watch while eating as many rations as the limit allows. You frown and approach the trooper you heard Rex talking to earlier, his Force signature familiar from when you were eavesdropping. His helmet is now sitting in his lap, being meticulously cleaned with what little supplies the battalion has on hand.

You study the soldier. He has a tattoo on his right temple, and upon studying it, you realize it’s the same ARC trooper who’d been glaring at Krell when you stepped off the gunship. You wonder what significance the number five has to him.

Taking another step forward, you clear your throat. “Trooper,” you begin, and the soldier looks up curiously before abruptly shooting to his feet and snapping off a salute. You wave a nonchalant hand. “No need for that. I only wanted to ask a favor—can you gather troopers to stand watch? Six at a time, tops, and make sure they take turns so everyone can rest. That includes you.”

“You got it, sir,” says the trooper, and you smile.

“Sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name...” you say, then, and the trooper blinks.

“Oh, uh—it’s Fives, sir.”

“I see,” you reply, gaze flickering to his tattoo and back again. “Thank you, Fives.”

You retreat to your own tent soon after, shrugging off your vambraces and arranging them neatly next to your bedroll. This wouldn’t be the shortest sleep cycle you’d had, what with the nature of your apprenticeship at the temple—but not the longest, either.

From what you can hear inside your tent, the camp is silent. Slowly, you poke your head through the canvas flaps to find exactly six men—as you’d requested—sitting in the center of camp. Farther away, at the outskirts of the circle of tents, sits Master Krell’s hulking form. In spite of yourself, you frown.

“General?” asks a sudden voice above you; letting out an involuntary yelp, you scramble backwards before stopping at the sight of Rex standing near the entrance to your tent.

Embarrassed, you stand up, brushing off your cream-coloured robes. “Sorry,” you say sheepishly. “I could swear I’m not usually so jumpy, I don’t know what—” you look up and stop short.

Rex has removed his helmet.

His blond hair isn’t a surprise this time around, but close up, you’re struck by how tired he looks. There are smile lines at the corners of his eyes, but his face is cast in exhausted shadows.

You wonder if a full night’s sleep is something he’s ever had, or if the training regiments on Kamino prepared him and his brothers for this kind of halfhearted sleep cycle. Curiously, you study him.

Rex’s eyes are golden-brown in the dying light of this shadowy planet. They’re the same shade as all the troopers in the immediate vicinity. And yet, as you stare into them, something in you stirs as your Force signature brushes against his—something you know you’re not supposed to feel.

“Er, General,” Rex repeats, jolting you from your faraway thoughts. “I just wanted to let you know—the scouts are detecting a clear journey from here on out. We have approximately four hours to kick back, as predicted.”

Hurriedly, you turn away and clear your throat awkwardly. “Very good, Captain,” you mumble. “Thank you. You’re—erm, free to go and rest.”

For a moment, Rex looks surprised, but he composes himself seconds later. “Thank you, General,” he says. “But I—”

“Not up for debate,” you interrupt, holding your hand up. Bemused, Rex blinks, so you shoot him a reassuring smile. “You said it yourself: the soldiers need rest. You’re a soldier, yes?”

Rex opens his mouth, probably to say something about him being a Captain, but you lower your hand to rest it on his shoulder. The kind gesture seems to quell him, so you continue. “Don’t exclude yourself in that. Rest well, Captain.”

When you turn and reenter your tent, you don’t catch the way Rex’s eyes linger on the closed flap for far longer than they should, heat prickling up his neck as the remnant of your touch burns itself through his pauldron.

“You too… General.”

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ever-go-on · 3 months

Text

thoughts on false-positive alter recording and alter fixation (or: i used to think a lot of symptoms were alters when they were not)

or: how the online DID community can exacerbate identity issues and further fragment a person's sense of self

warning: very long post. personal and subjective experiences ahead.

i'm going to start this by saying i have DID. i've been in treatment for three years and my trauma recovery journey is intrinsically linked to me acknowledging and integrating my other selves. part of this journey has been recording and identifying my selves when they emerge. this is easier said than done.

even earlier than professional treatment, i've been in online system spaces for five years. i discovered my parts about a year after a stress and trauma based breakdown in 2018. i didn't have access to therapy at the time, so i went online to get answers and for models of how i 'should' be approaching my revelation.

the first advice any questioning system gets is 'try to communicate with your alters'. i was advised to journal and talk to myself. i went and did that on my own, and made decent small progress seeing my different mes express their opposing views. alongside some unfortunate triggers that brought parts to the surface, i began to identify an angry part, a child part, a calm and reasonable part, amongst others. i became aware of how my identity was fragmented between my different self-states, which i could seem to switch between at the drop of a hat. my partner at the time helped me, by telling me about switches they witnessed, and noticing and talking to my child part when they emerged during a flashback.

after a while i really wanted to start understanding what was going on, so i started joining discords and communities. it was here i got a faceful of what alters 'should' look like. every alter had a name and age. every alter had a sexual orientation and internal appearance. every alter was distinct.

the way alters were identified was also different. it wasn't "someone shouted at me and i acted like a completely different person", or "i was told i had a flashback, but i don't feel connected to the memory". it was mostly about identity.

the signs you were (or had) a new alter included:

identifying as a fictional character

suddenly rejecting your 'real'/host life and identity

suddenly deciding on / showing signs of a wildly new identity

in my experience, this altered identity-first approach to identifying alters is misleading. it's led me to some embarrassing inflated alter counts. i want to talk about it in this post.

a core of DID and a large part of its sister disorders is dissociation, and dissociation is confusing, unclear, and sudden spikes are often temporary and brought on by stress.

unfortunately, in the very alter-centric DID communities online, it is easy to develop a bias towards (new) alters being the only explanation for dissociative experiences. this way one-off moments of identity confusion and choosing a new appearance for the evening can become written into your alter lists for a very long time. you might assume the experience was an alter fronting, and because they were an alter, they will come back some day, prolonging the impact of the episode on your sense of self.

when this bias (towards thinking every confusing dissociative experience is an alter) is paired with the rhetoric that alters are whole, defined "different people", with no room for overlap, inconsistency, or blurred lines, it can lead to very messy issues in self-perception.

over the past five years, i have:

clung to a fictional character i admired or saw my experiences in and announced them as my whole self. dozens of times. these periods can last hours to days.

spoken to loved ones without feeling much connection at all, bordering on feeling like i was talking to a total stranger.

hated myself so much i rejected every identity i had, and decided the only way i could go on is if i lived as a totally different person.

these experiences aren't exclusive to DID. they're the experiences of someone with a poor sense of self and a tendency to dissociate. i've met many people with personality disorders and/or long term trauma that i've connected with over sharing these symptoms.

however, it is easy to see how any of my experiences could be construed as a sign of an alter. doing so, though, leaves you with:

a further fragmented sense of identity by assuming you had 'split' a new alter state that you didn't.

normalising not connecting to your loved ones, because they are 'not your' loved ones, just the host's.

seeing parts that hate your life and identity as abusive or aggressive intruders, rather than understanding the root cause within you (internalised self hatred).

i've fallen into all of these traps before, and i don't think there's any shame in misunderstanding your experiences. i've recently done a sweep of every alter i've ever logged over the past five years, trying to honestly evaluate whether or not each one was a real alter, or just a one-off name and identity confusion i assumed was a part, but was not.

identity issues and fragmentation are very distressing symptoms. some of the worst times of my life were when i had no cohesion between my selves: i didn't 'know' myself, and it felt like my head was full of strangers. it was hard to love myself when i didn't know who 'i' was, in multiple or singular state.

i have been much happier in recent years, having gone into therapy, a vast amount of integration happening, and getting a generalised better self-awareness, making it easier to identify my different selves, and feeling more confident telling when i am only experiencing identity confusion, knowing that it will pass.

nowadays, my alters don't look like they did when i was trying to fit into the DID community template. my alters don't have unique sexual orientations, and not all of them have internal appearances when i visualise them. at their core, they are parts of me who hold conflicting reactions to trauma, and all want different things to get their peace.

i am confident that every alter i engage with nowadays is 'real', because i have known them all for many years, and i understand how they think and function. there is nobody on my documentation that might just be a one-off moment of identity confusion, because i know how to identify my episodes, and know not to write them down as alters.

but, most importantly, i'm confident the alters i know today are real because i've removed myself from spaces that changed how i saw myself. i am confident in myself now, but i was not so lucky earlier in my recovery, and i find it a bit embarrasing.

i tend to avoid DID communities online nowadays, because of my bad experiences with the common rhetoric and the templates systems are expected to fit into. i don't fit into their boxes, and their approach doesn't speak to me. and that's ok. i'll stick to me, my loved ones, and my therapist.

sorry for the super long blog post, i had thoughts to get out. feel free to strike up a conversation if you connect and want to talk. this was a hard topic to broach for my wounded pride😅. i'd be interested if anyone else shares my experience. thanks for reading.

#my posts #actually did #actually dissociative

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blue-sadie · 9 months

Text

A Distant Memory

Dead Neteyam x Mate Reader

Summary: he will always be your one and only

Warning: sadness

Yn/3rd person pov

The other na'vi watched with pity as I did packed a few rashions for my journey to the soul tree to visit neteyam.

"Are you sure you want to be alone" kiri asked as she put a comforting hand on my shoulder, i bite my lip as it quivered.

I gulped nervously "y-yeah" I whispered strapping my small pouch to my back "well I'll be waiting for you when you return" she smiled sadly.

I called over my Ilu and saddled her up and gave kiri a quick hug "I'll see you later" i murmured before climbing onto my Ilu "yn wait" i turned my head to the voice to see tuk running towards me holding something.

"yes tuk" I gave her a small smile, she came to the edge of the dock and she handed me a small wrapped object "mom helped me make it but i hope it makes you feel better" she said.

I looked over her shoulder seeing neytiri a few ways away with jake holding her as they stared at me I gave them a nod and a mouthed 'thank you' before turning back to tuk.

"thank tuk really" I wiped a single fallen tear which i didn't even realized had fallen "I'll you later ok" I murmured she nodded furiously "see you later yn" she smiled and watched as I dove into the water with my Ilu.

I admired the planets and animals as I made my way to the soul tree but as i got closer my heart felt more empty, my Ilu looked over her shoulder back as me and i gave her a half lidded smile letting her know Im ok.

When we got there I disembarked from her and rose to the surface and climbing onto a small rock that over looked the tree,I sat down and let out a few long breathes looking up at the sky before turning my gaze into the water.

The water shimmered from the light of the tree, I sniffled as my feelings were starting to get the best of me I took out the small wrapped object tuk gave me and slowly unwrapped it.

I felt my heart stop when I saw it I grazed my finger tips along the grooves as a batch of fresh tears started flowing down my cheeks.

It was a small wooden carved sculpture of neteyams Ikran and even painted its exact color, I still remember the first time he ever took me flying on it.

It was a clear sky night he took me flying after a fight with his father, he just wanted to get to clear his head and he took me along with him, it was the first time we ever said 'I love you'.

I smiled at the fond memory and gently layed the sculpture down beside me and took off my pouch before getting up I stood at the edge and took a deep breath before diving in.

I swam down to the tree and waited a few minutes before attaching myself to it, I closed my eyes and felt as I felt slip into dreamy daze.

"Hi my love" I smiled hearing his voice and slowly opened my eyes to see him and his beautiful smile, I flung myself into his arms and held him tightly.

"I missed you so much" I breathed out making him snort "I missed you to" he layed a gentle kiss on my forehead before pulling away, the feeling of sadness pinged in my chest as he pulled away.

"Whats wrong my love" he asked as he pulled my over to a bench like root "I-I just I can't do this without you" my eyes glazed in tears as I looked at him, he smiled sadly and wiped away my fallen tears as he shook his head.

"Im always with you now and forever my love" he kissed my lips gently "don't you ever forget that" he murmured, my breath started to shorten and I felt myself become light head "I-I don't want to leave" i whispered but he just smiled and kissed me again "see you soon my love" he whispered before I woke up.

I detached myself from the tree crying but all my tears got washed away I stared into the trees core.

'Maybe a bit sooner then you think'

#avatar #avatar pandora #avatar x reader #avatar way of water #avatar x reader fluff #avatar fluff #avatar angst #avatar x reader angst #neytiri x reader fluff #neteyam fluff #neteyam x reader #neteyam

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admirxation · 9 months

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Broken Locks | Part 5 {FINALE}

𓆩♡𓆪┆other parts: part one | part two | part three | part four

𓆩♡𓆪┆pairing: las plagas! yandere! re4!leon s. kennedy x fem!reader (afab)

𓆩♡𓆪┆summary: Chris and Jill have finally found the reader, but the only problem now is to convince her that she and her baby will be safe, and how to deal with Leon.

��♡𓆪┆word count: 2.6k

𓆩♡𓆪┆disclaimer: this is a work of fiction! i do not condone everything i write, my writing doesn’t reflect all my morals. if any of the following warnings trigger or make you feel uncomfortable, scroll away; you are in charge of what content you’re consuming. this is 18+ only, minors are strongly advised not to interact.

𓆩♡𓆪┆warnings: nsfw 18+ mdni. female anatomy and she/her pronouns used for reader. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Noncon and dubcon, kidnapping, manipulation, mental illness, trauma, gun violence, blood and death.

Chapter five: It needed to happen.

The journey was long, Chris and Jill took no stops no matter how many hours they were on the road, their determination was strong. There was silence — now and again — but when they did have a conversation it was the anxiety and worries that Jill was expressing, Chris trying to make her feel better and reassuring her that you were alive and that today was the day you would be bought back.

Jill didn’t vocalise this, but what she was most worried about wasn’t the parasite, of course, that was one of her priorities but the number one thing that kept circling around her mind was the thought of you being in love with Leon; she knew your deep affections toward him, and now knowledgeable of his to you, but she didn’t want you to fall for him, to surrender yourself to Stockholm syndrome and mistake his abuse for “love”.

But unknowingly, you had already gone through the motions of hating him, accepting him, and falling in love with him — against your will.

It wasn’t long until the destination was reached, of course, they didn’t want to stop right in front of the house so they parked close to a cluster of cars that stopped before the beginning of a forest. The map was pointing to get inside the forest, so they had no choice but to make their way and be ready for anything that was going to happen; when it came to the halfway point a pathway became clearer with it being filled with tiny stones and a neat curvature to what Jill and Chris knew was where you prison was located. They decided to move away from it, to walk where the trees could cover them.

“You had to wear the blue vest didn’t you?” Chris whispered, penetrating through the sounds of breathing and breaking twigs under his boots.

“Ignore my lack of camouflage, let’s just get her,” Jill said, exasperated with the whole situation, just wanting to grab your arm and put you somewhere safe.

“Get down,” Chris grabbed Jill’s arm, so hard that bits of her flesh were poking out in the gaps between his fingers’ grasp, Jill didn’t hesitate and didn’t want to ask any questions, so both of them had their stomachs and chests lay along the dirt, having their bodies be covered by the surrounding trees, but allowing a small space of vision to see what was happening.

“It’s Leon,” Jill whispered as she squinted her eyes and focused on who was driving the black car, “We better get a move on,” without any time wasted they both scrapped themselves off the ground, running but frequently being alert to see or hear if Leon was going to make a U-turn and come back.

Jill couldn’t help but have that picture of Leon be engraved in her memories, it was only brief but she saw how terrifying he looked with the dark veins over his pale skin, looking like he had been in survival mode for far too long; but that was the case, Leon wasn’t “living” he was merely surviving and trying his best to keep his heart pumping while the parasite controlled and took him over — what was once known of Leon S. Kennedy was now a fragment of the past, a relic only to be unlocked by a core memory.

The roof was the first thing they saw, within the gaps of the trees and leaves it was easier to see everything when their running quickened and got closer; they stopped again to check their surroundings, wanting to make sure there weren’t any traps or cameras Leon had — it was obvious he was going to be very protective, after all the efforts to get you imprisoned.

When the goal was near, both of them saw you stop by the door, tears in your eyes but also fear; Jill and Chris couldn’t make out why you were teary but you knew — you thought Leon had permanently left you there and would never come back, to leave you and your baby with no one to take care of you. The rational part of your brain was relieved and kept shouting at your body to just take the steps and get out of that house as soon as possible; but you couldn’t, it felt like a higher being or natural force kept you grounded in your current standing, forcing you to remain a prisoner and Leon’s little toy to always own and control.

Both of them slowly approached you, making you jump a little when you heard the tiny stones under their feet be crushed and moved about; you looked up and your best friend was there, with an unknown man.

“Jill? Is that you?” you couldn’t quite believe it at first, for too long you had only been accompanied by Leon and your own thoughts but this was now a person you knew and deeply cared for; your whole body tingled in joy and the voice inside told you to just run up to her and have her take you away from it all — but Leon managed to manipulate you enough to stop listening to that voice of rationality.

“Yes, it’s me… I’m sorry it took me long but I’m here to save you now,” Jill was slow with her movements, not knowing what Leon had “taught” you to do in case of a rescue, “The man by my side is Chris Redfield, a friend… We are both here to save you, no more harm will be done to you… Please walk toward me Y/N.”

Jill was gentle with her speech and body language, you felt relaxed and safe, not the false safety you felt with Leon but a true refuge; you couldn’t quite place it but just with a first glance you could trust Chris, he just seemed trustworthy to you, maybe it was his aura or his close friendship with Jill but that was how you felt.

“I-I want to…” your voice was shallow.

“So come to me then,” Jill was desperate.

“What if Leon comes back… He’ll be mad at me.”

“Y/N, Leon doesn’t control you anymore, if you come with me now, you will never experience that anger,” her hand reached out, slowly inching even more closer until she was face to face with you, just inches away and able to see every physical emotion you expressed on your face.

“But… It isn’t fair to leave the father of my child.”

Jill couldn’t believe it, she paused for a moment, she stuttered as she tried to get some words out, any words, but that was improving impossible with the shock of the news; she kept thinking about if she had come sooner this would have never happened, but also what was going to happen as the baby of the infected man lived inside you, using you as a source — another host for the parasite.

“Jill… That parasite is just going to grow inside her,” Chris then looked at you, reluctantly pulling his gun towards you, “I’m sorry Jill… But this is for the greater good.”

You couldn’t move, you were frozen, having your life flash before your eyes, your heart beat quickening. “Is this the end for me?” You thought, your vision getting blurry as the tears were nesting in the brim of your eyes; for a final moment of peace you closed your eyes, not wanting to see as your light would fade.

BANG.

Your body was frozen in time, your fists were clenched, your teeth grinding, just waiting for it to happen… But it didn’t.

“Don’t you dare, you’re not killing her, we don’t know her condition,” you heard Jill’s voice. You wondered why you were hearing people speak, you thought you were experiencing something of an afterlife, or the beginning of the journey to it, but no, you were still alive. You opened your eyes and saw that Chris was pushed to the ground, looking at Jill with red fury in his eyes, his gun now far away from him. That trust of a stranger was now proved to be consequential, you were hoping you could trust Jill.

“Y/N, please listen to me,” she was grabbing your arms, looking into your teary eyes, “I know you’re scared, but we’re not going to hurt you, he was just shocked, I will make sure you won’t be hurt… Please believe me, come with me, don’t look back… I promise you and that baby will be safe, you can trust me.”

And you did.

You put your hand into hers, hesitantly taking a step onto the wooden porch, down to the grass of the forest as Jill guided you and Chris behind; you were scared that Chris was behind after nearly killing you, but you were with your best friend and you knew she wouldn’t let anything happen to you. You kept looking around your atmosphere, you hadn’t been out this far in his area, all you remembered was the incident at the apartment and then waking up to that dreaded room.

It didn’t take long for you to be in the car, ready to start your journey; you were inside the vehicle and took a deep breath in, you expected it to give you some relaxation but that was further from the truth, with the reality that happened. You paused, not wanting to look behind you, but knowing exactly what was happening.

“Where do you think you’re taking her?”

It was Leon.

Jill and Chris stayed outside the locked car, their guns pointing to him, not breaking any eye contact.

“She doesn’t want to be with you, Leon, you can’t take care of her,” Chris started; he didn’t want to shoot his friend but he knew he would have to with all the evidence he had collected along the way in the finding of your location and his “condition”.

“I have taken care of her, she’s had everything she wants,” Leon smirked.

“You took her freedom… You didn’t take care of her,” Jill took a deep breath, “I don’t want to make it harder, take a step back or I’ll shoot you right here!”

Leon couldn’t help but let out an arrogant chuckle.

“You know I always finish my mission Kennedy, and my mission is to protect Y/N and to make sure she never sees you again,” Jill said.

“Fine,” he stepped back, “On one condition.”

“We’re not negotiating Kennedy, you either back off or your dead!” Chris had venom lingering in his words as he shouted at Leon.

“I just want to ease my mind… I know Y/N doesn’t want to be separated from me, for the months you morons took to find us she clinged to me like a puppy, so bring her here and let her choose… If she chooses you, I go, if me then… Never disturb us.”

“Like we’re going to entertain that —”

“No, fine,” Jill opened the door looking into your eyes, helping you come out of the car, “It’s fine Chris, we will give him what he wants.”

Leon’s eyes widened with excitement, looking at you hungrily, arrogantly believing he had already won the whole game.

Chris couldn’t help but wonder what the hell Jill was thinking, she knew you were traumatised and troubled, you had no place to figure out that Leon wasn’t the one you needed or wanted; he just wished on every lucky star that the right future would unravel in front of him.

“Darling,” Leon started, “Come on, I know I’ve had my moments but you know I care about you… I gave you everything… I gave the privilege of being the mother of my child… Come on, I won’t be mad, they manipulated you.”

“Course we did,” Chris said sarcastically under his breath.

“Shut your mouth Redfield! You don’t know anything that happened those months we’ve been together, I’ve given her a home, given her all the presents any woman would dream to have… The only crime I did was miss the mundane courting and gave her the relationship she wanted.”

You stood there, your mentality being troubled, every part of your brain voiced its opinion; you felt your eyes getting heavier and a force making your walk toward Leon.

“Y/N no!,” Jill went to grab you.

“Ah, ah, ah… Not the rules of the game Jill Valentine,” he looked at her with sinister eyes.

“Y/N please… You don’t want to be with someone like that!” you paused in your steps which made Leon clench his fists and look dead into your eyes to try and convince you with fear to continue your walk, “He will kill you one day —”

“You don’t know what you’re —”

“He will… Those dark veins are a parasite from Spain, he went there on a mission to save the President’s daughter, We have every single file that we can show you after all this… If you choose to stay with him, you only killing yourself… And your baby.”

Chris slowly put his hand in his jacket pocket, holding up the journal that Leon had hidden and pleaded for help: “Remember this Leon… This is what you wrote and how we found you, you pleaded not to be the person you’ve now become, go on read it, and the real Leon will come,” he threw the journal towards him and Leon caught it, not taking any notice as he flicked through the papers.

Until he saw it.

The page that pleaded to be killed, and how much he loved you, not the “love” the parasite conditioned you to feel, but a true love that could have been felt if a confession occurred sooner and he had never gone to Spain.

And there — right in front of you all — those dark veins were fading, his blue eyes emerging with innocence, he wasn’t cured but this was the real Leon who was fighting to get his last words out.

“I’m… I’m sorry Y/N, I love you and I would have never hurt you if… if —”

“I know Leon, I know who you really are but… I don’t think the real you can survive now,” tears started to form.

“I know… That’s why I need you to kill me, right now,” his knees dropped to the ground, his hands dropping and getting grazed from the concrete, squeezing his eyes shut as he struggled to stop the parasite from taking control again, “Please, I can’t take it anymore it’s too much!”

You couldn’t do it, you stayed there with Chris and holding onto Jill’s arm, they looked at you and Jill handed you her gun, giving you the forward to finish and make what needed to happen; Leon couldn’t suffer like this anymore, and a cure was destroyed all the way in Spain, there was no hope.

“I’m sorry Leon, I wish it had happened differently,” your finger was on the trigger.

“I know… We would have been happier… I love you.”

“I love you too,” you closed your eyes, your finger pulling closer to you.

Then it happened.

The drop of a dead body hit the ground, blood pooling on the ground.

Leon was now dead.

Your whole body was shaking, not being able to hold the gun anymore as it dropped to your feet, looking at Leon’s limp body on top of the pool of blood; it needed to happen, but that fact wouldn’t make you feel any better.

It was time to leave and you sobbed, whaling as the remnant of who Leon truly was and his last words lingering in your mind, those words that would be remembered all your life.

Chris was driving to where you would be living for a while, your hand on your belly, and the other in Jill’s hand as she pressed the side of her body into yours for comfort; she whipped away your tears and couldn’t imagine the conflict and emotional turmoil you were experiencing.

Tears puddled on your top as they rolled down your cheeks, you caressed your stomach and thought about the baby that was now forming inside you, the only piece of Leon that would live.

No idea what was to happen next.

my links: masterlist | ao3 profile | kofi

a/n: omg finally it is finished, i rlly hope you enjoy this and maybe read more of my work. i will now be working on more one shots and taking a break from multiple part series as i’m mentally exhausted from writing long stories (ik play the smallest violin for me but that’s how i feel), BUT i MIGHT make a sequel to this if anyone wants, have a lovely day/evening <3

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choicesficwriterscreations · 3 months

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March MC of the Month: Evie Ayana

Please welcome March 2024's MC of the Month! Each month, we highlight one MC or OC on our Meet My MC / OC List. They are selected randomly on the Wheel of Names, and eligibility requirements can be found here. We accept MC / OC profiles on an ongoing basis. Please feel free to send yours in!

This month’s MC of the month is…

@cadybear420's Evie Ayana!

More below...

1..In your own words, tell us what you like most about Evie.

It’s hard to choose a specific thing… but most probably her drive to keep moving forward.

Before coming to Berry, Evie dealt with social anxiety a lot in her old schools. She didn’t have many close friends, she struggled to talk to people she liked, she had a little more insecurity about joining certain social/group activities, etc. And she’d lived in the same house all her life up until moving to Cedar Cove, so she wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about moving up north from the Bay Area and leaving behind what friends and memories and familiar places she did have.

She does start out as a little more impulsive and “holding herself back” when she first comes to the school– unsure how to respond to Brian at first, unthinkingly introducing herself as “Emma’s wingman” to Caleb, gives Hugh a startled look when they make eye contact at the school assembly. She didn’t have quite as much drive for change yet and wasn’t expecting much from the school, but she was definitely going to stick with the few friends she did make (such as Emma).

But one thing she did somewhat hope for was that Berry High was a new change of pace. And as Principal Hughs said on the first day assembly in canon, “That’s the great thing about a fresh start. You can be anybody you want to be”. This was perhaps the core motivator for Evie to start changing things. Soon enough, she comes to realize that Berry is sort of this “fresh start” for her, a chance to find herself in a brand new environment. She wants to be someone who is sure of herself, someone who can get shit done. And a school that strives to be welcoming to all is the perfect environment for that. That’s kind of what the OG HSS Trilogy always was to me. High school, but if it were, y’know, actually good.

So, Evie is partly motivated by the fact that the environment at Berry is much more welcoming, and partly motivated because of the opportunity of a fresh start in a new town. And so she starts to push herself out of her comfort zone a little and soon becomes a lot more outspoken, protective, proactive, and helpful towards others. Evie becomes a lot more confident through her journey at Berry High.

One major motivator for Evie is that her first friend and the one who takes her under her wing when she’s lost and nervous at the start of her first day, is Emma Hawkins, a socially awkward wallflower. So right away, she has some companionship with someone she can relate to a bit. And not only that, but seeing someone as socially awkward as Emma have no problem extending kindness to her, kind of motivates her to do the same with others.

Another major green flag for Evie is also probably in her involvement in sports. In Evie’s old high school, she had considered joining football, but was nervous about it due to the team being all guys and not co-ed. Evie is fairly secure in her enjoyment of certain sports and wanted to join the football team at her old school, but was nervous about not being allowed to join and seeming like an idiot for trying to do so. She had heard that some schools might make exceptions for girls who wanted to join, since there generally wasn’t a girls’ football team, but she was still very nervous about the possibility of “sticking out like a sore thumb”.

But since she was most familiar with Caleb of all the people she saw in the cafeteria and knew him to be a friendly guy, I had her sit with him and the other jocks at lunch that day to maybe get the chance to know more about the football team. Much to both of our surprises and delights, the sports teams at Berry are all co-ed and Caleb and Julian encouraged Evie to join football. And the best part? As she was on football, basketball, and baseball, she was treated like yet another part of the team. Rather than being pathologized, patronized, sensationalized, or tokenized for being a female football player/jock on a team of mostly guys… she was just treated as normal (Sonic Boom Knuckles would be proud, haha). As per canon, Brian did make a few comments to her during that one mini-race, but Caleb nonchalantly shot them down.

And lest we not forget her beloved Aiden Zhou. He’s passionate and dedicated to his creative craft; but also shy, reserved, socially awkward, and afraid of coming off as a screw-up or a failure in social interactions. A major reason why Evie is so drawn to him (along with her finding him incredibly attractive) is that she sees a lot of herself in him, and she can relate to him. She sees how passionate he is, and that inspires her to do better herself. It inspires her to keep doing better. And as she works to improve herself and move past her own struggles, she can sort of connect with Aiden and help him with his struggles as well, as she understands to some degree what that sort of social anxiety feels like.

2...Do you feel Evie is like you at all? How are you alike or different?

Evie is very based off of how I am, especially when it comes to the little details. She’s a cat lover, she’s a picky eater and especially hates spicy food, she’s fairly into sports and writing, she’s obsessed with scented products and cute stuff, she’s pretty horny-on-main, and a lot more. I had Evie be a jock in each of the three books because I myself was involved in sports when I was in high school (though I was more of a track-and-field/runner and I didn’t really have a lot of experience in football, basketball, or baseball; meanwhile, Evie gets experience in each of those). I can’t play an instrument to save my life, and cheerleading is absolutely not my thing, and so the same applies to Evie.

But in a more general sense… Evie is partly based off of who I am, and partly based off of the kind of person I aspire to be.

When I was in high school, I sort of dealt with social anxiety a lot, and even now I still struggle with it a fair bit. I did get along with a fair amount of people, but it was on a very superficial level with most of them and so I wouldn’t exactly have considered myself “well-known” back then. So I’ve imagined the same for Evie.

The difference, of course, is that Evie is much more outspoken, social, and heavily proactive in the school community than I was when I was in high school. I mean, I was a bit like that myself every now and then. But with Evie, she sort of gets more opportunities to be that kind of person, and she had somewhat more drive for it. And that’s what allows it to manifest. That doesn’t mean her anxieties go away by any means, she just becomes better at managing them.

Though, one thing I’ve liked about generally being more shy and reserved is that it did sometimes help me stay a little more aware of boundaries, if that makes sense. Evie is much the same, and although she becomes a more confident person throughout her story, that doesn’t mean she also can’t be aware of boundaries– and that especially shows with how I had her approach her crush on Aiden in the first book.

Evie took a slight interest in Aiden when she first met him; it started out as superficial, but it developed into an actual more deep attraction when he invited her in to listen to him play. She’d sort of push herself to talk to him and hang out with him, but for the most part, she knew not to explicitly flirt with him (not that he’d really have minded in the game but yeah). Occasionally she’d be a little bit forwards with him by accident (see: teaching him how to do “sexy moves” at Brian’s party), but wouldn’t express explicit attraction to him until when he asked her to homecoming and admitted he did like her.

And once she knew that he liked her back, she was much more comfortable with explicitly making romantic gestures/moves onto him. I’d never gotten that far with any of my high school crushes, but if I had, I certainly would have been the same. (It’s also worth noting that the more I replay the series, the more I feel like Aiden and I both share similar qualities as well, so naturally I envision Evie as someone who can relate to him).

A final MAJOR way in which Evie and I are very similar is how very GNC we are. I’d say Evie is a lot more openly masc/butch leaning than I am, especially appearance wise (as much as I wish I did, I do not have defined muscles like Evie does, lol). She prefers to keep her hair short; she loves masc clothing like pantsuits, tuxes, boxers, and swim trunks, and she takes pride in her more masc body figure. Similar to me as well, there are a few feminine-associated things (for lack of better wording), such as flowers, glittery/sparkly patterns, heart shapes, general cute stuff, etc., that you can pry from her cold, dead hands. But there are certainly a lot of feminine-associated things she has a distaste for indulging in, such as wearing short shorts or high heels or doing cheerleading– not because they’re “feminine,” but quite simply because they just aren’t her thing. We also both have major bottom dysphoria and would rather die than ever get pregnant.

3.. What is most important to Evie? What is their motivation in life?

Stability.

Not just being sure that she can end up in a good point in life and nothing changes from that, but also being sure that if things do change, she will be able to manage it. Even when things are at their worst point, she wants to do what she can to fix the problem and make the situation better.

For a lot of her life, Evie has been very unsure about what specific thing she’d want to be doing in the future, and while she agrees with the “it’s okay if it takes a little longer for you to decide” sentiment that people tell her, she does also know that she can’t spend her whole life indecisive, and the fact that she’s still figuring things out frustrates her sometimes. And as I’ve mentioned before, her and her dad’s move to Cedar Cove was initially very hard on her. Even as she gets settled in Berry and Cedar Cove, she worries about anything that could possibly disrupt it.

A big contributor to her drive for stability is her parents’ history. After her dad Scott and Emma’s mom Julia had gone their separate ways with university as per canon, he’d eventually meet a woman in his year but with a different major. Her name was Rani, and he’d fall in love with and marry her after they’d both got their graduate degrees. Rani eventually became pregnant, but it was only a few months into the pregnancy when she realized she was not interested in being a parent.

Scott, of course, had always wanted to be a dad, but he respected Rani’s decision. So, due to this contrast of life goals, the two divorced on amicable terms. Rani was okay with carrying the baby AKA Evie to term (though Scott was okay with it if she wanted to terminate the pregnancy), and after that she’d simply take on the title of being Evie’s Auntie Rani. And it was heartbreaking for both of them because they were otherwise a perfect match.

Evie knew the full story growing up, and while she did not resent Rani at all for leaving, knowing that story had amplified her own cautiousness– particularly when it came to her own romance. She’d crushed on Aiden, wanted to be official with him, and fell in love with him long before he did with her for each of those points, but she didn’t want to push anything too suddenly onto him. Often, she’d wait until moments, such as when Aiden confessed to liking her after asking her to homecoming or when he confessed he loved her at prom, before she’d start taking things further. She wouldn’t express romantic gestures and attraction to him until after he said he liked her. She wouldn’t confess her love to him until after he confessed to her.

That doesn’t mean she’d never initiate, though. She’s the one who took Aiden outside to talk about becoming official, even though he ended up being the one to ask her to be his girlfriend. After their moment on Hearst’s rooftop, she had started making plans to ask him to be her date to homecoming (but of course, Aiden beat her to it). And she was the one to (as per my headcanons) dip him in their first dance at homecoming and (as per canon) initiate their first kiss during that dance.

And make no mistake, all those moments– learning Aiden liked her, having a steady relationship with him that year, to the point of them becoming official in late February and him confessing he loved her at the end of prom, and seeing Aiden become a more confident and self-assured person throughout their relationship… she was incredibly happy about all of it. But in the back of her mind, she sometimes couldn’t help but think it to be too good to be true. Sometimes she feared that they’d end up the same way her dad and her Auntie Rani did: a seemingly perfect couple at first, all until one singular but major area of incompatibility.

Later on in their relationship, she would start to become fussy over making sure Aiden actually enjoyed what he was doing with her, telling him she didn’t want to force him to do anything he didn’t want to do. This would become a point of contention between them, as Aiden would be a little upset at Evie not being fully sure in his choices. But in the end, they’d be able to work it out together. To this day she still isn’t fully sure about what she’d do if she and Aiden ended up separating, but she would become better at being able to manage any difficulties or disagreements between them. She would do what she could to better the situation. The two would eventually get married (Evie being the one to propose), having talked about it prior and both being sure that they were happy with each other.

As for everything else in her life? She does slowly become more welcoming to change. As of now, I don’t imagine her going through a lot of sudden changes in her life, but she does become more comfortable with the idea. A year after they marry, Aiden and Evie move out of Evie’s old house and into a cozy apartment in the Bay Area, and then move back into Cedar Cove but in their own home when they decide they want to have kids. Events like these where Evie does have a bit more control over the situation, do help her get used to the idea of major change.

4.. What are Evie's biggest pet peeves/dislikes?

Evie loathes gender essentialism, gender complementarianism, TERFs, and the like (Then again, any person with common sense would loathe those things, haha). But especially as someone who is very openly and proudly GNC, she just absolutely loathes them. She hasn’t experienced a lot of direct bigotry from TERFs herself, but to put it briefly, she’s been paying attention to their behaviors, and she’s not having any of their bullshit. Especially not with their blatantly two-faced behaviors towards GNC cis people (especially cis female athletes with even the smallest bit of “masculine” features, AKA people like her3). All the more reason why she sings her praises to Berry for having co-ed sports.

For something on a lighter note… she can’t stand spicy food despite her South Asian heritage. A bit of mild spice is alright, but very spicy food is just… she doesn’t get the appeal at all. She’s generally a very picky eater, even being averse to most South Asian dishes. And overly spicy food is probably the bane of her picky eater existence.

I imagine she just also dislikes… bullies in general. In her old schools, she would get bullied quite a bit, but she never quite knew how to stand up to them. So at Berry, she does try to change that, starting with standing up for her friends (like Emma) who get bullied. She aspires to be a protective girlfriend to Aiden and an overall reliable friend. It’s not always easy– such as when Isa and the hall monitors screw over Aiden and band and cheer, when band and cheer turn on the basketball team, or when Max and Kara frame her for sabotage. But she doesn’t let it stop her. She always tries to get through it, one way or another.

5.. If Evie could change one thing - anything - what would it be?

I’m not fully sure, honestly. I imagine there are lots of things she’d want to change.

Although it’s a bit more general, Evie would change… a lot of her past. She has way too many moments of “I look back on this thing I did in the past, and I fucking cringe at it.” She knows she’s grown from all that and has become a much better person, but it’s just hard for her to not feel bad about herself over her past mistakes.

For something that’s a little more specific, her parental situation is something she’s sometimes wished she could change. To reiterate, she does not resent Rani for leaving and understands why she did. But there have been times when she’s wished that Rani and Scott never separated. From what Scott had told her, Rani sounded freaking awesome to her, and she imagined she’d have loved having her as a mom, along with Scott as her dad.

Rani would sometimes visit them, taking on more of a title of being Evie’s Auntie. But she wouldn’t visit often because it could be very awkward knowing the past, especially so when she and Scott hadn’t fully moved past their feelings for each other.

Evie and Scott have had a very healthy relationship, but the situation with Rani has created some confusion for both of them. With Scott, he’s often feeling guilt. He’d told Rani that he was okay if she didn’t want to carry the pregnancy to term– Evie knows this and understands, but he sometimes feels guilty for having felt that way about Evie, even though it was before she was born. But he also sometimes feels guilty about giving Rani a pregnancy she ended up not wanting and seeing her carry that pregnancy to term even after realizing that, even though she had agreed to it at first and agreed to carry it to term anyways.

I headcanon a big part of why he’s extra sweet to Evie, on top of her being his daughter, is the fact that he sort of considers himself lucky to have ended up with Evie. Rani chose to carry the pregnancy to term, even though both she and Scott were well aware that she was in every right not to. He’s always wanted to be a dad, and he got just that. So he tries his best to not take her decision for granted.

With Evie, she’s certainly fine with having just Scott, but she’s known the story of Scott and Rani’s separation ever since she was very young and it’s hard for her not to feel like she missed out on having Rani as a mother figure. But she also sometimes feels guilty for feeling that way, knowing Rani did not want to be a mother.

At one point or another though, she does come to terms with her parental situation. Rani would come to visit more often when she could as she and Scott were eventually able to move on from each other.

6.. What is Evie’s favorite quote or song?

I don’t think Evie can really pick just one song, haha. Though Evie can't play an instrument for shit, let alone compose a song and a lot of the musical terminology Aiden uses is mostly just pure jargon nonsense to her… she's quite the enthusiast for good songs and soundtracks.

She excitedly raves to Aiden about her favorite soundtracks from movies, video games, TV shows, etc. Often, she'll even recommend a show or movie to him partly on the basis of it having a bomb-ass soundtrack and almost 100% of the time, he will enjoy it, and they'll rave about the best parts of the soundtrack together.

So it’s a little hard for Evie to pick just one song (or one quote, for that matter). Probably something Aiden composed for her, but I’m not sure.

7.. Is there anything else you’d like to share about Evie?

I guess I’d like to ramble a bit about how fun it is to build the character of my OG HSS MC, both within the game and outside of it.

In Choices, I generally tend to prefer MCs with a more open-ended backstory and especially choices in what kind of personality they have and how they respond/behave/act. I know even the most choice-based story can’t account for every single granular detail about what we want for our MCs, but most of the time I just like being able to decide *who* my MC is whenever fitting. I like being able to make choices for the MC, and create my own backstory for them that sort of informs said choices, maybe even make two different versions of the MC that feel like completely different people from one another. (Truth be told, I’m a fan of any MC that’s allowed to have a spine and be proactive in the story, but the ones that are flexible in their character score extra major points with me).

OG HSS is definitely a series that allows for stuff like that, which is part of why both the trilogy and the MC are my favorites of all Choices. There’s a lot of variety in the kind of story experience you can have, and probably only two or three moments where default dialogue made me go “Evie would not say that”. Honestly, I don’t think the series would have had nearly as much of an impact if MC had only one activity they could do, or one singular specific backstory for Scott and their mom and their old school.

Although I haven’t really played as a MC other than “Evie Ayana” in any of my 7 playthroughs, I have tried a couple of different choices and routes for her. Once I’ve had her as a band kid instead of a jock, and I loved all the extra moments she could get with Aiden. Twice I’ve had her romance Michael, and as much as Evie would be attracted to him, they do not have all that much romantic chemistry (and so I’m making a new HSS MC for his route). One time I’ve even had Evie try and side against her own team at the basketball game in Book 2… and oh my God, it was so puke-inducingly out-of-character for Evie that I had to scrub it from my HSS screenshots history.

Once I’ve deliberately made mostly bad choices for her (outside of her activity), and it was quite interesting to see outcomes such as losing the baseball game, losing homecoming crown and guest-of-honor-– and most notably, how she can lose her tryouts spot to her respective Hearst rival if she’s been mostly awful to the Hearst kids, even if she’s otherwise good at the actual tryouts. Like hello? I can make my MC not be nice? And face consequences for it? I like. I’ve sometimes seen the HSS MC get flak for being “too perfect” or “too much of a fantasy” or “not having much personality”, and I’m just like, “Honey, with all due respect… they’re only perfect because you made them that way.”

I’ll admit, with the most recent playthrough I did to record Evie’s official storyline, I did make the choices that would lead to the “good” outcomes. But with most of it, I was just making whatever choices felt right for the kind of character I wanted for Evie and then let things take their course. I wanted her to be someone who was fairly good at her sports. I wanted her to become someone who tries to step up and be a leader, and someone who is outspoken about her opinions and stays true to them, but also knows her boundaries. But sometimes she can act without thinking and that does make her very self-conscious a lot of the time, even as she becomes more confident throughout her time at Berry. Some of it was more intentional– I did want her to be fairly competent at her activities. But other stuff like the homecoming/prom crowns felt more like bonus things for her.

Fun Fact: during my most recent playthrough, where I was recording the official choices and outcomes in the story for Evie, I kind of wanted a way to represent her lack of experience in baseball since I headcanon it’s Evie’s first time doing the sport. So what I did was I just took my glasses off and backed away from the phone screen a bit when the minigame choices were in session. And Evie did miss a few of the throws, but performed mostly successfully in the end, getting the tryouts spot and winning the baseball game.

I’ve actually gone through a couple of different “canons” for Evie, throughout each of my 7 playthroughs of the story. I’ve tried different routes and options for the sake of trying them out, but there are quite a few choices I’d imagined as “canon” for her that are now different. When I first played the trilogy, Evie was actually named “Cady Heron” after the main character of Mean Girls, my favorite HS-based movie (Scott calling her “Cady-bear” all the time is how I came up with my username). She had the blonde beachy waves hairstyle in the first book, and was a bit more openly flirtatious with the characters she liked (Aiden, Michael, and Maria), she told Koh’s secret to Isa out of panic and thinking that it would get Isa off of Koh’s back. I imagined her having figured out clear goals for herself by the end of the first day: take down Brian and Zoe, and get with Aiden+Michael+Maria.

But upon developing her character, I was sort of trying to make her a bit more like me. With that in consideration, Evie would have been someone who wouldn’t be so openly forward and would take secret-keeping pretty seriously. In my “Evie’s official choices” playthrough I did have her slip the secret to Isa, but it felt so wrong, and so I had to restart the chapter right after the choice in order to choose otherwise.

And I am planning to make a couple more OG HSS MCs too. One will be a male MC named Alan Parke, a cheerleader who is a total diva– he’ll romance either Maria or Emma, and he’ll be very flirty, preppy, and pompous. Book 3 would be a sort of a character arc for him where he may have to set his self-aggrandizing habits aside as he comes to sympathize with fellow male cheerleader Kieran, with whom he’s competing in tryouts. Another will be a female MC named Violet Jones, the one I’ll have to romance Michael. She’ll be a lot more suave and no-nonsense– she hates self-policing and is a lot more quick to call people out on their crap whenever she can, and will certainly have a lot more romantic chemistry with Michael than Evie did.

And I’m definitely gonna have one or two MCs that are utter screw-ups at everything in the game– crap at their activities, they don’t win the dance titles, they’re cold to the Hearst kids. And I also wanna do a couple of playthroughs that switch activities between books. Some that are more slow-burn in their romances. I’m even planning an “AU/alternate timeline” playthrough where Evie tries band (and is mostly crap at it). Agh, there are so many route combinations I wanna do in HSS!

Bottom line: it’s just really fun to give my MCs their personalities and make them feel like my own, and it especially applies with Evie. It brings me joy to build her character and share/discuss it with the fandom here (as well as seeing how others build their MCs too)!

#cfwc mc of the month #high school story #cadybear420 #meet my mc #choices fic writers creations #playchoices #choices stories you play #march mc of the month

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