Requested? ✅️

NSFW? ❎️

Requested by: 💤💬

Art by: Sophiollo

A/N: Hnn, our notifications are broken. we're alive we swear.

The morning air bit at their cheeks, sharp and clean and full of pine. Gem was at the front, her laughter rising and falling in the wind like birdsong, boots crunching on frost-hardened dirt as she picked her way up the first incline of the Peaks trail. Her braid swung with each step, a bright flag of enthusiasm that the others could only try to match. The sun had barely crested the ridgeline, throwing molten gold across the jagged silhouettes ahead, and already she was humming under her breath, practically vibrating with energy.

“C’mon, slowpokes!” she called over her shoulder, voice echoing faintly down the slope.

Behind her, Grian groaned. “Some of us didn’t sign up for an expedition,” he muttered, one hand adjusting the strap of his pack, which already felt like it weighed twice as much as it should. His other hand rested lightly on the back of Scar’s off-road wheelchair, steadying him as the wheels crunched and popped over loose stones.

Scar shot him a grin, cheeks pink from the cold and from laughing too much. “Oh, please. You’re just jealous I get to roll while you trudge. Efficiency, my friend.”

“You’re the one who had me haul that ridiculous solar charger up here,” Grian said, but there was no bite to it. They moved at their own lazy pace, banter filling the spaces where the wind carried the scent of sap and damp moss. Scar’s wheels hissed slightly on gravel, the rubber slick and well-worn, his gloves smudged with streaks of dirt from maneuvering the uneven path. Every few yards, Grian gave a little push over a root or bump, and Scar would protest: loudly, dramatically, before relenting into a grin.

Ahead of them, Impulse and Skizz kept a steady rhythm, one that spoke of practiced patience. They were the self-appointed “trail dads,” as Gem had put it earlier, and they wore the title well. Impulse’s gaze flicked constantly between their little group; checking footing, distance, packs— while Skizz muttered reminders about water breaks, suncream top-ups, and “don’t twist your ankle in the first ten minutes, Grian!”

“Not my fault gravity hates me,” Grian yelled back.

Skizz barked out a laugh, glancing over at Impulse. “Called it. Ten minutes in and he’s already complaining.”

Impulse smiled but didn’t slow. His boots pressed deep into the earth, leaving clear prints that Gem was half-skipping over as she forged ahead. “Let him complain,” he said. “Keeps him breathing.”

ANYPOV

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