#Spring constant determination | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zyoarchive · 3 months ago

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like a tangerine - myg

↠ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | yoongi x reader

↠ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 18.5k

↠ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 | roommate au, e2l if you squint, pwp

↠ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | explicit language and sexual content. mentions of alcohol (beer). dry humping, oral sex (m + f receiving), gagging, cum swallowing, throat fuck, fingering, spanking, dirty talk, hair-pulling, unprotected sex, (y/n has an iud, wrap it before u tap it!), rough sex, riding, doggy style, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, creampie. yoongi has blonde hair and a filthy mouth.

↠ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | y/n’s a law student drowning in debt. yoongi's a brooding music major needing a place to crash. forced together in a freezing seoul apartment, will they be able make moving in together work?

You’re elbow-deep in the faded cushions of your thrift-store couch, fingers clawing at the seams for any hint of spare change. Dust puffs into the air, catching the dim light of the single bulb flickering overhead, but there’s nothing—no coins, no crumpled bills, not even a stray candy wrapper. Just lint and disappointment. You groan, slumping back onto the floor, the chill of cracked linoleum seeping through your threadbare sweatpants. Your breath fogs in front of you, a cruel reminder that the heater’s been dead for days and your electricity bill is overdue. It’s the brink of winter in Seoul, and the cold is a living thing—sharp, biting, sinking into your bones like a punishment. Outside, the wind howls through the narrow streets around Seoul national University, rattling your single-pane windows, while frost creeps up the glass like spiderwebs. Inside, it’s barely better; you’re wrapped in a hoodie and two pairs of socks, but your fingers are still numb, your nose stinging with every inhale.

This isn’t how you pictured your senior year. You’re a law major with a 4.0 GPA—top of your class, president of the mock trial team, the girl who aced her constitutional law midterm while half the room floundered. You’ve got a stack of recommendation letters from professors who call you “driven” and “exceptional,” and last spring, you won a university debate competition so decisively the opposing team just stared at you, slack-jawed. But none of that pays the rent. You’re drowning in bills, scraping by on 7,000 won an hour from your cheapskate manager at the convenience store on the south end of campus. The job’s a soul suck: sticky floors, rude drunk students, and the constant beep of the scanner as you ring up instant ramen and soju bottles. You hate it—the stale air, the flickering fluorescent lights, the way your manager hovers over you like you’re about to pocket a candy bar. Between 8-hour shifts and 8 A.M. lectures, you’re a ghost of yourself, barely sleeping, barely eating, barely living.

You grew up in Busan, the youngest of three, with parents who scraped by running a small seafood stall at Jagalchi Market. They taught you grit—how to haggle, how to smile through exhaustion—but they couldn’t prepare you for this. You moved to Seoul four years ago, starry-eyed and determined to be the first in your family to graduate college, to become a lawyer who’d fight for people like them. Your apartment’s small—two cramped bedrooms, a tiny kitchenette, and a living room just big enough for that small couch—but it was supposed to be your haven. One room’s yours, cluttered with books and laundry, the other a guest room you’ve never had a guest for, its bare mattress gathering dust. You thought living alone would mean focus, independence. Now, you’re not so sure. The weight of it all—school, work, this freezing place—presses down until you can’t breathe. You’ve always been the stubborn one, the kid who’d rather starve than admit defeat, but tonight, with rent due in three days and your bank account at a pathetic, single-digit balance, defeat feels inevitable.

You sit there, face in your hands, fighting the sting of tears. This wasn’t the college life you dreamed of. Back in high school, you imagined coasting through SNU—late nights at karaoke bars, laughing with a big group of friends, maybe even a cute boyfriend to steal hoodies from. You saw yourself at rooftop parties, sipping cheap bear under string lights, free and invincible. Instead, you’re broke, shivering, and clinging to one solitary lifeline: Namjoon. Your best friend, your rock, the only person who’s stuck by you through this mess. Everyone else faded away—too busy, too far, too caught up in their own lives. But Namjoon? He’s your constant.

You glance at your phone—11:47 P.M. He’s due any minute to study for your upcoming criminal procedure exam, a brutal 50-question beast that’ll test every ounce of your caffeine-fueled willpower. With a sigh, you haul yourself up, brushing dust off your knees. The apartment’s tight—barely 25 square meters. You shuffle around, tidying what you can: stacking textbooks on the wobbly coffee table that accompanies your depressed, sagging couch, kicking a stray sock towards the hall leading to your bedroom, wiping crumbs off the counter from the half-eaten rice cake you rationed for dinner. The sink’s full of dishes, but you ignore it—too tired, too cold. You’re shoving a pile of case notes into a neater stack when a knock echoes through the room.

You shuffle to the door, tugging it open against the warped frame. It’s Namjoon. He’s there, towering over you in his puffy jacket, a knit beanie squashing his dark hair, a backpack slung over one shoulder. His dimples flash as he grins, but his eyes narrow when he sees you—pale, hunched, a human popsicle. “Hey,” he says, stepping inside, voice warm as always. “You look like death.”

“Feel like it too,” you mutter, shutting the door. You’ve known Namjoon since freshman year, when you met in Intro to Legal Studies. You’d been late, sprinting into the lecture hall with a half-drunken coffee and an open backpack, only to trip over his stupidly long legs stretched across the aisle. He’d caught your arm, steadying you, and deadpanned, “You’re a lawsuit waiting to happen.” You’d snapped back, “Sue me then,” and somehow, that was it—friendship sealed. He was a Busan kid too, raised on the coast, all easy smiles and quiet smarts. You bonded over late-night study sessions at the library, swapping stories about salty air and nosy aunties, laughing over burnt ramen when you couldn’t afford takeout. Four years later, he’s still your anchor, the one who drags you out of your spirals.

He drops his bag on the couch, glancing around. “You okay? You’re... off.” His brows knit, concern creeping in.

“It’s nothing,” you lie, waving him off. He doesn’t push—Namjoon never does, just watches you with that steady gaze that sees too much. You both settle on the couch, pulling out textbooks and highlighters. The criminal procedure exam is in two days, a gauntlet of search-and-seizure laws, Miranda rights, and case precedents like Terry v. Ohio. You flip to a page on warrantless arrests, reading aloud: “Exigent circumstances allow entry if—” You stop, brain fritzing. Namjoon picks up, voice smooth, explaining probable cause like it’s poetry. You scribble notes, trying to focus, but the cold’s gnawing at you, your fingers stiff around the pen.

He shivers mid-sentence, rubbing his arms. “Why’s it so damn cold in here?” he asks, breath puffing out in a faint cloud.

That's when it hits—you crack. The words spill out before you can stop them, voice breaking: “Because I can’t pay the electric bill, Joon. The heater’s busted, my manager’s a stingy ass who won’t give me more hours, and I’m so tired—of school, of work, of counting every damn coin I see just trying to make ends meet.” Tears burn your eyes, hot against the chill. “I’m failing at everything.”

Namjoon’s face falls, guilt flashing across it. “Shit, Y/N, I didn’t know it was this bad.” He pulls you into a hug, arms tight around your shaking shoulders. You sink into him, his jacket smelling faintly of coffee and pine. “I should’ve noticed,” he mutters, kicking himself. Then softer: “What if you got a roommate? Split the costs?”

You pull back, sniffling. “I wouldn’t even know where to find one. And honestly? I’m this close to dropping out, moving back with my parents. Just... starting over.”

He blinks, alarmed. Your parents are saints—kind, warm, always ready with a bow of kimchi jjigae and a spare bed in their Busan flat above the stall. Your mom’s a hugger, your dad’s a storyteller, and you miss them fiercely—their laughter, the sea breeze, and the simplicity. They’d take you back in a heartbeat, no questions, and part of you aches for that safety net.

“No,” Namjoon says, grabbing your hands in a desperate plea. “You can’t leave. Not now, not senior year. I need you here—we’re supposed to graduate together, pass the bar together. I can’t do this without you.”

You shake your head, voice small. “There’s no one, Joon. I’m out of options.”

He pauses, then his face lights up like he’s cracked the code. “Wait... Yoongi. My friend Yoongi. He’s been crashing on my couch for the past two weeks since his lease fell apart. He needs a place, you need a roommate. It’s perfect.”

You frown picturing Yoongi. You've seen him at Namjoon’s place a few times—quiet, almost cat-like with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue. He’s not unfriendly just... distant. You remember him from your junior year too, a psychology elective you both took. He’s slouch in the back, headphones on, scribbling beats in a notebook while you sat up front, acing every quiz. Your eyes met sometimes—brief, awkward, charges—but you never spoke. He’s a music major, that much you knew, always lugging around a laptop or a keyboard case, and Namjoon swears he’s a genius. Still, he’s a stranger, mostly.

“I don’t know,” you say, hesitant. “I’ve barely talked to him. He’s... weird. Quiet. And my parents—”

“Please,” Namjoon cuts in, clasping his hands like he’s praying. “Just meet him first. Come over tomorrow—we'll eat, hang out, see if it clicks. If it doesn’t, I won’t push. But don’t give up yet.”

You chew your lip, the idea sinking in. A roommate could save you—rent split, bills manageable, maybe even heat again. That guest room could finally see some use. But Yoongi? Your parents’ open arms tug at you, tempting. Namjoon’s pleading eyes tip the scale. “Fine,” you mutter, reluctant. “I’ll meet him.”

He beams, dimples deep. “You won’t regret it. Yoongi’s chill, I promise.” You nod, half convinced, as the cold creeps back in, a shiver reminding you how badly you need this to work.

You stand in your tiny bathroom, the air thick with damp chill, staring at the showerhead like it’s a loaded gun. The water’s been ice-cold for weeks—your landlord’s a miser who won’t fix the boiler, and you’re too broke to hire someone yourself. You twist the knob, bracing for impact, and the spray hits like a thousand frozen pins, ripping a gasp from your throat. Your teeth chatter as you lather up with a sliver of soap, the last bar you’ve been rationing for a month. The shampoo’s cheap, a floral scent, and you scrub it into your scalp fast, fingers trembling as the frigid stream pelts your back. You’re in and out in four minutes, a personal record, wrapping yourself in a towel so worn it’s more holes than fabric—a hand-me-down from your sister, like most of your life. Your skin prickles with goosebumps as you dart to your bedroom, the smaller of the two in your cramped apartment. The guest room sits placidly across from yours, a barren box with a bare mattress, a single flickering bulb, and a window that rattles in its frame—useless, empty, a silent taunt of your isolation.

Your closet’s a mess of thrift finds and sibling castoffs. You dig out a black turtleneck, the wool pilling at the elbows but soft enough, and dark jeans with a frayed hem that still hug your legs right. Your sneakers are scuffed, soles thin as paper, but they’ll do. The crown jewel is your sister’s puffer jacket—navy blue, patched with thread at the elbows, a size too big but thick enough to face Seoul’s brutal winter. You tug on two pairs of socks—one with a hole at the toe, the other mismatched—and lace up, the cold floor biting through anyway. Back in the bathroom, you swipe on makeup with shaky hands: tinted lip balm over cracked lips from the wind, a flick of mascara to coax life into your tired eyes, a dab of concealer under them to hide the shadows of sleepless nights. Your hair’s wet, curling into tendrils at your neck, but there’s no time—or heat—to dry it. You glance at your phone on the sink: 6:38 P.M. Namjoon said 6:30. You’re late.

You snatch your keys from the counter, sling your threadbare bag over your shoulder, and bolt. You weave past the kitchenette, its sink piled with chipped mugs and a single pot, and the living room, where your sad couch sags under a pile of law books. The door sticks as you yank it open, and the stairwell greets you with a gust of icy air whistling through cracked windows. You jog down three flights, sneakers clomping on warped steps, and burst outside. Seoul’s winter slams into you—bitter, unrelenting, a beast with teeth. The sky’s a slab of slate, heavy with unshed slow, and the wind howls down the narrow streets of the south end of campus, clawing at your face. Your breath fogs in sharp bursts, crystalizing in the air, and the cold seeps through your jeans, stinging your thighs. You hunch into your puffer, hands jammed in pockets, but it’s not enough—the chill find every seam, every gap, freezing your ears until they ache.

The trek to Namjoon’s is a mile east, and you’re penniless—no bus fare, no taxi dreams. The south end fades behind you—dingy noodle joints, neon-lit PC bangs, students huddled in scarves—giving way to broader streets lined with skeletal trees. Their branches clatter like dry bones, stripped bare by weeks of frost. Snowflakes start to fall, lazy at first, then thicker, dusting your shoulders, catching in your lashes. The sidewalk’s a minefield of ice patches, gloss under streetlights, and you shuffle to keep from slipping, your sneakers skidding once, twice. Your nose numbs, your fingertips tingle, and by the time Namjoon’s complex rises ahead—a sleek tower on the east side of SNU—you’re a shivering wreck. The glass doors part for you, the lobby a warm cocoon of polished marble, soft lighting, and a doorman who nods absently. Namjoon is a trust fund baby from Busan, his parents flush with shipping money, and this place screams it—nothing like your crumbling walk-up with its flickering hallway bulbs and mildew stench.

You step into the elevator, the hum of it thawing your bones as it climbs. A long minute ticks by—your reflection in the mirrored walls shows a flushed face, damp hair plastered to your neck—before it finally dings on the fifth floor. You step out, stretching your strides down the carpeted hall to 13E, dragging your feet. Your stomach churns, nerves sparking like live wires. Meeting Yoongi—actually talking to him—feels like walking into a storm blind. You’ve always been anxious, a knot of worry since you were a kid. In Busan, grade school was a nightmare—you'd linger by the classroom door, too shy to join the girls giggling as they played jump rope, too scared to ask the boys kicking a ball if you could join them. Your mom had to bribe you with sweets just to get you to a friend’s birthday party once, and even then, you hid under a table, clutching a juice box, until she dragged you out. Friends were rare, fleeting—your tongue tripped over itself until Namjoon stumbled into your orbit. You’re better now, but new people still twist you up inside. What if Yoongi’s a jerk? A slob? What if he thinks you’re some desperate loser? Your pulse races as you reach his door, raising a shaky hand to knock.

It swings open fast, and Namjoon’s there, all six feet of him, dimples flashing in a wide grin. He’s cozy—cream cable-knit sweater swallowing his broad frame, gray sweatpants loose and soft, socks with little cartoon dogs peeking out. “Took you long enough,” he teases, voice warm as he steps aside. You shuffle in, and the heat hits like a blanket, radiators purring, chasing the cold from your bones. The air’s thick with doenjang jjigae—earthy soybean paste, sharp garlic, a hint of beef simmering low, curling into your nose and waking your empty stomach. Your brows furrow; Namjoon’s a disaster in the kitchen, once nearly burning his apartment down with a botched ramen attempt. Who cooked?

His apartment’s a world apart from yours. Open-plan, sprawling, with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the snow-dusted campus and Seoul’s glittering skyline. The living room's plush—a gray sectional piled with fleece throws, a glass coffee table stacked with law books and a stray coffee mug, a flat-screen above a sleek fireplace spitting soft flames. The kitchen’s a showpiece—marble counters, stainless steel appliances, a fridge that hums quietly, not rattling like yours. A monstera plant thrives by the island, its leaves glossy and proud, while your own sad succulent back home rots in a cracked pot. “Yoongi’s in the bathroom,” Namjoon says, nodding toward a hall as he waves you to the kitchen island. “He’ll be out in a sec.” You slide onto a padded stool, the cushion a luxury after your hard furniture, and he leans across, chatting—tomorrow's lecture, the criminal procedure exam, easy stuff to steady your nerves.

The bathroom door creaks open, and Yoongi emerges. He’s tall—5'10, maybe—looming over your 5’1 frame, all lean angles and quiet menace. His hair’s blonde, a soft, bleached chaos brushing his forehead, framing sharp cheekbones and a jaw that could cut glass. He’s in a black hoodie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, faded jeans hugging his legs, and plain socks. His eyes—dark, hooded, cat-like—lock on you, unblinking, and your throat dries up. He stares, assessing, and you stare back, words dissolving. Namjoon clears his throat. “Yoongi, this is Y/N. Y/N, Yoongi.” A nod, barely perceptible, then Yoongi slinks to the island, sitting opposite. The food’s spread out—doenjang jjigae steaming in a clay pot, fluffy rice, tangy kimchi, grilled mackerel glistening with oil. You scoop rice, hands jittery under his gaze, the spoon clinking too loud against the bowl.

Namjoon tries to spark something. “Yoongi, how’s that music project?” Yoongi shrugs, spooning stew, lips pursed. Silence stretches, thick and awkward. Namjoon kicks him under the table—you catch the flinch, the faint scowl. “It’s fine,” Yoongi mutters, voice low, gravelly. “Mixing’s a pain.” You nod, unsure, picking at your mackerel. The meal crawls—Namjoon rambles about law precedents, you murmur agreements, Yoongi grunts or tosses out clipped answers. He slurps his stew too loud, wipes his mouth with his sleeve, picks his fish apart with his fingers instead of chopsticks. Petty, maybe, but it irks you—he irks you. He’s not rude, just... distant, like he’s here but not really.

Dinner eventually ends, and Namjoon excuses himself for a moment, leaving you and Yoongi alone. The silence is deafening, the fireplace's crackle the only sound as you sit at the island, pushing rice around your bowl. He’s across from you, scrolling his phone, blonde hair catching the light. You clear your throat, desperate the fill the void. “So, uh... did you make this?” You nod at the empty jjigae pot, voice smaller than you meant it to be.

He looks up, eye flickering to yours, and there’s a beat—a heavy, charged pause—before he answers. “Yeah.” His voice is low, rough, brushing your skin like a touch. “Namjoon can’t cook for shit.” He leans forward slightly, elbows on the counter now, close enough that you catch a whiff of his cologne—something clean, like cedarwood and bergamot. His lips twitch, a smirk that’s gone fast but leaves heat in its wake.

You snort, caught off guard, and it’s too loud in the quiet. “No kidding. He set off the fire alarm with toast once—smoke everywhere.” Your laugh’s shaky, and his eyes linger, dark and unreadable, tracing your face like he’s mapping it. That smirk flickers again, slower this time, and your stomach flips.

“Sounds about right,” he says, voice dipping lower, almost lazy. He shifts, stretching one arm across the counter, fingers brushing the edge of yours—accidental, maybe, but it sends a jolt up your spine, nonetheless. “You’re not bad, though. At eating it, I mean.” His gaze drops to you lips for a slip second, then back up, and the air thickens, warm and tight.

You swallow, heat creeping up your neck. “Uh, thanks? It’s good—really good. Where’d you learn?” Your words stumble, and you hate how they sound—too eager, too soft.

“Mom,” he says, leaning closer, voice a rumble now. “Runs a store in Daegu. Cooks for the regulars. Watched her enough to pick it up.” His eyes don’t leave yours, and there’s something in them—something sharp, hungry—that makes your breath hitch, makes you feel small in comparison to him. His knee brushes against yours under the counter, a graze that feels deliberate, and you shift, suddenly aware of how small the space between you is.

“Busan for me,” you blurt, clutching at normalcy. “My parents have a seafood stall. I’m useless, though—burned rice once, got banned from the stove.” You laugh, but it’s tight, and he tilts his head, blonde strands falling into his eyes. He doesn’t laugh back, just watches, lips parting slightly, and the silence stretches taut, electric.

“Bet you’re not useless at everything,” he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it, and his gaze drops again—lips, neck, back up—slow, deliberate. Your pulse hammers, and you’re not sure if you’re breathing. Then he pulls back, just an inch, breaking whatever spell he put on you, grabbing his phone again. “Namjoon should be back soon,” he says, casual, like nothing happened, but the air’s still buzzing.

You nod, dazed, as Namjoon’s footsteps echo down the hall. “Couch?” he calls, clapping his hands. You stumble off the stool, following him, Yoongi trailing behind. The sectional's plush, and you sink in, pulling a throw over your lap as Namjoon sits beside you. Yoongi drifts off—to Namjoon’s room, you assume—leaving you two by the fireplace. The crackle fills the silence. “So?” Namjoon asks, eyes bright, hopeful. “What do you think?”

You twist the blanket’s edge, grimacing, mind still reeling from Yoongi’s voice, his closeness. “He’s weird, Joon. Quiet—too quiet. That talk just now? Barely anything. I don’t know if I can live with that.” You don’t mention the sudden heat between your legs, or the way your skin’s still tingling.

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “I get it, he’s not chatty, but he’s solid. I’ve known him for a while now—met him at a music shop. My parents have money, yeah, but Yoongi’s regular. His dad's a fisherman, mom runs a corner store. He’s here on scholarships and hustle. Music’s his life, and he’s brilliant at it.” He pauses, voice softening. “You’re my rock, Y/N. Since freshman year, you’ve kept me grounded—pushed me when I slacked, laughed when I needed it. You’re my best friend, and I can’t finish this year without you.”

Your chest aches, warmth mixing with dread—and something else, something new. “You’re mine too. But Yoongi—it's so fast. Two days, and he’s in my space? I’m freaked out.”

He shifts closer, resting a hand on your knee. “I know it’s a lot. Look, he’s been on my couch too long. This place is nice, but it’s one bedroom. I’m tired of tripping over his shit every morning. He’ll pay his half, keep out of your way. You don’t have to be buddies, just... coexist.” His eyes plead. “Give it one more day to think. Please.”

You nod, slow, reluctant. “One day, just one day.” Yoongi’s in Namjoon’s room, hunched over a desk, headphones on, tapping at a laptop—either oblivious or ignoring you. You grab your bag, say your goodnights to Namjoon, and head out. The cold swallows you whole.

The walk back is a nightmare. Fresh snow is piled thick, blanketing the ground, crunching under your sneakers with every step. The wind’s a howling beast, slashing through your puffer, freezing your hair into brittle strands that whip your face. Streetlights flicker, half-dead in the storm, and the campus sprawls dark and desolate, east to south a slog through swirling white. Your breath stings, lungs burning with each icy gulp, and your fingers curl into fists in your pockets, nails digging into palms to feel something other than numb. You fumble your phone out with stuff hands, dialing your mom. It rings three times before her voice breaks through, soft and crackly, a lifeline.

“Y/N-ah? Are you okay?” Her warmth cuts through the static, the wind.

You choke on a sob, snow stinging your eyes. “Eomma, I’m falling apart. Rent’s due, I’ve got nothing—literally nothing. The heater’s busted, I’m freezing every night, and Namjoon’s pushing me to get a roommate. I don’t know if I can do it—I'm so tired. I just... I think I should come home.”

She’s quiet a long moment, the line humming, and you hear her shift. “Y/N,” she starts, voice thick with worry. "You sound exhausted. Tell me what’s going on—everything. How’d it get this bad?”

You sniff, trudging through a snowbank, the cold biting at your ankles. “It’s been building. Work’s a nightmare—7,000 won an hour at that shitty store, and my manager cuts my shifts whenever he feels like it. Schools killing me—exams, papers, I’m barely sleeping. And the apartment... it’s a freezer. I can’t afford the electric bill, let alone fix the heat.”

She sighs, long and heavy, and you can picture her rubbing her temple like she does when she’s stressed. “My girl, I hate hearing you like this. You’re working so hard—too hard, maybe. What’s the apartment like now?”

“Bad,” you mutter kicking snow off your sneakers. “My breath fogs inside. I’m in three layers just to sleep, and it’s still not enough. The windows rattle, the entire place is freezing. I can’t keep doing this.”

“That sounds miserable,” she says, voice cracking. “You shouldn’t be living like that, not in your last year. But a roommate... that might be good for you. I wouldn’t look past it so quickly, Y/N.”

You swallow, the wind howling louder. “Namjoon is desperate for me to stay, I think that’s why he’s so adamant about it, telling me it’s the only way, and I kind of agree. He’s got a friend in mind, and I’ve met him, but... I still don’t know. It’s such a leap, and I’m already hanging on by a thread.”

She’s quiet again, then softens. “You know we’d take you back in a heartbeat. Your dad’s already been plotting—he's got this idea to repaint your room, teal like you always wanted, says it’s cheer you up.”

“I miss you both,” you whisper, tears welling, hot against the cold. “It’d be so easy to come home.”

“We miss you too,” she says, voice thick now. “But listen—it’s your senior year. You’re so close. I never got past high school, married your dad at nineteen, worked the stall since. We made it work, raised you and your siblings, but I always wished I’d had a shot at more. That law degree, that life—you're building something I couldn’t. I know it’s hard, but you’re stronger than you think. Namjoon wouldn’t push this on you if he didn’t care, if he didn’t think it would work. Try it—give this roommate thing a shot. Split the bills, get heat back in that place, and if it crashes, you’ve got us—always. Okay?”

You nod, though she can’t see, the snow growing thicker. “Okay. I’ll try.”

“Good girl,” she says, pride warming her tone. “Call me tomorrow, yeah? Tell me how everything goes—I need to know you’re okay.”

“Okay. I love you, Eomma,” you say, voice breaking as you clutch the phone.

“I love you more. Hang in there.” The call ends, and you’re alone again, the wind howling louder, snow piling at your feet.

Your building looms ahead, a squat, peeling relic on the south end. A note’s taped to your door, red ink glaring: Rent due in 3 days or eviction proceedings begin. Panic spikes, sharp and sour. You unlock the door, stepping into a wall of cold—dark, silent, arctic. Strike one. You check your bank account on your phone: 8,000 won. Enough for a single ramyeon pack, maybe. Strike two. You trip over that loose floorboard you haven’t been able to fix, crashing to your knees, pain shooting up your leg. Strike three. Furious, you haul yourself up, whipping out your phone again, texting Namjoon.

[You, 9:17 P.M.] I’ve made up my mind. Get Yoongi over here ASAP.

You storm to your bedroom, peeling off your clothes, tugging on the same pajamas you’ve worn all week—hand-me-downs from your siblings, a faded long sleeve with a stretched neck and holes at the seams, sweatpants with cuff frayed to threads. You grab your blanket—a relic from your childhood, yet the only thing that seems to have managed to remain the same over time; thick, soft, warm enough to get you through the night. You wrap it tight around you, curling up on your bed. The mattress creaks, the cold seeping through every layer, relentless. You shiver, teeth chattering, staring at the ceiling where a water stain spreads like a bruise. Sleep feels impossible, and distant dream in this frozen purgatory. This night’s endless, and you’re already spent.

The apartment’s a fragile bubble of warmth, pierced by the hum of space heaters and the faint tang of instant coffee lingering in the air. Two weeks with Yoongi as your roommate have stretched the edges of your sanity, but they’ve also kept the landlord’s eviction threats at bay. Rent’s been paid—a hefty price split down the middle, wired just before the deadline—and that alone is a victory. Seoul’s winter rages outside, a gray beast of snow and wind clawing at the single-pane windows, frosting them until they creak. Inside, the cold is a stubborn guest, slinking through the cracks despite the landlord’s refusal to fix the damn boiler—his last excuse, barked over a staticky call, was “building maintenance costs.” You’d bitten back a curse, teeth chattering, and hung up. But the space heaters, bought with a grudging amount, split between you and Yoongi, glow defiantly in your bedroom and his, their coils a faint orange against the dark. Namjoon’s blankets—fleece throws he’d so graciously gifted to you during the move, dotted with adorable designs like Minions or cartoon dogs—drape your couch and bed, a soft excess you’d never admit your hoard, their weight a shield against the nights when the chill bites the deepest.

Yoongi’s arrival was a blur of panic and necessity. Namjoon had blinked at your sudden text and rallied him like a soldier to the front. He’d shown up a day early, just a day after your snow-soaked phone call to your mother, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. His blonde hair peeked out from a beanie, a large puffer jacket swallowing his lean frame, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a keyboard case gripped tight. “This is it?” he’d rasped, voice rough as gravel, scanning the cramped space—your sagging, depressed couch and bare walls. You’d nodded, nerves raw, and he’d sighed, a low sound of surrender, clearly used to Namjoon’s lavish apartment. He’d hauled his belongings in, carefully tucked away in boxes with muted thuds as they hit the floor of his new bedroom. He’s barely spoken—grunted at the spare key you’d handed him, muttered about the “shitty stairs”—and you’d fled to your room, shutting the door on his quiet unpacking, heart thudding with the weight of a stranger in your haven. By nightfall, the guest room was his, a bunker of blankets and music equipment, and you’d lain awak, staring at the ceiling’s water stain that you’d labeled as being shaped like an elephant, wondering if this was the right decision.

Two weeks later, it’s not a disaster. Yoongi’s a ghost, slipping in and out with barely a ripple, and you’re too buried in your own grind to mind. Law school is a beast tamed—your criminal procedure exam, the 50-question monster, hit the same day Yoongi moved in, and you’d conquered it. Nights bled into a frenzy of study, hunched over on the couch, highlighters streaking Terry v. Ohio and Miranda v. Arizona as your breath fogged in the unheated dark. The 96% grade, posted last week with your professor’s “outstanding” scrawled in red, felt like a godsend, a lifeline proving you could still climb this perpetual mountain of death. You’d collapsed on your bed that night, one of Namjoon’s many blankets cocooning you, relief so sharp it burned your throat.

Now, your days are a relentless churn—early morning lectures on constitutional law and judicial ethics, afternoons crafting mock trial arguments as team president, evenings at the convenience store where the floor is tacky with spilled soju and the scanner’s beep drills into your skull. Your manager, a pinch-faced ass, bumped you to 18,000 won an hour after you shoved a tally of your overtime in his face, voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. It’s not much—enough for ramen or a coffee when your eyes droop—but it keeps your account afloat. Sleep is a thief, snatched in five-hour bursts, the space heater’s hum a lullaby against the wind’s howl. Yoongi’s orbit is a mystery, misaligned with yours. He’s gone by dawn—music labs, you guess, or classes—and back late, his door creaking at midnight. You imagine him hunched over that keyboard, headphones clamped on, lost in beats—Namjoon's “genius” label a quiet echo. Sometimes you hear it, a muted thump through the wall, and picture him scribbling lyrics, blonde hair catching the heater’s glow.

You’ve seen fragments. Once, he sprawled on his mattress, notebook open, pen tapping his knee, eyes half-closed like he was dreaming in rhythm. Another night, he lingered in the kitchenette at 2 A.M., reheating kimchi jjigae, stirring slow, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal forearms taut with quiet strength. He’d glanced at you—bleary from study binge, shuffling for water—and slid a bowl your way, the spicy steam curling between you, wordless. Last weekend, he was on the couch, laptop open, cords snaking across the cushions, muttering “fucking latency” at a glitching track. Music’s his war, fought in solitude, and you don’t ask. He doesn’t tell. It’s your silent code.

Living with him has been... fine, mostly. He’s clean—bowls rinsed, trash bagged, no mess beyond his room’s controlled chaos. The bathroom’s tidy, his towel hung crooked but dry, and he leaves your rice cakes alone, a respect you note silently. Chores split without fanfare—him on trash, you on dishes—a rhythm that holds. His room is a fortress now, Namjoon’s blankets swallowing the mattress whole, a guitar case propped up in the corner, vinyl records stacked haphazardly—from what you could see: Eminem, Epik High, Ryuichi Sakamoto, and... TWICE? You loved their songs, Fancy had you jamming in your apartment and Rewind had you holding back tears. Never in a million years had you imagined Yoongi being a Once. You often wondered who his bias was. You don’t snoop, and he doesn’t cross your line. It’s peaceful... sometimes. However, Yoongi’s got this infuriating habit—blasting tracks at ungodly hours, loud enough to shred your nerves. It’s not every night, but it’s brutal when it strikes. The third night, 2 A.M., a baseline punched through the wall, rattling your bed, yanking you from sleep. You’d lain there, heart pounding, as synths and warped vocals bled in, relentless. It stopped after twenty minutes, but sleep fled. Two nights ago, 1 A.M., it was slower—moody, heavy—but the volume gnawed at you. Last night, 3 A.M., an hour of jagged snares and distortion, the wall pulsing like a living thing. You’d hovered at your door, anger simmering, but retreated—too awkward to confront him. You’ve hinted—yawning loud, dragging your feet—but he doesn’t bite, and it festers, a quiet thorn.

Tonight, you’re in the kitchenette, 10 P.M., picking at a bowl of ramyeon, the broth warming your throat. Mock trial prep looms, notes stacked on the couch, but you’re in pajamas—a faded long sleeve and sweatpants. The bathroom door creaks open, and you glance up, chopsticks halfway to your lips. He’s shirtless, fresh from the shower, towel slung low on his hips. Water beads on his skin, dripping from his damp blonde hair down his neck, over collarbones sharp as knives. His chest is lean but cut—muscles taut, abs carved like he’s been lifting more than just dreams, arms flexing as he rubs the towel through his hair, veins threading under pale skin. His V-line dips below the towel’s edge, and your breath catches, utensil clattering against the bowl. He freezes, cat-like eyes locking on yours, and the air thickens—silent, heavy, awkward as hell. You stare, he stares, and neither of you move. His lips part, like he might say something, but he doesn’t. Water drips onto the floor, a soft plink, and you swallow, throat dry, eyes darting to your food. He shifts, grabbing a soda from the fridge, the can’s hiss slicing the quiet. His bare shoulder brushes the counter as he leans there, sipping slow, and you feel his gaze—steady, unreadable—prickling your skin. You scoop broth with your chirirenge, burning your tongue, and he retreats to his room without a word, leaving you flushed and out of sorts.

You sit, thinking, allowing your food to grow cold when his music starts—loud, inevitable. Bass thumps through the wall, and you groan, dropping your head to the counter. Not tonight. You drag yourself to your room, a blanket wrapped tight around you, and flop on your bed as the track swells—drums, distortion, and a chaotic roar. Sleep’s a distant hope, and you lie there, his shirtless frame flashing behind your eyes, the wall pulsing until it fades an hour later. You drift off, restless, dreaming of damp skin and dark stares.

The morning is grey and brutal, exhaustion clinging to you like wet clothes. Yoongi’s gone when you wake, his door shut, and you slog through your day—lectures, store shift, and hanging out with Namjoon at a nearby coffee shop—you're basically running on fumes. Back home, you’re on the couch, phone pressed to your ear on speaker. Your friend Hyejin’s voice crackles through, loud and brassy, filling the room as you pick at a rice cake. “... So, I told him, if you’re gonna ghost me, at least have the balls to say it, right? Men are trash, Y/N, I swear.”

You short, shifting in the blanket enveloping you. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly swimming in options either. Work’s killing me.”

The front door creaks open, and Yoongi slips in, arms laden with two grocery bags—nothing heavy, just bulging with a carton of milk, chips, and some greens poking out. His sweatshirt is zipped halfway, hair mussed from the wind, and he glances at you, nodding faintly before heading to the kitchenette. Hyejin’s voice barrels on, oblivious. “You sound wiped, babe. What’s up? You’ve been off for days.”

You fumble to switch off speaker, thumb jabbing the screen, but it freezes—stupid cracked phone. “Uh, just tired,” you say, voice tight, eyeing Yoongi as he unpacks, silent and methodical. Milk in the fridge, a bag of tangerines on the side you know he’ll be hoarding.

“Tired?” Hyejin laughs, sharp and echoing. “Girl, you need to get laid. That’s your problem—no good dick in forever. When’s the last time you even hooked up?”

Your face flames, and you slap the phone harder, but it’s stuck, her voice blaring. Yoongi’s hands pause over a bag of green onion, head tilting slightly, and you want to die. “Hyejin—” you hiss, but she steamrolls.

“What about that roommate, the blonde one? You said he’s hot, right? Why not just fuck him? Get some stress relief, Y/N, you’re dying out there!”

Mortification crashes over you, hot and suffocating. Yoongi’s back stiffens, just for a second, then he turns to the fridge, slow, deliberate, a smirk tugging at his lips—small, private, but there. Your hand finally smacks the speaker off, and you choke out, “Gotta go,” ending the call mid-Hyejin's cackle. The silence is deafening, thick as snow, broke only by the rustle of bags as he slides the tangerines into a bowl. Your face burns, red creeping up your neck, and you mumble, “Sorry, she’s—uh—loud,” voice barely audible, cracking with same. He doesn’t look up, just hums—a low, amused sound—and keeps unpacking, smirk lingering like he’s savoring it. You bolt, blanket trailing, slamming the door behind you. You shove your face into your pillow, still blazing, the muffled groan swallowed by cotton as his quiet unpacking echoes through the apartment.

The apartment has turned into a silent battlefield, the air thick with the ghost of Hyejin’s voice echoing in your skull like a relentless taunt. It’s been a week since that call shattered the fragile peace, a week since Yoongi’s smirk burned into your memory as he unpacked groceries with that slow, knowing curl of his lips. You’ve turned avoiding him into a desperate science, a losing fight when you share this cramped, crumbling space—25 square meters of peeling paint and warped floors that creak under every step. You’re hyper-aware of him, attuned to every trace of his presence: the groan of his door hinges at odd hours, the faint thud of his footsteps on the linoleum, the low hum of his heater seeping through the wall like a pulse. It’s suffocating, a constant reminder of the line you’ve crossed in your head, and you don’t know what he thinks—whether he’s laughing at you behind that unreadable stare, pitying your flushed embarrassment, or—worst of all—disgusted by the mess Hyejin’s words dragged into the open. The uncertainty gnaws at you, a splinter lodged under your skin, sharp and persistent, and you’ve convinced yourself he hates you now, that her brash suggestion painted you as a walking humiliation in his eyes.

Your solution’s been retreat, a coward’s playbook executed with precision. Mornings, you’re up before the sky cracks open, the world still cloaked in pre-dawn purple, tugging on sneakers that scuff against the icy stairwell as you flee to SNU’s lecture halls—constitutional law at 8 A.M., your 4.0 GPA a lifeline you cling to. The cold bites your ankles, the wind whistling through the cracked windows of the south-end building, but it’s better than facing him over coffee. Evenings, you linger at the convenience store, the flickering fluorescents buzzing overhead as you scan soju bottles for bleary-eyed students, the air thick with stale beer and burnt microwave popcorn. You stay late, dragging out the lock-up routine—counting the till twice, wiping the counter until the manager snaps at you to “Go home already”—just to avoid the moment Yoongi’s door creaks open at home. When you finally slink back, you’re a shadow, slipping through the apartment like a thief—door shut tight, pretending the thin wall between your rooms is a canyon wide enough to swallow the tension whole.

Yoongi’s mirrored your silence—not that it’s anything new—but he’s been retreating deeper into his hermit shell, turning the guest room a fortress you don’t dare breach. He’s more ghost than man now, his presence reduced to traces you can’t ignore. His music’s quieter now, too, a muted pulse seeping through the wall, like he’s tiptoeing around your frayed nerves, testing how much you can take before you snap. You’ve caught glimpses—him peeling a tangerine at the counter, fingers deft as they split the rind, eyes darting away when you shuffle past in your threadbare socks. The citrus scent hangs in the air after, sharp and fleeting, and it twists something in your chest.

But there’s something new, something odd that’s crept into the routine: Yoongi’s been showering more. A lot more. The bathroom door creaks open at strange hours—midnight, when you’re half-asleep, mid-afternoon when you’re often gone—and you hear the water running for a shorter amount of time than normal, a steady that echoes through the thin walls. You’d want to be mad, to storm in and snap at him for hogging what little hot water your shitty boiler sputters out, but every time you shower, it’s warm, perfectly so, the steam curling around you in soft, teasing wisps. It hits you slow, a realization that sinks in like ice: he’s taking cold showers. Why? The question burrows into you, strange and nagging. You can’t shake it, and it feeds the restless churn in your gut.

The phone call flipped a switch, and you hate it—hate how it’s twisted your head, turned Yoongi from a quiet, tolerable roommate into something else, something you want. It’s humiliating, the way your mind drifts when you’re alone, a traitor to your pride. Nights, you lie underneath your pile of blankets, your heater humming a low drone, and imagine him—his lean frame pinning you to the mattress, wrists trapped under his hands, his tongue flicking against your clit, sharp and precise, unraveling you with every deliberate stroke. You wonder what he tastes like, how he kisses—rough and demanding, claiming you in a rush, or slow and soft, teasing until you’re begging? The fantasies coil tight, your breath hitching as you press your vibrator harder, chasing release under the blanket’s weight, quiet gasps swallowed by the dark. It’s never enough, the ache lingering, pooling low, and it leaves you frustrated—sexually, emotionally, a tangled mess of want and shame. You wonder if he feels it too, but he’s a wall, unreadable, and you’re too mortified to ask, too afraid of the answer.

From Yoongi’s side, it’s a different war, one he’s losing in silence. He’s lock himself in his room much more than he did before, the guest-now-his space a scattered mess of his belongings, because facing you feels like stepping on glass—one wrong move and it’ll shatter. That call—Hyejin's loud, brash suggestion—hit him harder than he’ll ever admit. He smirked, yeah, playing it cool as he unpacked those groceries, but inside, it was chaos, a wildfire he couldn’t stamp out. You think he’s attractive? No—hot? The idea sank into him, sharp and heated, a hook he can’t dislodge, and he can’t unhear it, can’t unfeel the way it’s shifted practically everything. He’s been avoiding you too, not out of hate—God, no—but because every time he sees you, his head’s a mess of lewd flashes: you under him, thighs trembling as he drives into you, your lips parted in a moan that’s his name; on your knees, mouth wrapped around him, wet and eager, eyes locked on his. It’s relentless, a reel he can't stop, and he hates how it’s turned him into a horny idiot, his hand wrapped around his cock, fisting himself in the shower more than he has since he was a gangly teenager with no self-control.

Cold showers, specifically—ice-cold, the water a brutal shock to his system, numbing the heat that flares every time he thinks of you, every time your small figure brushes past him. He stands under the spray, teeth gritted, hair plastered to his forehead, hand working fast, imagining your hands instead—smaller, softer, tracing his skin—your voice, low and breathless, your body pressed against him. It’s you every time—your flushed cheeks from that call, the way your clothes hug your frame, the quiet gasps he’s sure you’d make if he touched you right. He comes quick, shuddering under the icy blast, the cold biting his skin. It’s a fleeting relief, a cycle he’s trapped in, rinsing away the evidence but not the want. He doesn’t hate you—he wants you. Bad. It’s driving him up the wall, a tension he buries under layers of silence and locked doors.

A week later, four weeks into this strained cohabitation, the tension’s a live wire, sparking at the edges, ready to ignite. Last night, Yoongi had divvied up the laundry—two hampers, one for you, one for him, a silent chore split to keep the fragile peace. You always wash your clothes together, a money-saving trick drilled into you from years of scraping by, cramming everyone into the ancient machine in the basement laundry room with its chipped paint and flickering bulb. You're meticulous about it, cataloging every threadbare piece—two pairs of jeans, faded at the knees; three hoodies, one with a frayed drawstring; 5 pairs of t-shirts and long sleeves, two pairs of sweatpants, and a handful of socks, mismatched and thinning—because losing anything when you own so little stings deep. Hyejin’s words echo as you sort the pile—“You need to get laid!”—and on a reckless impulse, you toss in your one nice thing: a red lace thong, delicate and daring. Maybe Hyejin was right, getting tangled in your sheets might be a good idea, and who knows? It might actually loosen you up a little and get your mind off of you-know-who.

Yoongi had dropped your hamper off in your room last night, awkward as hell, his frame filling the doorway for a brief, tense moment. He’s barely met your eyes, blonde hair falling into his face, muttering a clipped, “Here,” before retreating like he couldn’t get away fast enough. You’d nodded, throat tight, a flush creeping up your neck, and started your wash routine today, hauling the load downstairs in the dim stairwell, the air damp with mildew. The machine’s groan was a familiar hum as you fed it coins, the clink echoing in the empty basement, and you trudged back up, the cold seeping through your socks.

Yoongi was assigned to retrieve both yours and his clothes, mindlessly tossing both loads into the same hampers used earlier. He could easily tell your items apart from his, so he didn’t have a single qualm when he dropped everything back off with you.

You’re folding the warm pile on your bed, the space heater’s glow warming your shins through your sweatpants, when panic hits like a punch. The thong’s not there. You dig through—jeans, hoodies, socks—fingers clawing at the fabric, unraveling the neat stacks, but it’s gone. Your stomach drops, cold and sour, a sick lurch as images flash: the red lace crumpled on the laundry room floor, some grimy tenant picking it up, snickering at your expense; or worse, caught in the machine’s drum, a scarlet flag flapping for the next person to find. Mortification burns, hot and prickly, spreading from your chest to your fingertips, and you rake your hands through your hair, tugging at the roots as your mind races. Did it fall out on the stairs? Land in someone else's laundry basket? The possibilities spiral, each more humiliating than the last, and you’re two seconds from bolting downstairs to check, retracting every step in a frantic hunt, when you freeze, breath catching. Yoongi’s room. What if it’s with him?

Yoongi’s hunched over his own hamper, elbow-deep in hoodies and sweats, and fabric warm from the dryer, when his fingers brush something soft, foreign, out of place. He pulls it out, slow, deliberate, and freezes—a red lace thong dangles from his hand, the fabric catching the heater’s orange glow like a flame. His breath catches, a sharp hitch, eyes flashing to you in his mind—your face, your body—and a groan rips from his throat, low and wrecked, echoing in the small room. Images flood him, unbidden and vivid. His grip tightens, the fabric bunching in his fist, cock hardening at the thought of you underneath him, the room tilting as desire slams into him, raw and unfiltered. He’s about to shove it back, bury it at the bottom of the hamper, pretend he never saw it, when a quiet knock jolts him upright, snapping him out of the haze.

“Uh—come in,” Yoongi says, clearing his throat, his voice rougher than he intends, gravelly with the edge of what’s churning inside him—desire, panic, a tangle of heat he can’t unravel. The door creaks open, slow and hesitant, a low groan of hinges that slices through the quiet of his room. There you are—timid, small, framed in the doorway like a deer caught in headlights, your faded pajamas hanging loose on you. The T-shirt's thin, slinging faintly to your chest, and your sweatpants hang low on your hips, cuffs brushing the floor. Your eyes are wide, searching, darting around his cluttered space—blankets in a heap, vinyls teetering by the wall—before they land on the red lace thong handing from his hand. Your face flames, a rush of red blooming across your cheeks, a soft but piercing gasp slipping past your lips, sharp enough to jolt him where he stands.

He stares, caught, the air thickening into something vicious, heavy with the weight of your locked gazes. His eyes rake over you, slow and deliberate, tracing the lines of your body—down the curve of your shoulder underneath the fabric, the dip of your waist, the way your legs shift nervously, bare skin peeking where the waistband of your sweatpants ends, and the hem of your shirt begins. His gaze lingers on your lips, parted slightly from that gasp, then snaps back to your eyes, wide and mortified but holding his stare. You don’t speak, don’t even breathe for a beat, the silence stretching taut between you, electric and unbearable. Then you step forward, hesitant, the floor cold under your socks, squeaking faintly under your weight as you close the gap. Yoongi’s breath hitches, chest tightening, his grip on the thong faltering as he watches you approach—small, trembling, but determined. Your fingers reach out, shaky and tentative, brushing his as you pluck the lace from his hand, the fleeting touch a spark that sears his skin. He exhales, sharp and unsteady, the air rushing out as you clutch the thong tight.

You turn to leave, quick and jerky, like you’re fleeing a crime scene, your socks scuffing the floor as you aim for the door. Your shoulders hunch, the T-shirt riding up slightly to reveal a sliver of your lower back, and Yoongi’s eyes snag there, his throat dry, pulse hammering. He opens his mouth—maybe to say something, anything—but before words form, the world plunges into black. The power cuts with a faint pop, the dim glow of his desk lamp snuffed in an instant. Darkness swallows the room, thick and disorienting, the only sound the storm’s distant howl beyond the walls and the ragged edge of your breathing. The cold creeps in fast, a chill the prickles your bare arms, and you freeze mid-step, your silhouette a faint blur against the void.

Yoongi stands rooted, the sudden black amplifying the thud of his heartbeat in his ears. The air shifts, heavy with the absence of light and heat, and for a moment, neither of you move, the silence a living thing pressing against your skin.

Then he speaks, voice low, cutting through the dark like a blade. “Stay.” It’s not a request, not quite a command, but there’s and urgency laced in it, rough and unpolished. You hesitate, your outline shifting as you turn slightly, and he can’t see your face, but he feels your uncertainty, the way you’re poised to bolt. “Just—stay there,” he adds, softer, stepping toward the desk where he keeps a flashlight and tealights he grabbed in preparation for exactly this. “I’ll get light.”

You don’t argue, don’t move, and he hears the faint creak of the mattress as you sink onto it, the sound small but seismic in the quiet. He fumbles in the dark, fingers brushing vinyl sleeves, a tangles cord, until they close around the flashlight’s cold metal grip. The mean flickers to life, weak and unsteady, casting jagged shadows as he sweeps it across the room—the heap of blankets a sleepless mound, you perched on the edge of his bed, knees drawn up to your chest, arms crossed tight over them. Your silhouette sharpens as his eyes adjust, and he can see the goosebumps rising on your arms, the way your breath fogs faintly in the chill. He grabs the tealights a lighter from the desk drawer and moves back, placing them on the window ledge behind his bed.

The lighter flicks, the tiny flame sparking against the wick of the first tealight. It catches, a fragile glow blooming, then another, until three small flames dance, casting gold over the scuffed ledge. He sits back, cross-legged, the mattress dipping under your weight across from him, the space between you shrinking in the flickering light. The candles throw shadows up Yoongi’s face—sharp cheekbones, blonde hair mussed and falling into his eyes, lips parted as he exhales—and you feel exposed, the thin T-shirt no shield against the cold or his gaze. Your arms tights, a shiver running down your spine, and he notices, eyes flicking to the way your shoulders hunch, the faint tremble in your fingers.

“You’re cold,” he says, matter-of-fact, and before you can respond, he’s twisting to grab a hoodie from the pile beside his bed—black, worn, the sleeves stretched from use. He holds it out, the fabric dangling between you, and the gesture hangs heavy, an offering laced with something unspoken. “Take it.”

“I’m fine,” you mutter., stubborn, your teeth chattering faintly as the chill deepens, the room’s temperature dropping fast without the heater’s hum. Your breath fogs more now, a soft cloud in the candlelight, and you hug yourself tighter, pride warring with the cold sinking into your bones.

“Take it,” he says again, sharper this time, his tone brooking no argument, eyes narrowing as they lock on yours. There’s a demand there, rough-edged, and it pricks at you, but the cold wins out, your resolve crumbling under the weight of his stare and the shiver racking your frame. You reach out, fingers brushing his as you take the hoodie, the contact brief but electric. You tug it on, the fabric swallowing you—smelling of cedarwood, the hem brushing your thighs—and he watches, a flicker of something dark crossing his face as you settle into it, sleeves flopping over your hands.

The silence stretches, awkward and thick, the small flames creating shadows that act like a fragile barrier. You shift on the bed, the mattress creaking under you, and he leans on his hands, the bedding soft underneath his palms. The storm’s a dull roar outside, snow pelting the windows, but inside, it’s just you and him, the air humming with tension you’ve both danced around for weeks. He clears his throat, the sound rough in the quiet, and you glance up, catching the way his eyes glint in the candlelight, sharp and assessing.

“It’s been quiet lately,” he says, voice soft, almost casual, but there’s an edge—a thread of intent snaking through it. His fingers flex against the mattress, inching closer, the tips grazing the blanket near your thigh. “You, I mean. Not just the room.”

You blink, caught off guard, heat creeping up your neck despite the chill. “What?” you say, too quick, your voice wobbling as you tuck the hoodie’s sleeves tighter into your fists, avoiding his gaze. He’s too close, his presence too heavy, pressing against you like a physical thing.

“I dunno,” he shrugs, but it’s calculated, his shoulders rolling slow, the bed shifting as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees now, narrowing the space between you. “I just noticed. You’re usually... louder. Moving around, banging shit in the kitchen. Now it’s like you’re not even here.” His tone’s even, but there’s a tease buried in it, a glint in his eyes daring you to bite, to push back.

“I’m here,” you mutter, defensive, staring at the tealights, the tiny flames blurring as your heart kicks up, thudding against your ribs. “I’ve just been... busy, I guess. School, work, and I’m with Namjoon a lot—you know how it is.” It’s a flimsy excuse, the words brittle, and you can feel him see through it, his silence louder than any rebuttal.

He tilts his head, blonde strands shifting, and the smirk returns, faint but sharp. “Busy, huh?” He leans closer, his knee pressing firmer against yours now, intentional, the heat of it seeping through your sweatpants. “Is that why you can’t even look at me?”

You glance up, and he’s closer than you thought—his face a breath away, eyes locked on yours, dark and piercing in the candlelight. “I’m looking at you now,” you say, aiming for defiance, but it comes out shaky, a whisper swallowed by the tension thickening the air between you.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice a rumble. “Took you long enough.” His eyes flick to your lips, lingering, and the room shrinks, the cold forgotten.

“Okay, so what?” you snap, the word spilling out before you can stop them. “What’s your point?” Your face burns, defiance masking the nerves twisting inside you.

He doesn’t back off, just watches you, steady and unyielding. “My point,” he says, slow and deliberate, “is that you’ve been avoiding me.” It’s not a question, a statement dropped like a match onto dry grass, and it ignites something in you, a flare of frustration and shame you’ve been choking down for a week.

Heat surges up your neck, prickling under Yoongi’s hoodie. “No, I haven’t,” you bite back, voice sharp, your denial too quick. “That’s ridiculous.” You shift back slightly, the bed creaking under you, putting an inch of space between your knees.

“Ridiculous?” he echoes, voice soft but edged, leaning forward more, closing the gap you just made. “You’re out before I’m up, gone ‘til I’m asleep. You’ve barely said ten fucking words to me all week. You call that normal?”

“I’ve been busy!” you snap, louder now, the words bursting out as you glare at him. “School, work, like I just explained—shit you’d get if you weren’t holed up in here all the time. Don’t act like I’m the only one who’s quiet.” Your voice trembles, anger masking the guilt, and you shove the hoodie’s sleeves up, the fabric bunching at your elbows, too hot under his scrutiny.

He snorts, a harsh sound, leaning closer, his knee slamming back against yours, a deliberate push. “Don’t pull that. I’m here, yeah, but I don’t fucking vanish. You’re dodging me like I’m contagious—can't even look at me half the time.” His voice rises, rough with irritation. “What’s your deal? You think I’m pissed about something?”

“My deal?” you fire back, voice climbing, the argument spiraling out of your control. “Maybe I just don’t wanna deal with you staring at me like—like I’m some joke after that stupid phone call! You don’t get to turn this on me when you’ve been a hermit too!” Your chest heaves, and you hate how raw you feel, how exposed.

He freezes, just for a beat, then leans back slightly, but his voice drops, low and sharp. “A joke? That’s what you think?” His tone’s quieter, but it’s loaded, frustration simmering under the surface. “I’ve been giving you space, not laughing at you. You’re the one running.”

“Space?” you scoff, incredulous, your voice crackling as you lean forward. “You call locking yourself in here space? I didn’t ask for that—I didn’t ask for any of this!” Your hands shake, and you hate how close he is. “This is all Namjoon’s fault. If I had just move back in with my parents to begin with—”

“Then why—” he interrupts, voice rising again, his hand slamming down on the mattress, and you flinch. “Why are you acting like I’m the problem when you’re the one who’s been avoiding me?” His eyes bore into yours, dark and furious, and the tension snaps taut, a live wire humming between you.

“Okay, fine!” you yell, the words ripping out, raw and jagged. “I’ve been avoiding you! Happy now?” You look away, face burning with shame, jaw tight.

He doesn’t flinch, just holds your gaze when you dare to meet it again, the anger softening into something else—something heavier. “Why?” he asks, voice quieter now, almost gentle, but it’s a blade all the same, cutting straight to the core.

You swallow, throat dry, the truth clawing its way up, bitter and hot. “Because of the call,” you say, voice small. “What Hyejin said—it's been... weird. I didn’t know what you thought, if you were angry, disgusted, or—” You cut yourself off, biting your lip hard, the humiliation surging like fresh wound, a sour twist in your chest that makes you want to curl into yourself.

He tilts his head, blonde strands shifting, and his eyes soften, just a fraction, though they never leave yours. “Didn’t think anything bad,” he says, low, deliberate. “Didn’t mind it.” A pause, then softer, a confession slipped into the dark: “I kinda liked it.” It hangs there, raw and unguarded, and your stomach flips.

“You liked it?” you echo, incredulous, your voice rising slightly.

“Yeah,” he says, simple, unapologetic. “You think I’m attractive, right? That’s what she said... your friend, I mean.” His voice dips, teasing again, but there’s a hunger underneath, a question he’s daring you to answer, and it’s dizzying, the way he’s peeling you open, like a tangerine.

“I—” You falter, breath hitching, his proximity scrambling your thoughts, turning them into static. The hoodie’s too warm, his scent too close—a drug you can’t shake—and yet you can’t look away. “She said it, not me.”

“But you didn’t deny it,” he counters, voice a rumble now. “Still haven’t” His eyes flick to your lips, lingering, slow and deliberate, and the tension shifts, thickens, a palpable thing wrapped around you both. “You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?” he murmurs, voice rough. “What she said. Me.”

Your mouth opens, a denial on your tongue, but it dies there, strangled by the way his eyes darken. “I-I... I don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he presses, voice a tease, but his gaze is intense, stripping you bare. His knee nudges your legs apart slightly, moving towards where you need him most. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he says, voice dropping to a rough whisper. “Say it, and I’ll back off.” His eyes search yours, dark and intent, flickering with something that mirrors the heat twisting inside you—desire, need, a question he’s laid bare between you. His fingers curl slightly into your thigh, possessive, waiting, and the silence stretches, taut and trembling, your response teetering on the edge.

Instead of answering him, your lips slam into his with a force that rips the air from the room, a bruising collision born from the weight of all the suppressed desire, every moment you’ve bitten your tongue instead of speaking, every time you’ve turned away instead of reaching out. It’s not soft, not tentative—it can’t be, not after all this time simmering in the space between you. Your hands fist the worn cotton of his hoodie, knuckles whitening as you clutch the fabric like it’s the only think keeping your grounded, pulling him closer until there’s no gap left to close. The kiss is spark flung onto dry tinder, a wildfire roaring to life after too long smoldering in the dark corners of your mind. Your lips press hard against his, insistent and desperate, testing the faint salt of his skin, the bitter edge of the beer he sipped earlier still clinging to his breath—a sharp tang that mixes with something deeper, something raw and uniquely Yoongi that floods your senses and leaves you dizzy.

He freezes for a heartbeat, his body tensing before you, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth as if you’ve jolted his from a trance. Then he surges back, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat—a primal sound that vibrates against your lips and sends a shiver racing down your spine, igniting every nerve in its path. His hands clamp onto your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath the oversized hoodie you’re wearing—his hoodie—yanking you against him with a force that makes the mattress groan beneath your combined weight. The bed creaks sharply, a protest that echoes in the small room as your bodies collide, chest to chest, the heat of him seeping through the thin layers of fabric separating you, warming the chill that’s lingered in your bones for days.

You move on instinct, driven by a need you can’t name, swinging one leg over his lap until you’re straddling him, your knees bracketing his lean thighs. The shift presses your core against the hard ridge of his cock through his clothes, a sudden jolt of friction that drags a soft, involuntary moan from your throat—a sound you barely recognize as yours, raw and needy, spilling out into the quiet. Your nails rake over his shoulders, catching on the fabric of his sweatshirt as you press yourself closer, your chest flattening against his, the rapid thud of his heartbeat pounding against your ribcage until it feels like it’s yours too. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way they flex and shift under your touch, coiled tight like a spring begging to snap, and it sends a thrill through you, a spark that catches and flares.

His hands slide under the hoodie, rough calluses scraping against your bare waist as they roam upward, igniting your skin with every inch they claim. His fingers splay wide, possessive, digging into your flesh with just enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth—a sharp, breathy sound that he swallows greedily, like it’s fuel for the fire he’s stoking. They travel higher, slow and deliberate, until his palms cup your breasts, the heat of his hands searing through you, thumbs brushing over your nipples in teasing, languid circles. They harden instantly under his touch, a delicious ache blooming as he rolls them between his fingers, coaxing another moan from you—a louder one this time, raw and unfiltered, muffled against his lips, vibrating in the tight space where your breaths tangle. The sensation is electric, a current that zips down your spine and pools low, making you shift relentlessly in his lap.

The kiss deepens, turning messy and wild—as if it wasn’t already—a clash of need that strips away any pretense of control. Your teeth knock together in your haste, a faint click drowned by the wet slide of your tongues wrestling for dominance, a dance of give and take that leaves you breathless. Yoongi’s mouth is hot, demanding, his tongue curling against yours with a skill that makes your head spin, a slow, deliberate sweep that has you chasing after it, hungry for more. He tugs your lower lip between his teeth, a sharp sting that sends a pulse of heat straight to your core, and you whimper—a soft, broken sound that melts into a groan as he sucks it hard, soothing the bite with a slow, deliberate lick. The taste of him floods you—salt a heat and that faint, bitter edge—and you dive back in, your tongue darting into his mouth, desperate to drown it.

His grip tightens, one hand abandoning your breast to fist in your hair, fingers tangling in the strands. He yanks your head back, a sudden, firm tug that bares your throat to him, the pull stinging your scalp a drawing a ragged gasp from your lips—a sound that hangs in the air, sharp and vulnerable. Your head tips back, exposing the tender line of your neck, and Yoongi doesn’t hesitate—his mouth descends, lips dragging hot and wet along your pulse, leaving a trail of fire that sears your skin. He sucks lightly at the spot where your heartbeat thumps wildly, a teasing nip of his teeth that makes you squirm in his lap, your hips rocking forward on pure instinct, seeking something, anything, to ease the ache building inside you.

That movement—unplanned, desperate—grinds you against him, the seam of your sweatpants catching just right on the bulge straining against him. A low, guttural moan tears from his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin as he presses his forehead to your collarbone, he breath hot and uneven against the hollow of your throat. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough as gravel, the curse slipping out like it’s been punched from him, and it sends a thrill through you, your own breath hitching in response. You roll your hips again, deliberate this time, a slow, purposeful grind that drags your core over him, the friction sparking pleasure that coils tight in your belly, a heat that spreads like wildfire. His hands snap back you your hips, guiding you, encouraging the motion with a firm squeeze, his fingers digging into your ass through the fabric, anchoring you as you rock against him.

The movement builds a rhythm—slow at first, tentative, like you’re testing the waters, then faster, more urgent, a desperate cadence that matches the pounding of your pulse. Each roll of your hips presses you harder against him, the heat between your legs growing slick and insistent, soaking through your sweatpants until you can feel it dampening the fabric, a secret you can’t hide. You can feel him—thick, hard, pulsing beneath you—and the thought alone makes you moan louder, a needy whine that echoes in the small room, bouncing off the walls and mingling with the creak of the mattress. Yoongi matches you, his own groans spilling out, low and broken, as he thrusts up to meet you, the cotton soft against your thighs, yet scraping in a way that’s almost too much but not enough.

Your moans climb higher, a string of needy sounds that spill out unbidden—soft whines, sharp gasps, a broken “Yoongi” that slips from your lips before you can stop it. His response is immediate, a groan that’s half-curse, half-prayer, hips bucking up harder, meeting you halfway, the fabric dragging against your skin in a way that’s rough and perfect.

You break the kiss, gasping for air, your forehead resting against his as you pant, your breath hot against his swollen lips, mingling with his own ragged exhales. Your eyes—wide, wild, glassy with need—meet his, and the intensity there nearly undoes you, a storm of want brewing behind his own pupils, the dark swallowing the brown until there’s nothing left but desire. “You’ve been fucking teasing me for weeks,” he rasps, voice gravelly, thick with want, his grip on your hair tightening until it stings, a delicious edge of pain that makes you move harder against him, your hips stuttering in their rhythm. “Think I didn’t notice you squirming? All those little looks, avoiding me like I wouldn’t fucking see?”

“I—I didn’t—” you start, but the lie dies in your throat as he smirks, dark and knowing, and drags you back into the kiss, his tongue plunging deep, silencing you with a claim that leaves no room for denial. Your hands slip from his hair, trailing down his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palms as the kiss breaks again, leaving you both panting, lips swollen and slick. The need clawing at you is too much now, and your fingers curl into the hem of his sweatshirt, the oversized gray fabric that’s been brushing against you all night. You tug upward, a silent question in the motion, and Yoongi’s eyes flicker with something dark and eager as his lifts his arms, letting you peel it off him in one fluid desperate pull.

The sweatshirt hits the floor with a soft thud, and for a moment, you just stare, your breath catching in your throat as you take him in—shirtless, bare, and breathtakingly real beneath the flickering candlelight glow. His chest is exposed now, and your eyes trace downward, drinking in the sight of him—smooth and unmarred, save for the faint flush creeping up his sternum, a soft pink that blooms under the heat of your gaze and the exertion of what’s just passed. His torse narrows into a lean waist, the lines of his body flowing inward like a river cutting through stone. His abs come into view—subtle but undeniable, a not-so-faint six-pack etched into his stomach, each muscle a shallow ripple beneath his skin rather than a deep carve. The muscles flex slightly as he shifts, tightening with every breath, every twitch of his hips still pressed against you, and you can see the faint sheen of sweat coating them, making his skin gleam like polished marble in the low light. A thin trail of dark hair starts just below his navel, barely visible against his pale complexion, leading downward in a sparse, teasing line that disappears into the waistband of his pants, hinting at what’s still hidden.

You slide off his lap then, your hands dragging down his bare chest one last time, mapping the lean planes of him—the smooth expanse of his pecs, the subtle ridges of his abs, the heat of his skin—before you sink to your knees between his legs, the cold wood biting into your skin a stark contrast to the fire burning in your veins. Yoongi watches you, breath hitching, hands flexing on the bed as you teg at the waistband of his sweatpants, his hips lifting slightly to help you pull them down along with his boxers, crumpling into a messy pile around his ankles. His cock springs free, hard and leaking, the tip glistening with a fat bead of precum that catches the faint candlelight glow—a slick, iridescent promise of how much he’s been aching for this, how long he’s been holding back. You pause, your breath snagging in your throat at the sight of him—thick, flushed, veins pulsing faintly under the skin, every inch of him straining towards you. Your fingers hover near it, trembling with the weight of anticipation that’s been clawing at you, a hunger that’s sunk its teeth into your core and won’t let go. Then you reach out, wrapping your hand around him—tentative at first, your touch light as you feel the heat radiating off him, the slight give of skin over rigid flesh. His reaction is instant: a sharp, guttural groan rips from his throat, loud and unrestrained, his hips jerking up an inch like he’s already chasing you.

You tighten your grip, fingers curling around his length, and start to stroke—slowly, deliberately, watching his face twist with every pass. The skin is velvet-hot under your palm, slick where he’s leaking, and you drag your thumb over the tip, smearing the precum in a lazy, teasing circle. Yoongi moans again, a rough, “Fuck,” spilling out as his head tips back, blonde hair spilling into his eyes in a wild, sweaty cascade that glints gold in the dim light before falling into shadow. His chest heaves, a low growl rumbling through it as you lean closer, your breath fanning over him, warm and deliberate. Your lips brush the tip, featherlight, barely a touch, and he shudders hard, thighs tensing under your elbows where they rest, a ragged “shit” groaning out of him as his hands flex on the bed, knuckles whitening against the sheets.

You part your lips, letting your breath tease him for a bit longer, watching his abs clench, his jaw tighten, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. The you take him in—slowly at first, your tongue flicking out to lap at the slit, tasting the sharp salt of him, the heat that floods your mouth as you close your lips around the head. You swirl your tongue, tracing the ridge beneath with a slow, deliberate drag, savoring the way he pulses against you, the way his groan turns into a louder, “Fuck—yes,” his voice cracking on the edge of desperation. You suck lightly, lips tightening as you pull him deeper, inch by tantalizing inch, your jaw stretching to accommodate him as you hollow your cheeks, creating a tight, wet vacuum that makes him hiss—a sharp, needy sound that cuts through the quiet.

The taste of him intensifies, and you start to bob your head, setting a rhythm that’s wet and sloppy. Spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, slick and messy, dripping down your chin as you take him further, the heat of him pressing against your tongue, nudging the back of your throat with every downward stroke. Yoongi’s hand shoots to your hair, fingers threading into the soft strands with a rough grip—not just anchoring now, but guiding, tugging you down harder as he groans again, his voice gravelly and wrecked. His hips twitch up, a shallow thrust that pushes him deeper, and you gag slightly, the burn in your throat sharp but thrilling as you adjust, breathing through your nose to keep in time with him.

He gets rougher then, his restraint fraying as his hand tightens in your hair, pulling with a firm yank that stings your scalp and sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. “Take it,” he growls, low and commanding, his hips bucking up again—harder this time, fucking into your mouth with a controlled thrust that has you choking around him, spit spilling over your lips and down his shaft. You don’t pull back—can't, wont—your tongue flattening against him as he sets a pace, deep and insistent, each thrust hitting the back of your throat with a wet, obscene sound that fills the room. He moans louder, letting out a string of curses, “Holy shit, Y/N that feels so—fuck,” each one rougher, more broken, he voice cracking as he watches you, eyes half-lidded and dark.

Your free hand slides up his thigh, nails scraping the taut muscle there before finding his balls, heavy and tight beneath him. You cup them, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling the way they draw up under your touch. Yoongi’s reaction is rewarding—a deep, shuddering groan tears from his chest, louder than before, his hips stuttering as the sensation hits him. You knead them softly, fingers working in time with your mouth, fondling them with a careful pressure that makes his moans climb higher. The added stimulation drives him wild, his thrusts turning sloppier, more desperate, fucking your throat with a rhythm that’s less controlled now, more primal. Your eyes flick up, meeting his, and the sight of him unravels you—head tipped back, blonde hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, burning with a desperation that’s almost palpable—and it sends a shiver through you, your own arousal pooling low, thighs clamping together as the ache between your legs sharpens into something almost unbearable.

It’s intoxicating, the way he’s falling apart for you, and it drives you to push him further, to take him deeper. You relax your throat, letting him thrust past the point of comfort, the stretch burning as you gag again, spit pooling and dripping onto his thighs as he fucks your mouth with a grunt. His moans turn constant now, a litany of sound—low growls, sharp groans, broken curses—each one louder, rougher, spilling out as his hips snap forward, his grip on your hair tightening until it’s a delicious ache. He’s losing it, control slipping through his fingers, and you can feel it in the way his thrusts falter, the way his abs clench, a ripple of muscles that signals he’s close. “Y/N—shit, I’m gonna cum,” he growls, voice strained and raw, a warning that’s morphed it’s way into a plea, giving you the change to pull back if you want it. But you don’t—you can’t—doubling down instead, sucking harder, your lips a tight seal around him as you take him as deep as you can, throat flexing around his length.

You hand pumps the base, fast and slick, working what your mouth can’t reach, while your other hand squeezes his balls just a little harder, rolling them in a way that drags another loud, shuddering moan from him. His hips buck one last time, hard and erratic, and then he’s coming undone—a choked, “Shit,” tearing from his throat as he spills into your mouth, hot and pulsing, thick bursts that coat your tongue, your throat, filling you with the taste of him—salt and heat and raw, unfiltered need.

You keep going, working him through it, your mouth softening but still moving, your hand stroking slower now as you milk every last shudder from him. His groans turn ragged, breathless, his body trembling beneath you, thigh twitching as he rides out the waves. His hand in your hair loosens, fingers slipping free with a faint tremor, and you pull back slowly, letting him slide from your mouth with a wet, messy pop, spit and cum mingling on your lips as you gasp for air. Your chin’s a wreck, slick and dripping, and you swipe it with the back of your hand, panting as you look up at him, your chest heaving, thighs still pressed tight against the ache that’s screaming between your legs.

You start to shift, intending to rise, but Yoongi moves faster, his hand snapping to your arms with a grip that’s firm, unyielding, almost bruising as he hauls you up from the floor with a strength that steals your breath. Your knees groan as they leave the cold ground, a soft, startled gasp slipping form your lips as he pulls you onto the bed, dragging you up to meet him in a rush of motion that makes your head spin. His mouth crashes onto yours, fierce and unrelenting, a kiss that’s all teeth and heat, claiming you with a bruising intensity that leaves no room for air. His tongue dives in, hot and possessive, tasting himself on you—the salt and musk of his release mingling with the faint sweetness of you—and he groans into it, a deep, primal sound that rumbles against your lips, sending a fresh wave of heat crashing through your core.

His hands shove at the hoodie still clinging to your frame—his hoodie, oversized and heavy with his scent—fingers rough and impatient as they yank it up and over your head, the fabric catching on your arms for a heartbeat before you shake it free. It falls to the floor with a muffled thud, and the cold air of the room bites into your newly bared skin, prickling goosebumps across your chest, your nipples hardening instantly under the chill and weight of his stare. You shiver, caught between the shock of exposure and the fire in his eyes, but he doesn’t give you time to adjust—his hands are on you again, strong and commanding, flipping you onto your back with a swift, effortless twist that makes the bed creak softly, the springs protesting under the sudden shift. Your back hits the mattress, the tangled blankets cool and soft against your skin, and Yoongi looms over you, his lean, shirtless frame a shadowed silhouette against the glow of the candles—his bare chest slick with sweat, abs tightening as he braces himself above you, a smirk tugging at his lips, sharp and dangerous.

“Fucking finally,” he mutters, voice low and gravelly, thick with intent as his hands drop to the waistband of your sweatpants. Hi fingers hook onto the fabric, rough and urgent, yanking your sweatpants and panties down in one harsh, impatient tug that scrapes against your thighs, the material bunching briefly before he rips it free. The cold air hits you like a slap, a shock against the slick, burning heat between your legs, and you shudder, half from the chill, half from the raw vulnerability of being spread bare beneath him. He tosses the clothes aside, the faint rustle of them landing somewhere in the dark swallowed by the pounding of your heart, and his hands find your thighs—his grip bruising, possessive, as he forces them apart, spreading you wide with a strength that makes your breath hitch, your body arching instinctively toward him, open and waiting.

Yoongi’s head dips low, his breath ghosting over your core first—a warm, teasing huff that makes your hips twitch upward, chasing the promise of contact. His hands dig into your thighs, fingers splayed wide and bruising as he holds you open, pinning you to the mattress with a force that leaves no room for resistance. His lips graze your clit, a fleeting, featherlight brush that sends a sharp, electric jolt ripping through you, arching your back off the bed as a gasp tears from your throat, high and desperate. Then he dives in, his mouth latching onto you with a hunger that’s almost feral, sucking hard on your clit with a wet, obscene pull that makes your vision blur at the edges. The sudden pressure is a shockwave, a white-hot burst that has your hips bucking against his face, a chokes whimper spilling from your lips as your hands scrabble against the blankets, searching for something to hold onto.

His tongue follows, relentless and greedy, lapping at your folds with broad, messy strokes that leave no part of you untouched, electing a loud cry from you. The wet heat of it drags through your slickness, a slow, deliberate sweep that collects every drop of your arousal, and he groans against you—a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through your core, making your thighs tremble in his grasp. He circles your clit with tight, teasing loops, the tip of his tongue flicking against the swollen bud in quick, precise darts that have you whimpering, your breath hitching in sharp, uneven bursts. The he shifts, plunging his tongue inside you, thrusting it deep into your heat with a rhythm that’s slow but unyielding, fucking you with it as you moan, loud and unabashed. “Oh, shit, Yoongi!” You cry, the words spilling out of you before you can stop them.

His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, leaving crescent-shaped marks as he pulls you closer, pressing you harder against his mouth like he can’t get enough. His nose brushes your clit as he buries himself deeper, and your breath hitches, your moans growing louder with each pass of his tongue. He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, lips sealing around it with a fierce, wet suction that makes your back bow off mattress, a sharp cry ripping from your throat—“Y-Yoongi, please,”—your voice breaking on his name. His tongue flicks against you in response, fast and ruthless, and then his fingers join in—two of them sliding into you, curling deep, stretching you open with a deliberate thrust that makes you feel every inch of his digits, every ridge of his knuckles as they sink inside.

He pumps them fast, rough, the wet squelch of your arousal loud in the quiet room, mingling with the faint howl of the storm outside. His fingers curl just right, hooking against that spot inside you that sends sparks bursting behind your eyes, and he pairs it with another hard suck on your clit, his teeth grazing you lightly—a fleeting sting that makes you jolt, a whimper turning into a moan. His free hand lifts, hovering over your thigh for a moment, then comes down with a sharp crack, spanking you once—the sound echoing, the heat blooming instant and fierce across your skin. “Louder, let me hear you,” he growls, voice muffled against you, his breath hot and ragged as he dives back in, tongue lapping at you like a man starved. You oblige without meaning to, a loud stream of moans spilling out as your hips grind against his face, chasing the pressure building inside you.

Your hands find his hair, fingers threading into the sweaty blonde strands, tugging hard—hard enough to make him groan again, a deep, rumbling “mmph” that vibrates through you, pushing you closer to the edge. He retaliates by nipping at your clit, a quick, sharp bite that sends a jolt of pleasure racing through you, your grip tightening as you yank his hair again, desperate and wild. “So wet for me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, lips brushing your clit as he speaks, the words sinking into you like heat, stoking the fire in your belly. “Been dreaming of this pussy—gonna make you scream.” His tongue dives back in, relentless, swirling around your clit before plunging inside again, fucking you with it in deep, wet strokes while his fingers pump faster, curling harder, stretching you open until you’re trembling and whimpering, thighs shaking uncontrollably un his bruising grip.

The candlelight dances over your body—sweat beading on your stomach, glistening in the hollows of your hips, a red mark blooming bright and hot where he spanked you, the skin tender and pulsing with every brush of his fingers. Yoongi’s focused, utterly consumed—his eyes flick up to yours, dark and piercing, locked on your face as he drinks in every whimper, every squirm, every broken sound you make. His hair’s a mess from your grip, strands sticking to his forehead, falling into his eyes, but he doesn’t care—his tongue keeps moving, his fingers relentless, savoring the way you’re unraveling beneath him. The pleasure’s sharp, overwhelming, a knife-edge that cuts through you.

He spanks you again, harder this time, the crack louder, the heat searing across your ass as his fingers curl just right, hitting your g-spot with brutal precision while his tongue flicks your clit in quicks, merciless strokes. You break—screaming his name, “Yoongi—fuck!” The sound raw and ragged, tearing from your throat as your body shatters, clenching tight around his fingers, pulsing hot and wet against his mouth. Your back arches high, hips grinding against him as the climax rips through you, a tidal wave of pleasure that leaves you shaking, trembling, a moaning mess, every nerve alight. He doesn’t stop, lapping you through it with slow, greedy strokes, his tongue dragging out every shudder every twitch, his fingers easing their pace but still moving, coaxing you down from the peak until you’re gasping, oversensitive, tugging hard at his hair to pull him up, your chest heaving as you pant beneath him, wrecked and sated.

Your chest heaves, lungs burning as you pant beneath Yoongi, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of his mouth on you, his fingers inside you, the oversensitive twitches shuddering through your thighs where they press against the mattress. He pulls back from your core, lips glistening with your slick in the faltering candlelight glow, his blonde hair a sweaty, tangled mess from your desperate tugging, strands plastered to his forehead and falling into his eyes—dark, wild, smoldering with a hunger that hasn’t dimmed. His bare chest gleams with sweat, the lean planes of his abs tightening with each shallow, unsteady breath, his pale skin flushed pink from exertion, collarbones sharp and jutting, a faint sheen of perspiration pooling in the hollow of his throat. He climbs over you, his wiry frame moving with a predator's grace, sweat-slick chest brushing your bare skin as he looms above, caging you in with his arms, the heat of him searing into you like a brand. His mouth crashes into yours, sloppy and deep, a messy tangle of tongues and teeth that tastes of you—sweet and sharp—and him, salt and heat from earlier, a primal mix that makes your head spin. You moan, soft and needy, your hands clawing at his bare back, nails raking down the lean muscle, digging into the taut ridges of his spine as you press yourself closer, your chest heaving against his.

“I need you, Yoongi, need your cock.” The want between you is raw, reckless, primal—no barriers, just skin and heat—he smirks, and you shift, pushing him back onto the mattress with a surge of strength, the bed creaking sharply as you climb over him, straddling his hips, your thighs once again bracketing his lean waist, knees sinking into the tangled blankets. He groans, low and guttural, as you line yourself up, the head of his cock brushing your entrance—bare, hot, pulsing against your slick heat. He shifts beneath you, one hand reaching down toward the bedside table, fingers stretching for a condom packet in the dim light, but you catch his wrist, stopping him mid-motion. He pauses, eyes flicking to yours, a question in their dark depths, and you lean in close, breath hitching as you whisper, “I want to feel all of you.” His gaze darkens further, a flash of something feral passing through it, and he groans, deeper, his hand falling back to your hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh there as he surrenders to the moment.

You sink down slow at first, the stretch raw and intense, a searing burn that splits you open. Inch by thick inch, filling you completely with no layer between you, just the unfiltered heat of him inside. You moan, loud and trembling, your head tipping back as he bottoms out, hips flush against his, the fullness overwhelming, your walls clenching around him instinctively, a tight, greedy grip that makes him groan again, “God, you feel so good—shit.” Your nails bite into his chest, scraping over his pecs, leaving red trails across his pale skin as you start to move, lifting yourself up and dropping back down, the wet slap of your thighs against his steady, filthy rhythm. “Look at you,” he grunts in between each pass of you against his member, “avoiding me for weeks and now you’re practically begging for my cock.”

You moan, high and desperate, as you ride him, hips rolling with every rise and fall, the drag of him against your walls sending jolts of pleasure sparking through you, your ass bouncing against his thighs with each thrust, and he relishes in the movement of your breasts as you ride him. “Oh, God, Yoongi—” He groans, rough and primal, his hands guiding you, lifting you higher, slamming you down higher, the bed creaking wildly under the force, springs protesting as your pace quickens.

You lean forward, hands braced on his chest, nails digging deeper into the firm muscle, and he spanks you once—hard—the crack sharp and loud, “Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” The sting blooms hot across your ass, making you moan louder, a broken sound that echoes in the room. He spanks you again, “you like it rough, baby?” You nod in response, the heat spreading like wildfire, and you shudder, your rhythm faltering for a moment as the pain twists into pleasure, your moans climbing higher, constant now, spilling form you with every roll of your hips.

Yoongi’s groans deepen, his thrusts up to meet you turning erratic, his cock twitching inside you, and he moans, a strained, desperate sound, his abs clenching tight under his sweat slick skin, sweat beading on his brow as he fights the edge. “Fucking hell.” He shifts abruptly, hands gripping your waist, flipping you off him with a swift, strong twist that makes you yelp, a sharp moan tearing from your throat as he pulls out, leaving you empty and trembling, your walls clenching around nothing, slick and desperate. He moves fast, pushing you onto your stomach, “Ass up,” he demands, the bed creaking as he pulls your hips up, forcing you to comply, your knees sinking into the mattress.

He drives back in with a single, deep thrust, bottoming out in one brutal snap of his hips, hitting every spot, and you moan long and loud, “You feel so good, Yoongi, fuck,” your voice shakes as he fills you again, the new angle letting him go deeper, harder, his cock dragging against your walls with a precision that has your toes curling, your hands clawing at the sheets, tearing at the fabric. He groans, rough and primal, hands gripping your hips, pulling you back onto him with every thrust, the force rocking your body forward, your face pressing into the pillow, muffling your constant moans—high, desperate, spilling from you with every snap of his hips, driving you closer to the edge.

Your climax builds fast, a tight coil snapping in your belly, every thrust, every spank, pushing you higher, “I’m so close, Yoongi! Gonna cum soon—” you moan louder, a desperate, shuddering sound as your walls start to flutter around him, clenching tight. Your orgasm hits hard, a shattering wave that rips through you, and you scream into the pillow, a raw, broken moan muffled against the fabric as your body shakes, trembling uncontrollably, pleasure crashing through you in relentless surges, your ass stinging, red and raw, your nails clawing at the sheets, tearing holes in the cotton as you ride it out, shuddering, lost in the raw heat of him inside you.

He feels it, groaning loud and rough, his thrusts turning sloppy, hips stuttering as your clenching walls grip him, and he cries out, “Ah shit, Y/N!” It’s a strained sound, breaking form his chest as he chases his own edge, sweat dripping onto your back, hot and slick. His climax snaps, a guttural moan tearing from him as he spills inside you, hot and deep, pulsing thick and unrestrained, filling you with every erratic trust. His hands pull you back onto him as he comes, trembling above you, breath ragged, breaking into rough sound as he rides his orgasm out, his cum leaking out, warm and sticky, dripping down your thighs. He collapses over you, chest pressed to your back, his weight heavy and grounding, both of you shaking, spent, tangled in the damp, sweat-soaked sheets. His arm drapes around your waist, breath hot and uneven against your neck, stirring the damp hair there.

The cold begins to seep into the room as the last candlelight flickers out with a faint hiss, plunging you into near-darkness, the only light a thin, silvery glow from the window that softly outlines Yoongi’s lean, shirtless form as he slides off your back and next to you. His chest rises and falls in slow, uneven breaths, a faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his flushed skin, catching the dim light across the sharp lines of his collarbones and the subtle ridges of his abs, now relaxed after the tension of before. Silence settles over you, thick and soothing, like a heavy blanket, muffling the world beyond—the storm outside reduced to a faint whisper against the glass, barely audible over the slowing thud of your pulse. You lie there, breathless and spent, your body heavy with exhaustion, tangled in the sweat-soaked fabric that clings to you, sticky and warm, but there’s a sweetness to it, a comfort in the mess you’ve made together.

Yoongi shifts beside you, rolling onto his side with a soft creak of the mattress, his movement careful, deliberate, as if he’s afraid to jostle you too much. “Hey, you okay?” he asks, his voice low and gentle, a quiet rasp softened by a thread of concern that makes your chest warm, his breath brushing your cheek as he props himself up slightly. You turn your head toward him, cheek sinking into the pillow, damp strands of your hair sticking to your flushed face, and catch his eyes in the dimness—soft, warm, searching yours with a tenderness that feels like a balm after the roughness.

“Yeah,” you murmur, voice hoarse from exertion, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips as you meet his gaze, your lids heavy with fatigue. “Wrecked, though—like, can’t-move wrecked.” He chuckles, a gentle, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest, and his hand slides up to your hair, fingers threading through the sweaty, tangled mess, rubbing your scalp with a slow, soothing touch that draws a faint moan form you, a sigh of pure relief.

“My favorite kind of wrecked,” he says softly, his tone teasing but laced with affection, his thumb brushing along your temple as he smooths your hair back, tracing the curve of your cheek with a gentleness that makes your heart flutter. His fingers linger, rubbing slow circles against your scalp, easing the faint ache form earlier tugging, and you feel your body soften under his touch, the tension melting away as you sink into the comfort of it. “You’re still warm,” he whispers, his voice barely above a breath, a quiet wonder in it as he leans closer, his lips brushing your forehead in a tender kiss, soft and fleeting but heavy with care. You snuggle into him, ignoring the sweat—his skin slick and sticky against yours, your cheek pressing into the curve of his chest, right above his heart, where the beat thumps steady and slow beneath your ear, grounding you. He pulls you tighter, his hand still moving through your hair, fingers sliding through the strands with a kindness that makes your chest ache.

“You’re sweaty,” you mumble, your breath warm against his chest, your nose brushing the hollow of his collarbone where the faint musk of him mixes with the salt of his skin, earthy and comforting.

“So are you,” he replies, his voice light, a smile threading through it, “but I don’t mind—keeps you close.” His hand shifts, sliding down from your hair to trace your skin, fingertips gliding over your shoulder, along the curve of your arm, then back up, featherlight and slow, mapping you with a tenderness that sends a shiver of warmth through you. Your body curls into his, legs tangling, the stickiness of your skin fading under the solace of his touch, the way he holds you like you’re something precious.

The room grows colder, the air brushing against the skin of your back where the sheets have slipped, but his warmth chases it away, his body a shield against the chill, his chest a steady anchor beneath your cheek. “Just rest, I’ve got you,” Yoongi whispers, and you smile against his chest, the sweat and mess a distant thought under his gentle touch, his fingers threading through your hair and tracing your skin, grounding you in his kindness as you drift, tangled together, sated and held in the quiet warmth of the moment.

Two months later, the late afternoon sun spills through the living room window of your shared apartment, casting a warm golden glow over the mismatched furniture—the sagging couch where Namjoon sprawls, the coffee table cluttered with empty takeout containers, and the armchair where you’re curled up, half-draped over Yoongi. The air smells faintly of soy sauce and fried rice, remnants of the lunch you all split, and the TV hums in the background, some random variety show Namjoon picked out but no one’s really watching. Yoongi’s arm rests lazily around your shoulders, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm through the thin sleeve of your hoodie—his hoodie, technically, the faded black one you’ve claimed as your own. His hair’s a little longer now, his grown-out blonde strands brushing his eyes.

“I missed you today,” you murmur, tilting your head to nuzzle his jaw, your voice soft and sweet, a little pout in it as you press closer, your hand resting on his chest where his heart beats steady under your palm.

He chuckles, low and warm, tilting his head to meet your gaze, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with that quiet, gummy smile you adore. “Was only gone a few hours, doll.” he says, his tone teasing but tender, his hand sliding up to rub your hair gently, fingers threading through the strands like they’ve done a hundred times since that night two months ago.

“I still missed you,” you insist, leaning in to peck his cheek, and he hums, a contented sound, pulling you tighter against him, his lips brushing your temple in return.

“God, you two are disgusting,” Namjoon groans from the couch, his deep voice cutting through the moment as he flops his head back dramatically, one arm slung over his eyes like he’s shielding himself from the sight. He’s sprawled out in a T-shirt and sweats, lang legs dangling over the armrest, his dimples nowhere in sight as his face twists in mock disgust. “I didn’t sign up for this,” he mutters, peeking out from under his arm to glare at you both, his annoyance palpable.

You giggle, turning to sick your tongue out at him, and Yoongi smirks, his hand still rubbing your hair as he leans his head against yours. “What, Joon? Jealous?” Yoongi teases, his voice light, and you snuggle closer, your cheek pressing into his shoulder.

Namjoon sits up, tossing a throw pillow at you both—it misses, landing harmlessly on the floor—and runs a hand through his dark hair, exasperated. “I suggested you crash here, man, because you said you needed a place to stay, not so you could turn my best friend into—into this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the two of you tangled together, his time a mix of irritation and disbelief. “I swear, if you start jumping each other’s bones right in front of me, I’m moving to Japan. I’ll sleep on the street before I watch that.”

You laugh, bright and unrestrained, and Yoongi’s chuckle joins yours, his fingers tracing down your arm now, a soft, comforting glide. “Relax, Joon,” you say, grinning, “we’ll save it for when you’re not around.”

“Yeah, promise,” Yoongi adds, his voice deadpan but his eyes glinting with mischief as he pulls you even closer, his lips brushing your ear just to mess with Namjoon more. He groans again, louder, flopping back onto the couch with an exaggerated huff, muttering, “Should’ve known this would happen—gross, both of you.”

He grabs the remote, cranking the TV volume up to drown out your giggles, while you and Yoongi stay wrapped up in each other, the warmth of his touch and the softness of his laughter a quiet comfort against Namjoon’s playful grumbling.

As the day fades into evening, the three of you setting into this new, chaotic normal, a little louder, a little messier, but unmistakably home.

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gerlionrise · 6 months ago

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A Game Within the Game

001 x Reader Synopsis: In the deadly games where survival is the only rule, an unlikely bond forms between two players—one seemingly fragile and unassuming, the other strong-willed and determined. Amid the chaos, whispers of hidden alliances and unseen protections weave a tale of obsession, power, and unspoken truths. As danger looms at every corner, the line between trust and manipulation blurs, leaving one question: how far would someone go to protect what they desire by most?

This is Part 1. Part 2 is here

The eerie hum of the Squid Game facility never truly settled, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above as though mimicking the anxiety thrumming through the players. Every step, every breath was laced with uncertainty. But for you, there was one constant—a pair of watchful eyes.

From the moment the games began, 001 stood out to you. His demeanor was different. Calm, collected, and always one step ahead, he carried himself with an authority that no one else seemed to notice. You’d felt his presence everywhere: a steady hand during the chaos, a voice of reason amidst the panic, and a protector in ways that no one else dared to be.

---

The tension within the games had been escalating with each passing day. The players had grown desperate, alliances crumbling as the stakes rose higher. But for you, something felt different—subtler. A shadow loomed over you, not from the games themselves but from someone among the players.

It began with whispers, fleeting glances from one of the players—a wiry man with sharp eyes and an unsettling smirk. His demeanor toward you was always off, his gaze lingering just a moment too long, his words dripping with something unspoken.

“Watch yourself,” 001 had murmured to you the day before, his voice low and cautious as you stood in the corner of the dormitory.

“Why?” you asked, studying him carefully.

“There are those who see you as more than just competition,” he said. “They see you as a threat.” ---

The tension in the air was palpable as the next game was announced. It was another test of trust, pairing players to navigate a labyrinth filled with hidden traps. Your partner, the same wiry man with shifty eyes, seemed eager, but his energy felt wrong—too forceful, too deliberate.

“You and me,” he said, flashing a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll make it to the end, no question.”

You had no choice but to trust him, though his enthusiasm put you on edge. The guards herded everyone into the maze, their cold, impassive stares sending shivers down your spine.

As the game began, your partner took the lead, moving erratically, almost as if he wanted you to falter.

“Watch your step,” he snapped as you hesitated.

The words seemed like concern, but his tone carried an edge, sharp enough to make you wary.

---

From the sidelines, 001 observed the scene with practiced calm. His eyes missed nothing. Every misstep, every sideways glance from your partner, was noted. He had suspected the man’s intentions from the start. He played a dirty game.

Without drawing attention, he shifted closer to the masked guards stationed nearby. Despite the façade he wore as an ordinary player, his authority in the games was absolute. A single, subtle nod was all it took for the guards to spring into action. ---

The labyrinth echoed with shouts as the alarms blared unexpectedly. A voice over the intercom declared an emergency pause in the game.

“Return to the dormitory immediately,” the voice ordered.

Confusion rippled through the players as they were escorted out of the maze. Your partner clung to his facade, but his eyes darted nervously toward the guards.

Once the players were safely back in the dormitory, the guards surrounded him. Without ceremony, they hauled him to his knees, ignoring his protests.

“I didn’t do anything! You’re making a mistake!” he shouted, his voice cracking with fear.

His words fell on deaf ears. The guards dragged him away, and though no explanation was given, the tension in the room eased slightly once he was gone.

---

Later that night, you sat on your bunk, replaying the day’s events. Something about your partner’s behavior had felt wrong from the beginning, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had intervened on your behalf.

Across the room, 001 sat quietly, his hands resting on his knees as he gazed into the distance. His presence was steady, calming, but something about the way he looked at you made your pulse quicken.

“You handled yourself well today,” he said softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

Your gaze snapped to his, startled by the unexpected compliment. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t let fear control you,” he replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That’s rare in a place like this.”

Something in his tone felt weighted, as though he knew far more than he let on. But before you could question him further, he leaned back, closing his eyes as if to rest.

---

Over the next few days, you began to notice strange things. The guards seemed to linger near you more often, their silent presence a shield against unseen threats. During meals, your food was always served first, untouched and pristine. In the games, traps that should have been deadly seemed to miss you entirely.

You weren’t the only one who noticed. Whispers circulated among the players, theories forming about why you seemed untouchable. Some believed it was luck, others thought it was favoritism. But no one dared to confront you directly. --- One evening, as the dormitory settled into uneasy quiet, you found yourself beside 001 once more. He was playing with a few marbles, rolling them between his fingers with an absentminded ease.

“Do you believe in fate?” he asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence.

The question caught you off guard. “I’m not sure,” you admitted cautiously. “Why?”

His gaze met yours, piercing and unrelenting. “Because some things happen for a reason, whether we see it or not. Like you being here, alive.”

There was something unspoken in his words, a quiet confession buried beneath layers of ambiguity. But before you could unravel it, he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Be careful,” he murmured. “Not everyone in this place has your best interests at heart.”

---

You didn’t know it, but 001’s orders had ensured your survival at every turn. The guards, bound to his silent commands, moved with precision, eliminating threats before they could touch you.

To the other players, he was nothing more than just another man trying to get money, harmless and unassuming. But to you, his presence became a constant comfort, a silent promise that, no matter what, you would not face this nightmare alone.

And though you couldn’t see the web of protection he wove around you, you felt its effects in every subtle glance, every unexpected reprieve. In the chaos of the games, his obsession became your salvation. If you have any requests - let me know!

#squid game #001 #player 001 #001 x reader #front man #frontman x reader #001 x 456 #squid game season 2 #squid game x reader

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barefoothighlander · 2 months ago

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never going back again - 4.5

summary: ghost finds himself at the wrong safe house, injured and unable to call for backup

simon ‘ghost’ riley x innocent fem!reader

warnings: mdni (18+), sad but also happy, insinuated alcohol abuse, mentions of PTSD and mental illness, little switch in POVs, alcohol, fluff but also angst

prev part masterlist

a/n: well, my friends, it’s been a long time. i hope this is everything you all waited for and i apologize for the extreme delay. all my love

Six months, fourteen days and twelve hours, that’s how long it had been since your heart had been torn from its place in your chest. The simmering pain of losing him stayed with you through every moment, every corner of the house lay a memory of his spirit.

There were no promises made, no vows spoken, no concrete reason for him to find his way back to you and yet, hope persisted.

There had to be a reason he wasn’t there, you knew the relative outline of what his job required, you knew he couldn’t just pack up and leave but everytime Riley’s ears perked up at a noise outside your heart skipped a beat, hoping the door would open and he would be there.

The days drew on, restless nights in a too large bed, what once was a warm and cozy cottage became an empty home, nothing felt right anymore.

•

It was Simons third meeting this month for his insubordination, disobeying a handful of direct orders gets you put on the shit list, he knew they would never discharge him, he was too much of an asset to the team considering he wasn’t even legally alive.

The day he returned to the base he had requested leave, any amount of time that would get him back to you, to his home.

It was strange to use the word and mean it so wholeheartedly, he’d never felt this type of belonging, not in Manchester with his family, not in the military with his squad, not even in the 141, and they were the closest he had to brothers.

Everyday he’d report for duty only to return to his empty flat, the clacking of beer bottles on the coffee table as he rested his feet, he had nothing left without you, and if he left without notice he knew the team would hunt him down, Shepard would probably send some kill squad after him.

So he waited, for months he waited, putting in a new leave request everytime his previous got denied, it was unfair, he’d devoted decades of his life to the service and the moment he found a reason to leave they force him to stay.

He’d used his clearance to try and track you down, find some sort of phone number or email that he could talk to you, just to hear your voice, to know you were okay, he needed to know that you thought about him just as much as he thought about you.

•

You couldn’t take it anymore, the not knowing, the constant wondering, the hoping, it was driving you mad, it was a moments decision, you had no plan, no clue where to start, but you knew you could begin somewhere.

The dial tone bleeds through the phone, “Hello?”

“I need a favour”

“Anything, what’s up?”

“Can you take Riley and Goliath for the week”

“Yea of course, is everything alright?”

“Yea, no, I mean I’m okay, everyone’s okay I just have to leave town for a bit”

“I’m home all day, drop them off whenever”

“I’ll be there in 15”

The call ends and your heart races, springing to your feet you reach under the bed, pulling out a carry on bag, stuffing the contents of your drawers into it, no time to think.

You persuade your pets into the car with various treats, tucking Goliath into a small carrier before strapping him in, Riley seems all too comfortable sitting passenger.

Making the drive to Williams house you park the car, Riley following after you as you grab Goliath, two knocks on the door and it opens.

Riley races in making himself comfortable as you pass the carrier and a bag full of the animals necessities.

“I can’t thank you enough, I won’t be gone long I promise”

“You’re acting strange”

“I just have to do this” He can sense the determination on your face, nodding.

“Good luck”

You give him a small smile before returning to your car, punching in the closest airport location to your gps.

“What do you mean there’s no flights to England”

“There’s none scheduled till tomorrow ma’am”

“That’s not possible, there has to be some airline flying there, please I’ll take anything”

The woman behind the counter can sense the anxiety on your face, letting a small sigh fall from her lips.

“I can get you to Scotland, maybe there another flight from there”

“When does it leave?” You tap your fingers agains the desk nervously.

“10 minutes, gate three”

You nod, picking up your bag and taking the ticket from her, eyes following her movements as she points you in the right direction.

You make your way through the halls, dodging groups of people to get to the gate, reaching for your passport and handing over your ticket before stepping onto the boarding platform.

It’s a relatively short flight, a little over four hours and you’re landing in Edinburgh, your body refusing to sleep on the plane allowing your tiredness to catch up.

It’s another argument with the airlines to get on the nearest flight but an hour later and you’re seated once again on a plane, bound for London.

Your dread settles in your stomach, the lack of planning rearing its ugly head, you had no idea where to go from there, no place to start, only instinct and an idea.

The flight is quick, struggling to grab navigate your way through the busy airport before finding a cab.

“Where’s the nearest military base?”

“S’about 20 kilometres from here”

“Let’s go there please”

There could be a hundred bases around and you had no clue which one Simon would be on, you knew he was from Manchester but that didn’t mean he lived there, you’d have to start somewhere.

“Ma’am I can’t let you in without authorization”

“Is there someone I can call? I need to know if the person I’m looking for is here”

“I’m afraid all of those answers are classified, I wish I could help but for security-“

“I know, security reasons, it’s the same shit I got at the last two bases”

“You’ve been around three bases looking for this guy?”

“I don’t know which one he’s on”

“And you don’t know his address or anything?”

“No, I know nothing” The realization hits that this may be a means to an end, running around South England, trying to find a man that doesn’t exist.

“Well I’ll tell you this, you go around asking about people on another base and they’re gonna detain you for questioning”

“I figured they would at some point”

He smiles, “Good luck”

It’s cold and wet, the rain unrelenting as you step out of the cab, after too much money spent driving around you’d decided to just check into a hotel and accept your defeat, your heart heavier than the weight of your eyelids. What a stupid idea, dropping everything to chase a man halfway across the world without a semblance of a clue as to who, or where he is. Your chest pangs as the tears begin to fall, dripping down your cheeks as the exhaustion overtakes you, there is nothing left, no clue to follow, the house doesn’t feel like home without him. Your last thoughts are of him, soft and warm, dozing in the morning sun when he looks almost peaceful as your eyes shut and sleep takes over your body.

You wake to a knock on the door, running your puffy eyes as u rise to answer it, a middle aged woman standing behind it muttering something about housekeeping, she looks thoroughly unimpressed as you wave her off and close the door. Checking the clock it’s a little before noon, you stand at the window looking out over the cityscape, trying to make sense of the maze of streets and crowds of people bustling by.

It’s not long before you’re dressed and outside, the breeze doing wonders for the dryness you feel in your throat. Just being outside feels better, atleast outside you can distract yourself with strangers and various shops, rather than sitting alone, thinking about him. You waste hours wandering around, peering into book stores and stopping for tea at a little cafe, half the day passes before you even check your watch and find its past dinner, your stomach growling to remind you that you’ve had little to eat.

You pass by stores closing and pubs opening looking for somewhere relatively quiet to grab some food before setting your eye on a rundown pub a few blocks down, the lights are on but there’s no one outside, unlike the other pubs that dot the block, groups of people outside yelling and drinking as they curse at the rugby game that plays on the television inside.

•

Simon had enough, enough of the denials, enough of the mandated meetings, if they wouldn’t give him leave he’d atleast go home for a weekend, leave the place that forbids him to spend a moment thinking about you and not about his work. That’s all he needed, one weekend alone, drinking in the quiet dark to set his mind right. He’d been stepping out of line toward his superiors, cursing them for making him take accountability for going AWOL, he was sick of always being the bad guy, that’s what he missed, being able to have a regular conversation, the freedom to be Simon rather than his darker counterpart, the peace that only came from being tucked away in the cottage with you.

He grabbed what little he had in his shacks and threw it into a bag, stowing it in the rear seat of his truck before taking off toward Manchester, he still kept an apartment near where his mum used to live, he liked the neighborhood, liked seeing the kids with their parents, with their dads. It helped him imagine what his life could’ve been if life granted him a decent father, though if it did, he would have never met you, never known real kindness, real affection, real love.

Time passes quickly as he drives, the radio almost a silent echo of the wind that passes by the window. He parks in the driveway and grabs his things, moving to unlock the door and make his way upstairs. It’s dark inside, he’s not much for interior design but there’s a bed and a couch, the latter typically where he finds himself on the nights he stays here. His hand moves to flick on the light but nothing happens - “fuckin bills” with a sigh he drops his things, rifling through the pile of unpaid electric bills that have fallen through the door slot, dropping them aside and walking toward the kitchen. He opens the fridge and it assaulted by the smell of whatever left overs had gone bad and the sight of three warm beers, cursing under his breath he throws the lot in the garbage.

He needs a damn drink, but with the group of men hanging outside and the gaggles of drunks that’ll be lining the streets in no time hes down to a limited amount of choices. Raising the hood of his sweater he locks the door, making his way outside the building and down the street. Simon keeps his eyes toward the ground, not out of cowardice or fear but rather over the chance that someone in this neighbourhood might recognize him, even though he’s 30 years older, about 190 pounds larger and covered with more scars than he can count, he knows that if someone were to look into his eyes, they’d recognize that young boy, one who’s life is filled with so much pain.

It’s a couple minutes walk from his place to get to the small pub run by an elderly man, Paddy, or Addi? He can’t remember, and odds are the man is too drunk to speak clearly even through his thick accent, it doesn’t bother Simon, the not knowing, he’s used to people around not asking questions about him, making assumptions, he’d rather take his drink alone in the corner anyway, less people to distract from watching the game.

He arrives at the pub, albeit with a few taunts from a couple of drunk teenagers a few streets back, the bell above the door ringing as he opens in breathing in the scent of wood and alcohol, the televised cheers echoing through the newley empty room. He’d been frequenting this pub for a few years, it was quiet, less people came to it considering the age of the building and the lack of air conditioning or heating, but the less people the better, and the whiskey was just as good.

He keeps his head down as he makes his way in, sure to not make eye contact with any patrons but the voice of a young woman catches his attention and he peaks up. At the bar is a girl, dressed in nice clothes with his hair done, laughing with Paddy/Addi and yelling at the television, he can’t stop staring, she’s enigmatic, almost familiar as she sips her drink, her eyes glued to the screen. He’s stuck, glued to the floor as his heart races, his stomach threatening to upturn.

“Oi, big lad, you gonna stand there like some creep or d’ya wan a drink”

The man’s voice breaks the trance and Simons dream crashes to a halt as the woman turns around.

It’s not her.

His worlds stops and starts over a hundred times in a second, of course it’s not her, how could it be, what an idiot, she’s not coming for you.

Simon nods and the man pours a whiskey, pushing it across the bar as Simon grabs it, downing the liquor before setting the glass back down, nodding for another. He finds his spot in the back, resting his sore back against the harsh wood and keeping an eye on the game as he continues to drink, his mind spiraling over thoughts of you, tucked away in your small corner, safe. It’s that part that makes him feel some comfort, the fact that if you were apart of his world, you’d be in danger, and he’d rather see a lifetime of pain and loneliness than ever put you in that position.

•

Your shoes are practically soaked through by the time you reach the steps of the pub, navigating the old streets and avoiding the drunk onlookers, your face flush and mouth dry, aching for a drink. The bell rings above the door as you step in, there’s only a few people inside but it looks to be a rather big pub, an old man tends the bar while he chats to a young woman. You shed your layers, allowing your skin a bit of air before you overheat and you make your way in.

“What’ll it be miss”

You give him your order, thanking him with a tip as you sip your drink, the cool liquid working quickly to smooth your throat, this is fine, this works, a quiet bar to drink and pretend you care about sports. This’ll do wonders for taking your mind off Simon.

“Oi, big lad, another?” The man shouts over his shoulder, you can’t see who he’s talking to but you hear him, that voice. Thousands of people in this city, all the same accent, no one with a voice like that. The man begins to pour the drink and take it over but you stop him -

“Do you mind if I take it over?”

He looks at you quizzically, “Be my guest, less work for me”

You take the drink from the man and make your way toward the back of the pub, a sigh from ahead over the rugby match making your pace quicken, your heart skip a beat. You can see the outline of his upper body, the man is so large he takes up nearly half the bench as his gaze is toward the television, he looks at his empty glass then straight ahead, as is wondering where his drink is.

Simon moves to look toward the bar but his eyes land on you, standing there, holding his drink, and you can see his face fall, his eyes squint then open as he stares at you. You can’t help the tear that escapes you, the quiver of your lip as you move closer, you clear your throat as you place the drink on the table.

“You know, it was getting lonely up there, was wondering if you wanted to have a drink with me”

He swallows, his body moving before his mind as he stands, his arms enveloping you, caging you to him as if trying to figure out if you’re real. You wrap yourself around him, out of all the outcomes, all of the possibilities, perhaps your subconscious knew this was the bar he would be in. Maybe fate intervened and brought him here, who cares, destiny, fate, god, all them be damned, he was here.

Minutes that felt like seconds trailed on as he held you, slowly pulling back to look at your face, your skin blotchy and red from the tears you failed to fight. His hand reaches up to hold your cheek, wiping away the stray tear as he leans down, his lips enveloping yours and it feels like you can breath again. No air compares to this feeling, like half of your soul returned, you stay there, inches away from eachother before he steps back.

“How” He asks

“I don’t know”

He nods slowly, moving to sit down as if needing to catch his breath and you follow, positioning yourself right at his side.

“I never thought you’d come here” He says, his face tilted down.

“I had to, i realized pretty quickly that if I wasn’t with you, i felt empty. So i got a flight, ran around a couple of military bases, definitely got myself put on some kind of warrant list. And then I decided I needed a drink to stop thinking about you”

He laughs slightly, “I needed a drink so I could think about you”

It sounds harsh but you understand,

“Does anyone know you’re here?”

You shake your head, just you.

He nods.

“Simon I-“

“Don’t say anything, not yet atleast”

You silently agree. The two of you sit, your sides glued together as the silence washes over you, your breaths practically in sync as your hearts finally slow to a steady beat.

“Thank you” he says

“For the drink?”

“For coming, no one’s- no one outside the team has ever come looking for me, and they only come cause they have to”

“You would’ve done the same for me”

He nods, despite all his attempts, all his capabilities, you were the one that came to him, you chose him.

“I’m gonna be here a while, in the city I mean”

He turns to face you, “Darling i don’t care where you are or where you’re going, as long as it’s with me”

You smile, your hand reaching for his face as you lean in to kiss him, the taste of whiskey on his breath as he kisses you back. Home, you were home, in a dirty old pub that stunk of liquor and wood, sitting in a rough seat, beside the man you loved, his eyes looking at you with nothing but hope as his lips leave yours his hand moving to hold yours.

The two of you leave the pub, your heart full and head clear, albeit a little tipsy as you walk back to your hotel room. Simon doesn’t say anything about his apartment as he helps you drag your suitcases up the stairs into it, you don’t ask. He vows the buy some proper furniture for the place and you decide to stay a little while, at least until he can figure out how to explain to his superiors that his deployment will only be with the 141 from now on. You settle in once again to life, you see him most weekends though he’s on base a lot during the week, but this life, with him, it’s better than an eternity without, and the joy in his eyes as he looks at you, even weeks later when he’s kneeling in front of you, his fingers sliding a ring onto yours, you can’t fake it, the happiness that floods your veins at the thought of being tied to him forever, no matter the consequences or struggles, it’s real, and it’s everything money can’t buy.

A lifetime of happiness with Simon, his highs and lows, the knowledge that no matter what happens, he’d fight to the death to get home to you.

tag list: @pepsicolacoochie @coolbanana44 @konigsblog @lialacleaf @mli345 @gghoulzz @fuckface-6996 @jklkverr @2dmensl @sapszilla @yahet-moi-ohorat @snixx2088 @meeom @sorryimbusytalklater @zuyilu @streetartist22 @aryiannarae @rosiesrosyroses-blog @salsa-reads-stuff @stateofcatatonia @viylikescats @kaysav608 @yourlocalmoon-lover @wordsfromshona na @elichisstuff @fanficwriterlover @thriving-n-jiving @babygirl-panda19

#cod mw2 #simon riley x reader #simon riley #cod mw x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost angst #ghost simon riley #simon ghost x reader #ghost x reader #cod x reader

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zaynessbeloved · 3 months ago

Text

It was always you (and us)

⟢ summary: You were always a trio—Caleb, Zayne, and you. Bound by childhood, laughter, and a quiet promise that none of you would ever be left behind. But things change. And somewhere between late-night study sessions and growing up, you start to realize your heart is pulling in a different direction. The three of you were supposed to stay the same. But you’re not kids anymore. And some feelings don’t stay quiet forever.

⟢ pairings: Zayne x reader, Caleb x reader

⟢ word count: 7.8k

⟢ a/n: This is my very first published fic, and honestly, I wrote it just for fun (and feelings) with my girl Elle. It started as a small idea that slowly turned into something a little bigger (currently at 22k haha and still in progress). This is the first chapter, enjoy!

Chapter 1

You were eight when you first met Zayne.

It was a warm spring afternoon, the kind where time stretched endlessly, filled with the sound of laughter and the scent of blooming flowers. You were at the neighborhood park, caught up in a game of tag with your best friend, Caleb, when you noticed him. A boy, sitting alone beneath the big oak tree. A book in his hands, his gaze locked onto the pages, completely absorbed in whatever world existed between them. He sat apart from the other children, far from the laughter, the playful shouts, and the carefree energy of summer. And you were curious.

At first glance, he looked perfectly content being by himself. Didn’t he want to play? The question lingered in your mind as Caleb grabbed your wrist, dragging you back into the game with a teasing grin, cracking a joke that had you giggling. The boy by the tree faded into the background as you ran across the playground, lost in the warmth of the sun, the breeze tangling in your hair, and the joy of Caleb’s endless companionship.

But the next day, and the day after that, he was still there. Always by the tree. Always alone. It made you wonder. It made you a little sad. Did he not have any friends? Your young mind couldn’t understand why someone would choose to sit alone every day, buried in books instead of playing. You didn’t know then that it wasn’t his choice—that it wasn’t that he didn’t want to play, but that the other kids never invited him. That they had already decided he was different. You never had to think about things like that. Not when you had Caleb. He was always there—beside you, with you, a constant presence. You played together, studied together, did everything together. The two of you were inseparable, attached at the hip. Where Caleb was, you were too. It was never just you or Caleb. It was always the duo.

As spring stretched on, you lost yourself in the playful atmosphere of endless sunny days and laughter. You loved birthdays, and when June 13th arrived—Caleb’s 10th birthday—you were absolutely ecstatic. You couldn’t sit still for even a second, dragging Caleb from one place to another, determined to make every moment special. You played games, shared ice cream, danced to his favorite songs, and let yourselves get completely lost in the moment.

Caleb always loved spending time with you, but his birthday was different. He loved it because you loved it—because it made you so excited. He let you open some of his presents just to hear your delighted giggles, watching as your happiness filled the air, warm and contagious. Looking back, your childhood was a blur of golden afternoons and endless laughter—days where time stretched endlessly, and every little thing felt like the biggest adventure. You and Caleb were inseparable, running barefoot through the grass, daring each other to climb trees, and turning even the most ordinary days into something magical.

Summers meant racing bikes down the street until your legs ached, sticky fingers from melting popsicles, and late-night stargazing on your front porch, whispering about the future in voices laced with exhaustion. Winters meant snowball fights that ended with him tackling you into the snow, leaving you both breathless with laughter. Your mittens were always too big, and Caleb—ever the big brother figure—would tug them snugly onto your hands before rolling his eyes and calling you hopeless. But his voice was always fond, his teasing always gentle.

And in between those seasons, there was always Zayne. He was there—always sitting under that same tree, book in hand, silently observing. You didn’t understand him, not yet, but there was something about the way his eyes followed you and Caleb, something unreadable in his expression. One day, when autumn painted the leaves in shades of gold, you’d finally worked up the courage to approach him. Caleb, ever by your side, followed suit, though he wasn’t nearly as curious as you.

“What are you always reading?” you had asked, tilting your head at him.

Zayne had looked up, blinking as if pulled from another world. He hesitated, glancing between you and Caleb before finally mumbling, “Stories.”

His voice was soft, quieter than you expected.

“What kind of stories?”

Zayne stared at you for a long moment before slowly turning the book around, showing you the pages. The words didn’t mean much to you at the time, but he let you and Caleb sit beside him that day, reading in silence. It was the first time the three of you ever shared a moment together. You didn’t know it then, but it wouldn’t be the last.

The first time Zayne ever truly laughed in front of you, it caught you off guard. It was a late summer afternoon, the golden light filtering through the leaves as the three of you sat under the big oak tree. You had managed to coax Zayne into putting his book down—an achievement in itself—and convinced him to listen as you and Caleb attempted to build a tiny "house" out of sticks and leaves.

“See?” you grinned, placing one last twig on top. “It’s perfect.”

Caleb squinted at it, tilting his head. “Looks like a pile of sticks.”

“It’s a house,” you insisted.

“A sad, broken house,” Caleb countered, lips twitching. “It’s gonna fall apart if the wind so much as sneezes.”

You huffed and turned to Zayne. “What do you think?”

He had been silent up until now, sitting cross-legged beside you, watching. But then, to your surprise, the corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile, but close.

“…It’s a pile of sticks,” he murmured.

Your jaw dropped. Caleb lost it. He threw his head back, laughing, and you couldn’t help but gape at Zayne, stunned.

“Wait—you’re taking his side?” you accused, pointing dramatically.

Zayne shrugged, but there was something different this time. The smallest hint of amusement sparkled in his usually quiet eyes. Then, as Caleb continued to wheeze with laughter, Zayne made a sound. A small, barely-there chuckle. But it was real. And it was his. And for some reason, that tiny, fleeting laugh felt like the biggest victory in the world. From that day forward, you made it your mission to hear it again.

The first time Zayne willingly joined you and Caleb in a game, it happened so naturally you barely noticed it was happening at all. It was a chilly autumn afternoon, the leaves crunching underfoot as you and Caleb played a made-up game that involved jumping between patches of grass, pretending the ground was lava.

“You can’t step on the dirt!” you called, arms stretched for balance as you leaped from one patch to another.

Caleb scoffed. “Obviously.”

Zayne, who had been sitting on his usual spot under the tree, was watching. He always did. But today, something was different.

You paused mid-game, turning to him with a grin. “Come play!”

He blinked at you, then at Caleb, then back at you. His fingers curled slightly against the pages of his book.

“…I don’t know the rules,” he admitted after a long pause.

“That’s okay! You just can’t touch the dirt,” you explained, waving your arms excitedly.

For a moment, you thought he’d say no. But then—without a word—Zayne closed his book and stood up. And just like that, he was part of the game. He was surprisingly good at it, too.

Winter came, bringing with it a blanket of snow that turned the park into a world of white. You had made it your personal goal to get Zayne in a snowball fight.

“You can’t just sit under your tree forever,” you pouted, kicking at the snow near his boots.

“I don’t—”

Thud. A snowball hit the side of his coat. Zayne turned slowly, his expression unreadable as he looked at Caleb, who was already packing another snowball.

“You’re dead,” Zayne said flatly.

And then—to your utter shock—he bent down, gathered a handful of snow, and launched it straight at Caleb. The fight that followed was nothing short of legendary. You were laughing so hard your stomach ached, and when Zayne finally hit you with a snowball, you caught the briefest glimpse of something incredible— A smirk. Not just any smirk, but one laced with the tiniest hint of amusement. You were making progress. And it was so worth it.

Spring arrived with its gentle breezes and blooming flowers, and by now, you had fully decided that hearing Zayne laugh was your favorite thing in the world. It was rare, still. But you had your ways of getting it. Like the time you tripped over absolutely nothing while running to show him something, falling face-first into the grass.

“Are you okay?” Caleb had asked, trying to suppress his laughter.

You had grumbled into the dirt. And then—so quietly you almost missed it—you heard it. A small, breathy chuckle. When you lifted your head, Zayne was covering his mouth, shaking his head as if trying to stop himself from laughing.

You gasped dramatically, pointing. “You laughed!”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did!”

Caleb looked between the two of you, then smirked. “I think we should make her trip more often.”

Zayne actually snorted at that. You were so winning.

And then—sometime in the summer, when the sun hung lazily in the sky and the air smelled of warm grass—you finally asked him. You didn’t mean to. It just slipped out.

“Why do you always sit by yourself?”

Zayne, who had been idly flipping through a book beside you, stilled. The silence stretched. For a second, you thought he wasn’t going to answer.

Then—without looking at you—he murmured, “They didn’t want to play with me.”

Something ached in your chest.

“They—” You hesitated, brows furrowing. “The other kids?”

He didn’t nod. He didn’t shake his head. But he didn’t have to. You stared at him, processing his quiet confession, and suddenly, all those moments flashed in your mind—the way he always sat alone, the way the other kids never called for him, the way he had never been part of the laughter in the playground. That wasn’t his choice, and that realization made something burn inside you. Before you could even think about it, you reached out and wrapped your arms around him. Zayne tensed immediately, his body stiff against yours. But you didn’t let go.

“You can always play with us,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “Always.”

Slowly—so slowly it almost broke your heart—Zayne exhaled.

“…Okay.”

It was barely a whisper. But you heard it. And that was enough.

At first, it was always you and Caleb. The duo, the inseparable pair. But then came Zayne, and slowly, without anyone realizing it, two became three.

It wasn’t immediate. It happened in the small, quiet moments—the times you would grab Zayne’s wrist and pull him into whatever game you and Caleb were playing, the times he stopped hesitating before sitting beside you under the tree, the times Caleb would roll his eyes but still wait for him to catch up. And before anyone could pinpoint exactly when it changed, it just did. You weren’t just a duo anymore, you were a trio.

The change didn’t bother Caleb. Not really. It was just… different. For as long as he could remember, it had been just the two of you—his best friend, his partner-in-crime, the only person who could keep up with him. And then one day, suddenly, there was someone else. Someone else you were laughing with. Someone else you were looking for whenever you got excited about something. And he didn’t know how that made him feel.

He never said anything about it. Never brought it up, never let it slip. Because, deep down, he liked Zayne too. Zayne was… different. He was quiet, but he listened. He was serious, but his humor was sharp when he let it out. And even though Caleb would never admit it, he liked the challenge of dragging Zayne into his chaos. So he didn’t hate it. He didn’t push Zayne away. But he felt it, that small, nagging feeling in his chest.

If Zayne noticed the shift, he never said anything. Then again, Zayne rarely said much about anything. But his presence changed, he wasn’t just the quiet boy sitting under the tree anymore—he was there, fully part of everything you and Caleb did. When you and Caleb raced each other? Zayne was suddenly in the race. When Caleb got too confident in his tree-climbing skills? Zayne was the one to raise an eyebrow and call him out. When you dragged Caleb into some ridiculous made-up adventure? Zayne was following—sometimes reluctantly, sometimes willingly, but always there.

And, most importantly—when you needed him? He always showed up. Even if he didn’t understand why you cared so much, even if he was used to being on his own, even if a part of him still hesitated—he let you in. Because you never let him feel like he was an afterthought. You always made sure he belonged.

One day, after spending hours outside, the three of you collapsed onto the grass, panting, exhausted from running.

“I win,” Caleb announced dramatically, throwing an arm over his forehead.

“You cheated,” you accused, poking his side.

Zayne, still catching his breath, smirked. “Yeah, you totally cheated.”

Caleb gasped, sitting up. “Excuse me?! Since when are you taking her side?”

“Since you cheated.”

“I—I did not!”

You giggled, rolling onto your stomach, resting your chin on your hands. The summer sun was setting, painting the sky in soft hues of pink and orange, and in that moment, you realized something. This felt… right. The three of you, together. Zayne wasn’t an outsider anymore. He wasn’t just the boy under the tree. He was your friend, and that? That was never going to change.

Zayne was the first to go. The day he started high school, you and Caleb watched as he walked ahead of you, disappearing beyond the gates of a world you weren’t part of yet. It felt… weird. For the past few years, it had always been the three of you. And now, for the first time in what felt like forever, it was just you and Caleb again.

You kicked a rock as you walked to middle school, glancing at Caleb. “Think he’s gonna forget about us?”

Caleb snorted. “Doubt it. We’re too awesome for that.”

Still, the day felt different without him. But Zayne didn’t disappear. Even in high school, he still waited for you and Caleb after school, still walked home with you, still sat on the porch steps of your house when Caleb dragged you outside to play. The only difference now was that… he talked more. Not a lot. Not the way you and Caleb did. But enough.

Like when he offhandedly mentioned how boring his math class was. Or when he grumbled about an upperclassman being annoying. Or when he, for the first time ever, actually complained about homework—which shocked you both, considering he was the biggest bookworm of the three. Little things, but they mattered. Because it meant that, even though he was in high school now, he was still Zayne.

Caleb never remembered what life was like before he lived with you. He knew—logically—that there was a time before. A time when his parents’ voices filled the house, when their hands ruffled his hair, when they tucked him into bed at night. But that time had been brief. Too brief.And then they were gone. And suddenly, he wasn’t in that house anymore. Suddenly, he was standing in the doorway of a place that smelled different, with a lady who hugged him tight and spoke softly, and a little girl who blinked up at him with big, curious eyes.

You had been four when he moved in. He had been five. He didn’t remember a lot from that time. Just small things. Like how, on the first night, he had been too scared to sleep. And how you had peeked into his room, a stuffed animal clutched in your little hands, and wordlessly climbed into the bed beside him. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t ask if he was sad, or if he missed his parents, or if he was scared. You just curled up next to him, close enough that he could feel your warmth. And for the first time since his parents were gone, he didn’t feel so alone. Even if he hadn’t understood it back then, Caleb knew one thing. You were special. And he was never leaving your side.

You were scared of thunderstorms.

The kind that shook the house, rattled the windows, and made the sky split open with jagged streaks of lightning. The kind that made you burrow under the covers, heart pounding, waiting for it to pass. And maybe that’s why, on nights when his nightmares took hold—when the weight of missing his parents became too heavy—he would creep into your room, pulling the blanket over himself without a word.

Maybe he thought that if you were scared too, neither of you had to be alone. Your bed became his safe space, just as his presence became yours. By the time you were old enough to truly remember, it had already become a habit. Whenever the rain started pounding against the windows and thunder rolled through the sky, it was just understood—Caleb would slip into your bed, or you would crawl into his, until the storm passed. Neither of you ever talked about it, because neither of you needed to.

The treehouse was your world.

You and Caleb had built it together—or, well, mostly Caleb and your grandma’s neighbor, who happened to also be Zayne’s dad, while you helped with the “important” parts, like picking the fairy lights and carving little drawings into the wooden beams. It was your little escape.

Your names were scrawled into the wall in messy handwriting, surrounded by doodles and marks of all the summers you had spent there. There were blankets tossed over the wooden floor, fairy lights draped across the ceiling, and a stack of books that mostly belonged to Zayne now. The three of you had spent entire summers there—sneaking snacks inside, telling stories, and falling asleep under the soft glow of the lights. Some nights, Caleb and you slept there instead of inside—wrapped up in blankets, listening to the crickets sing. Zayne rarely stayed overnight, but sometimes, when the night was quiet and the sky was clear, he stayed just a little longer.

Tonight was one of those nights. It was late. The fairy lights in the treehouse flickered softly, casting a warm glow over the walls, while the summer breeze filtered in through the open window. Caleb had basketball practice after school, and for once, it was just you and Zayne. He was leaning against the wall, flipping through one of his books, his dark hair falling slightly into his eyes. And then, before you even thought about the question, it just… slipped out.

“Have you ever kissed anyone?”

Zayne froze. His fingers stilled on the page, his body going rigid—not dramatically, but enough for you to notice. You blinked at him expectantly, waiting.

“…No.”

The answer was simple. Direct. But there was something about the way he said it—something unreadable in his expression, like he wasn’t sure why you were asking.

You hummed, kicking your legs idly where you sat. “I don’t think I’d want my first kiss to be random. It should be with someone special, right?”

Zayne’s gaze flickered to you then—just for a second, just long enough to feel like he was studying you. Then he looked away, flipping the page in his book.

“…Yeah.”

And for some reason, the moment lingered. The air inside the treehouse felt warm—not because of the summer night, but because of the conversation. Zayne had gone back to flipping through his book, but something about his posture felt… different. Like he wasn’t really reading anymore. You were still thinking about what you’d said. He finally looked up, really looked at you this time. Neither of you noticed when you started leaning in closer. It was slow, unintentional—just a shift in the space between you, an instinctive pull. Your faces weren’t far apart anymore. It wasn’t weird, not exactly. You weren’t even really thinking about it. You were just… there. Close enough that you could count the darker flecks in his hazel eyes, close enough to feel the quiet in-between the words. And then—

“Hey! You guys up there?”

Caleb’s loud, laughing voice shattered the moment, along with the distant thud of his shoes hitting the wooden steps as he climbed. You and Zayne jerked apart immediately. The space that had disappeared between you suddenly existed again, like a wall had been placed there, forcing you both back into place. Zayne cleared his throat, too quickly. You looked away, too fast.

Caleb swung himself inside, still slightly breathless from practice, tossing his basketball onto the floor with a smirk. “Did you guys start without me?”

You forced a laugh. “Obviously. You’re late.”

Zayne didn’t say anything, but his hand gripped the book a little tighter. And just like that, the moment—whatever it had been—was gone. Neither of you ever mentioned it again.

It wasn’t fair.

For as long as you could remember, you and Caleb had always gone through everything together. School, summers, childhood—all of it. But now, things were different. Zayne had already been in high school for a year, and now Caleb was joining him, leaving you behind in middle school for one more endless year. You tried not to let it bother you. Tried. But the first morning of the new school year, standing at the sidewalk where you always met up, watching as both of them headed off in a different direction without you… Yeah. It stung. You kicked a rock with your shoe, crossing your arms.

“Cheer up, Pipsqueak,” Caleb smirked, nudging your head playfully. “It’s just one year. You’ll survive.”

You scowled up at him. “I hope you trip on the stairs.”

He threw his head back with a dramatic gasp. “How dare you? After everything I’ve done for you?”

Zayne, standing a few steps away, rolled his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot, Caleb.”

“Oh? What, so you get to be mean to me, but she doesn’t?”

“Yes,” Zayne deadpanned.

You huffed, adjusting your backpack. “Whatever. Just don’t forget about me while you two are off having fun.”

The words were meant to be a joke, but for some reason, they didn’t feel like one. Neither of them said anything at first.

Then, Caleb slung an arm over your shoulder, grinning. “As if we could forget this little menace.”

Zayne didn’t say anything. But when Caleb let go and started walking ahead, Zayne lingered for a moment. His eyes flickered to you, thoughtful, unreadable.

“…See you later.”

And then he left, walking alongside Caleb, disappearing into the high school crowd. And just like that, they were gone.

Zayne never thought about things like this. Things like… whatever had happened that summer night in the treehouse. Because it wasn’t a thing. It wasn’t. And yet… Sometimes, when you spoke—when you tilted your head, or laughed a little too loudly, or smiled that particular way you did—he would remember.

Not clearly. Not in a way that made sense. Just in flashes. The space between you, the way you leaned in, the way it didn’t feel strange at all. And you had forgotten. He knew you had. Because you never brought it up, never acted any differently. And Zayne… didn’t know why that irritated him. Didn’t know why he couldn’t forget, even when he wanted to.

Caleb was thriving in high school.

He was made for this kind of social environment—laughing with new people, jumping into clubs and activities like he had been waiting his whole life for them. And you? You felt… a little lost. Lunch breaks weren’t the same. Walks home weren’t the same. Caleb still texted you constantly, but it wasn’t like before. Because before, it had been a trio. And now, for most of the day, it was just you. But the worst part? Zayne wasn’t answering your texts as often. And maybe you were being dramatic, maybe you were just overthinking it, but for the first time in years…

You felt like you were losing something.

One evening, after a particularly bad day, Caleb showed up in your room.

“Alright, Pipsqueak,” he announced, flopping onto your bed like he owned it. “I hear you’re being emo. Explain.”

You groaned, burying your face into your pillow. “Go away.”

“Nope.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Incorrect. I’m charming.”

Despite yourself, you let out a muffled laugh into the pillow.

Caleb poked your shoulder. “You know you’re not actually alone, right?”

You hesitated. “…It feels like it.”

He didn’t laugh this time.

Instead, he sat up, tilting his head at you, his voice unusually soft. “You still have me.”

You sighed, rolling onto your back, staring at the ceiling. “And Zayne?”

“…Zayne’s an idiot,” Caleb said, stretching out dramatically. “Don’t take it personally.”

You turned your head to look at him. “…But why does it feel like he’s avoiding me?”

Caleb blinked. Then shrugged. “Dunno. But whatever it is, you know he wouldn’t just ditch you, right?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t believe Caleb. But because, for the first time in years, you weren’t entirely sure.

Zayne wasn’t avoiding you. Not really. He still walked home with you and Caleb most days. Still sat at your kitchen table, half-listening to Caleb’s endless rambling while flipping through a book. Still showed up when you needed him. But something was… different.

You felt it in the way his replies to your texts came slower than before. The way he didn’t linger as long after school. The way, sometimes, when you reached out—when you wanted to talk—he seemed like he was just out of reach. And it wasn’t like he was disappearing. But it also wasn’t like before.

If anyone was enjoying high school, it was Caleb. Because, of course, he was.

“Did you see that shot?” Caleb grinned, spinning his basketball in his hands as you walked home together. “Full-court, perfect aim—Coach actually looked impressed this time.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “You mean the shot you almost missed?”

Caleb gasped dramatically. “You wound me.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’m happy for you, though. You really love this, huh?”

Caleb’s face lit up in a way that made something warm bloom in your chest.

“Yeah,” he admitted, spinning the ball again. “Feels like I belong there, you know?”

And you did know. Because Caleb was the kind of person who needed to move, needed people, needed energy. Basketball gave him all of that.

You smiled at him. “You better not forget about me when you become a big basketball star.”

Caleb threw an arm around you, grinning. “Please. Like I’d ever forget my Pipsqueak.”

Zayne wasn’t at lunch again. You weren’t even surprised anymore. You sighed, resting your chin on your hand as Caleb shoveled food into his mouth across from you.

“Does he even eat anymore?” you muttered.

Caleb snorted. “Nah, he just absorbs knowledge and survives off of it.”

You huffed. “It’s not fun without him.”

Caleb gave you a look. “Pipsqueak. He’s taking college classes. You really think he has time to sit around and listen to me talk about basketball for an hour?”

You scowled. “I do.”

And maybe that was selfish. But… Zayne had always been there. And now? Now, he was in a world you couldn’t reach. A world of professors and college students, textbooks and assignments that weren’t high school-level anymore. And maybe you weren’t supposed to feel left behind, but you did. Just a little. The worst part? Zayne noticed.

One evening, as you sat on your porch, staring at your phone, debating whether or not to text him first—he showed up. Not Caleb. Not anyone else. Zayne. He stepped onto the porch, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

“You good?” he asked, voice low, unreadable.

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “I—yeah. I’m fine.”

Zayne didn’t look convinced.

He leaned against the porch railing, watching you for a moment. Then, quietly, “You’re bad at lying.”

Your lips pressed together. “…Maybe.”

The silence stretched between you, filled only by the distant sound of cars passing by.

Then, without looking at you, Zayne murmured, “You know I’m still here, right?”

Your heart stuttered. Because he knew. You hadn’t even said anything, but he knew. And just like that, the ache in your chest wasn’t so heavy anymore.

High school felt different. Not just because you were finally there, not just because you weren’t the one being left behind anymore—but because, after what felt like forever, things between you, Zayne, and Caleb started feeling right again. The first day had been overwhelming, with crowded hallways and unfamiliar faces, but before you could get too lost in it—

Caleb slung an arm around your shoulder, grinning. “Welcome to the big leagues, Pipsqueak.”

And just like that, everything felt normal again. You weren’t expecting to share any classes with either of them. But then, one day, there he was. Sitting by the window, leaning back in his chair, eyes half-lidded in boredom—Zayne.

You almost did a double take when you walked in and saw him sitting there. A class with him? This was so unfair. Because how were you supposed to focus when he sat there, barely paying attention, yet still somehow absorbing everything? You found yourself staring more than you should, watching the way he absentmindedly twirled a pen between his fingers, the way his jaw tensed slightly when he was thinking, the way he always knew the answer even when it seemed like he wasn’t listening. He probably noticed, but he never said anything. And for some reason, you couldn’t stop watching him.

Caleb made it his mission to drag you and Zayne to every single game.

“You have no choice in the matter,” he had announced one day, spinning his basketball on his finger. “You two are my biggest fans. Right?”

Zayne, deadpan, “No.”

You, grinning, “Obviously.”

And so, you went. At first, Zayne only tagged along because Caleb pestered him into it, but over time, something changed. The late-night games. The adrenaline-filled wins. The way you and Zayne would sit together in the stands, watching Caleb sprint across the court, laughing whenever he got too cocky. You didn’t realize how much you missed this. How much you missed him.

Zayne wasn’t nervous about the driving test. Not that he’d ever admit if he was. But still, something in him had tensed as he sat through it—hands gripping the wheel just a little too tight, jaw set a little too firm. And then, when he aced it, when the test was over and he had the license in his hand—

Caleb cheered first, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Look at you, Mr. Responsible!”

You grinned, stepping closer. “I knew you’d pass.”

And before he could react, before he could even think about it— You pulled him into a hug. It wasn’t long, wasn’t dramatic. Just a quick, warm squeeze. But for some reason, Zayne froze. For some reason, when you pulled away, he felt the warmth lingering longer than it should. For some reason, as Caleb kept talking, Zayne wasn’t listening— Because he was thinking about you. And he wasn’t sure why.

It was past midnight, and you couldn’t sleep. Not because you weren’t tired—but because Caleb was in your room, lying across your bed like he owned it, rambling about absolutely nothing.

“Dude,” you groaned, rolling onto your side, “go to sleep.”

“I can’t,” Caleb whined, stretching dramatically. “I’ve got too much energy.”

You shoved a pillow at his face. “Then go do push-ups or something.”

He gasped, snatching the pillow away. “Rude.”

You sighed, staring at the ceiling. “What do you wanna do, then?”

Caleb sat up suddenly, eyes lighting up. “Zayne has his license now.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

Caleb grinned.

“Let’s wake his ass up and make him drive us to get snacks.”

Sneaking out of the house was easy. Finding a rock small enough to throw at Zayne’s window? That took a second.

“Not that one,” you whispered as Caleb picked up a suspiciously large rock.

He scoffed. “Relax, I wasn’t gonna break his window. Probably.”

Rolling your eyes, you grabbed a tiny pebble and chucked it. Tap. Silence. Then— The window creaked open, and Zayne’s very unimpressed face appeared.

“…Why.”

Caleb grinned. “Late-night snack run.”

Zayne blinked slowly, then rubbed his face. “…You’re idiots.”

You put your hands together, pleading. “Please?”

Zayne exhaled, long and suffering. Then, finally—

“…Get in the car.”

Fifteen minutes later, you were in Zayne’s car, heading to the store. And because life was unfair, you had been bullied into sitting in the backseat.

Caleb smirked at you through the mirror. “Sorry, Pipsqueak. Seniority rules.”

You scowled, kicking the back of his seat. “I hate you.”

“Love you too.”

You crossed your arms, grumbling. But then, your eyes flickered to the rearview mirror. Zayne wasn’t looking at the road. He was looking at you. It was brief—so brief you almost missed it. But his gaze met yours for just a second before he looked away, his fingers tightening slightly on the wheel. And for some reason, your stomach flipped.

Grocery stores at 1 AM felt different. Everything was too quiet, too empty—except for you three, laughing as you grabbed way too many snacks.

“Put the Oreos back,” Zayne sighed, rubbing his temple.

“No,” Caleb and you said at the same time.

Zayne exhaled. “Why do I even try?”

You convinced Zayne to stay longer and join you and Caleb for the snacks. Or, well—Caleb did, but you definitely helped. So now, the three of you were curled up on your bed, laptop open, blankets everywhere.You were in the middle.Which was fine. Totally fine. Except Zayne’s arm was really close. And at some point, beneath the blanket—Your pinky brushed against his. You froze. He didn’t move. And then—slowly, barely noticeable—his pinky almost intertwined with yours. Not completely. Just enough to feel it. Just enough to make your heart pound. And then—

Caleb shifted beside you, muttering in his sleep. The moment shattered. Zayne pulled his hand away. You stared at the screen, pretending like nothing happened. Neither of you said a word. But you felt it. And so did he.

Studying with Caleb and Zayne was a gamble. Because one of them took it too seriously – Zayne, and the other one barely took it seriously at all – Caleb.

“I don’t need to study,” Caleb announced one night, stretching his arms behind his head. “I absorb knowledge through pure, natural talent.”

Zayne didn’t even look up from his textbook. “That explains your grades.”

You snorted, while Caleb gasped dramatically. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know I’m a scholar!”

“You misspelled your own name on a quiz last week,” you reminded him.

Caleb scowled. “...That’s not important.”

Zayne sighed, flipping a page. “You’re actually hopeless.”

But still, despite the chaos, you always ended up spending hours together—Zayne dragging Caleb through assignments, Caleb making you both laugh until your stomach hurt, and you somehow keeping the peace between them. And in those quiet moments, when Caleb finally passed out with his head on his books and Zayne was still scribbling notes in the dim glow of the desk lamp—you realized something. You liked this.

The three of you, together.

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on, Zayne,” you whined, dramatically throwing yourself onto Caleb’s bed.

Caleb smirked. “Yeah, what’s the problem? You scared?”

Zayne gave him the flattest look imaginable. “Of what?”

“I dunno. Sleepovers. Fun. Emotions.”

Zayne sighed. “I just—”

“Dude.” Caleb clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve literally known us your entire life. Just stay. One night won’t kill you.”

Zayne hesitated. Then, after what felt like forever—

“…Fine.”

You and Caleb immediately high-fived in victory.

Zayne groaned. “I hate both of you.”

Caleb grinned. “Love you too, buddy.”

It was way too late when the three of you finally crashed onto the bed, blankets and pillows everywhere, laptop propped up playing a movie no one was actually paying attention to. Caleb had long since passed out, one arm hanging off the bed, breathing deep and even. You, however, were still awake. And so was Zayne. The laptop screen flickered softly, casting faint light across the room. You turned your head slightly, finding him lying beside you, eyes still open, staring at the ceiling.

“You’re not sleeping?” you whispered.

Zayne exhaled through his nose. “I don’t sleep much.”

You hummed in understanding, shifting under the blanket. “Do you regret staying over?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, his voice—low, but honest—

“…No.”

Something in your chest warmed. And in the silence that followed, neither of you said anything else, but somehow, nothing needed to be said.

Spring had always been your favorite time of year. The air was warmer, the days stretched longer, and everything felt alive. But this year, something felt different. Not in a way you could explain—not in a way you could name—but in the small things. Like how Zayne’s eyes lingered on you longer than before. Or how, sometimes, when you laughed a little too loudly, his jaw would tense like he was trying to ignore something. Or how he always looked away first. Not that you noticed.

Not that he understood. But it was there. Somewhere.

The buzz around school had been nonstop. Whispers of an upcoming beach party floated through the hallways, carried by excited voices and knowing smirks. Someone’s older sibling had planned it—a night of bonfires, music, and, supposedly, sneaked-in alcohol. It was all anyone could talk about.

“A bonfire on the beach?” Caleb had said, throwing an arm around your shoulder, wiggling his eyebrows. “C’mon, Pipsqueak, we have to go.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t there going to be alcohol?”

Caleb grinned. “Probably. But that’s part of the fun.”

You rolled your eyes. “We’re minors.”

“Technically, only you and I are minors.” He pointed at Zayne. “He’s practically an adult.”

Zayne, who had been leaning against the lockers, arms crossed, immediately shook his head. “No.”

Caleb gasped dramatically. “We haven’t even asked yet.”

Zayne sighed. “You don’t need to.”

“But—”

“No.”

Caleb turned to you with a look. “Help me.”

You smirked. “C’mon, Zayne. It’ll be fun.”

Zayne didn’t even look at you. “Still no.”

“Think about it,” Caleb pressed, grinning. “Bonfire, the ocean, people sneaking in drinks, questionable life choices.”

“That’s exactly why I’m saying no.”

“Okay, but imagine—”

“I’d rather not.”

You sighed, clasping your hands together. “Please?”

Zayne hesitated. And for a moment—just a moment—he glanced at you. You smiled at him. Something shifted in his expression.

“…Fine,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Caleb fist-pumped the air. “Victory!”

You grinned. “Took you long enough.”

Zayne exhaled, shaking his head. “I hate both of you.”

Caleb slung an arm around him. “Yeah, yeah, we love you too.”

But Zayne wasn’t looking at Caleb. He was looking at you. And for some reason, he didn’t know why that mattered.

The bonfire flickered against the night sky, casting golden light over the shifting sand and the chaos of high schoolers experiencing their first taste of reckless freedom. Loud music blasted from a portable speaker, blending into the sounds of crashing waves. Some people were dancing barefoot in the sand, others were sitting on old blankets, laughing, talking, shouting over the music. And then, of course, there were the red plastic cups. Which definitely held the sneaked-in alcohol.

“This is insane,” Caleb breathed, looking around, eyes lit with excitement. “Our first real party.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “It’s kinda cool, right?”

Caleb grinned. “Are you kidding? It’s legendary.”

Zayne, standing slightly behind you both, crossed his arms, deadpan.

“…It’s a nightmare.”

You turned to Zayne, stifling a laugh. He looked so out of place. His arms were crossed, his usual brooding expression even more intense, his eyes scanning the chaos like he was already planning an escape.

“I hate it here,” he muttered.

Caleb slung an arm around him. “C’mon, lighten up, grandpa. We’re here now—might as well make the most of it.”

Zayne scowled. “You forced me to come.”

Caleb ignored him.

Somehow—someway—Caleb got his hands on drinks. You didn’t even question how.

“Here,” he said, shoving a red cup into your hands.

You blinked. “Wait—”

“Bottoms up!” Caleb downed his drink immediately, tipping his head back without hesitation.

You sniffed yours hesitantly. The smell of alcohol hit you instantly.

“…I don’t know if I should—”

“Pipsqueak,” Caleb cut in, grinning, “I’ll literally never let you live it down if you chicken out.”

You scowled. “You’re so annoying.”

But—fine. You tipped the cup and took a sip. It burned.

You coughed. “What the hell?”

Caleb laughed. “Not so bad, huh?”

You glared at him. “It tastes like actual poison.”

Then, almost as if it was fate, you turned to Zayne. He was watching you, arms still crossed, expression unreadable.

“…No,” he said flatly.

Caleb gasped dramatically. “You haven’t even heard what I was gonna say!”

“You were going to tell me to drink that,” Zayne said, eyeing the cup Caleb was now shoving toward him.

Caleb grinned. “And?”

“No.”

“C’mon, just one sip.”

“I hate you.”

“That’s fair, but—”

“Fine.”

And just like that, Zayne grabbed the cup and took a single, slow sip. You and Caleb watched intensely. He swallowed. Expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause—

“…This is disgusting.”

You burst into laughter. After the drinks, the atmosphere felt different. Looser. Warmer. The bonfire crackled, sending embers into the dark sky. The waves lapped against the shore, a gentle hum beneath the music. And then—Caleb grabbed your hand.

“Let’s dance.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Dance with me!”

You hesitated, but only for a second before laughing and letting him pull you into the crowd. The sand shifted beneath your feet as you moved to the beat of the music, Caleb spinning you dramatically, making you laugh even harder. It was easy. Carefree. And Zayne was watching.

Standing just outside the crowd, eyes slightly narrowed, his jaw set, his fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure why he was even paying attention. And then—for the first time— He saw it. The way your hair had grown longer, the way you carried yourself, the way your laugh sounded different now. For the first time, you didn’t just look like his childhood friend anymore. You looked like a teenager. Slowly growing into a beautiful young lady. And maybe he would’ve brushed it off. Maybe he would’ve ignored it completely.

But when he glanced at Caleb— Caleb was watching too. Noticing too. And for some reason, that realization made something unsettle in Zayne’s chest. He turned away before he could think about it too much. But the thought lingered.

Caleb was in his element. You were giggling breathlessly, twirling under his arm, the music thrumming beneath your feet as the sand shifted with every movement. But Zayne? Zayne was standing there, arms crossed, watching with his usual broody expression, very much not dancing. You caught sight of him just as Caleb spun you again, your heart pounding with the rush of movement and laughter. And in that carefree, giddy moment— You grabbed his wrist. Zayne stiffened immediately.

“No,” he said flatly.

“Yes,” you grinned, tugging him forward. “C’mon.”

“I don’t—”

“You have to dance with me at least once.”

He exhaled sharply, already regretting his life choices. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are.”

And somehow, someway— You won.

At first, he barely moved. You and Caleb did most of the work, laughing as you tried to get him to at least step to the beat. But then—You laughed. Not just any laugh. That carefree, childlike giggle—the kind that had always been impossible to ignore. And for some reason— Zayne sighed. And gave in. It wasn’t much. Just a shift in his stance, a half-smirk as Caleb exaggerated his movements, a barely-there sway in time with the music. But it was something. And it felt… nice. The three of you, laughing under the night sky, the bonfire flickering in the background, the waves crashing in the distance. Like nothing had changed. Like everything was exactly the way it was meant to be.

Later, after the music had died down a little, the three of you collapsed around the bonfire, warm from the heat of the flames and the lingering buzz of the night.

You were leaning against Caleb’s shoulder, eyes flickering between the flames and the dark ocean beyond. “What do you think we’ll be doing in ten years?”

Caleb hummed thoughtfully. “Hopefully not flipping burgers.”

You laughed. “That’s a low bar.”

He grinned. “Hey, I have goals, okay?”

You turned to Zayne. “What about you?”

Zayne, who had been idly staring at the fire, barely hesitated before answering.

“Medicine.”

You blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Cardiac surgery.”

Caleb whistled. “Damn. So you’re gonna be, like, the best surgeon ever?”

“That’s the plan.”

You smiled softly. “That’s really cool, Zayne.”

His eyes flickered to you for just a second. Then he looked away. “…Thanks.”

Caleb stretched, grinning. “I, for one, will be flying fighter jets.”

You and Zayne turned to him.

“…Fighter jets?” you repeated.

“Yep.”

Zayne raised an eyebrow. “You barely passed physics last semester.”

Caleb rolled his eyes. “I have other skills, okay? I love planes. And I will fly them.”

You laughed. “So, you’re gonna be in the sky, Zayne’s gonna be in an operating room… and me?”

You paused. The realization hit you mid-sentence.

“…I have no idea.”

They both turned to you.

“You’ll figure it out,” Caleb said confidently.

Zayne nodded once. “You don’t have to know yet.”

You exhaled, staring at the fire. “I guess.”

And for some reason, at that moment—It felt like time was slipping too fast. Like this—the three of you, sitting together under the stars, laughing, dreaming about the future—Wouldn’t last forever. But maybe, for now, that was okay. Because tonight, everything was exactly where it should be.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

#love and deepspace #lads zayne #lads caleb #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #zayne x reader #caleb x reader #zayne x you #caleb x you #lads #zayne lads #caleb lads #doctor zayne #zayne x non mc #caleb x non mc

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licityvibes · 4 months ago

Text

୫ Thread The Needle ୫

୫ Author: licityvibes ୫ Pairing: soldier! Choi San x soldier! female reader ୫ Word count: 17k ୫ Warnings: cursing, suggestive, brief mention of death, mention of war

Thread the needle = To manage to find harmony or strike a balance between conflicting forces

୫ Summary: You joined the training camp searching for meaning, hoping it would change your view of a world that felt empty without a family. What you didn’t expect was how much it would change you, not through the brutal physical training, but through the man you first saw as a strict, unapproachable sergeant.

But the more you saw of him, the more you realized he wasn’t what he seemed—his toughness hid something deeper. Could this man, who made you feel both challenged and desired, completely turn your world upside down?

Or would his constant focus on your mistakes push you to leave everything behind?

୫ A/N: Hey there! Long time no see. This is my comeback or what as a new person (just kidding, but the concert did change some things in me lmao) So this is a San military oneshot that started as a drabble...I wanted to write something on this theme a long time ago I just haven't had the motivation and it felt so good to finally write something in ages...I hope I won't lose the motivation and write more because this one felt so good I just couldn't stop writing and this is my longest oneshot ever lol. So I hope you enjoy, sure there will be mistakes, I am still learning. Okay, I think that is all, have fun or what, byee!!

Left-right heartbeat left-right heartbeat left-right

All I could hear were those two words as my right leg followed my left. My mind was blank; all I could focus on was not stumbling, ensuring I didn’t break the perfect synchrony of our steps. I tried to steady my breathing, willing my racing heart to slow down. Around me, my teammates wore the same serious expressions—dying inside, each of us dreading what awaited us.

We were marching in two abreast, straight into a battle that was full of blood mixed with gunpowder. My eyes narrowed to the leader of our line. He was next to me, determined to win the battle we had a slight chance to win. His face from the left side looked sharp, his jaw clenched as he held the gun close to him. Somehow, he sensed I was watching him and he slightly tilted his head to his left and our eyes met. It whispered determination mixed with something sour like we might not see each other again.

As we arrived closer to the woods, it echoed screams and gunshots over and over like it couldn't be stopped. I held my gun stronger, my fingers ready to shoot the enemy down without a thought. I had nothing to lose.

In the end, this was why I was here. This was the reason I had volunteered to become a soldier.

It was spring, the world was covered in blooming, colorful flowers, spreading hope all around the world after the neverending, cold winter.

The world was blooming with hope...but mine? Mine was burning down with hatred I felt towards it. There was nothing left for me that could bloom anymore. My heart was already burnt down to ashes, everything was just too much and this was my whole life. I don't even know how could I keep up for twenty years. I had no one, I was an orphan, I wasn't the best kid on Earth, and no one truly loved me. I felt like I was cursed like I didn't deserve happiness all over again. It hurt, but I just somehow got used to the fact I wasn't meant to be happy.

So, with the thought that I had nothing to lose, I volunteered for a training camp—one where only those strong enough, both mentally and physically, could earn the right to serve in our country’s army.

I had always believed it was a noble thing to serve your hometown, to protect the people who loved you. But in my case, there was no one to protect except myself. And that was the only thing that kept me going.

On my first day, everything felt odd, everything felt new. It was a different environment than what I had ever known. Rules were the most important things to keep and there were a lot of them. These strict rules made the newcomers get used to the life of a soldier. We got up at 5 a.m., we had ten minutes to get ready and go out to the field where we needed to run for half an hour. After that without a break, we had to do many push-ups, squats, and sit-ups.

It was cruel, especially when this was our first day. I felt like I could pass out at any time. I already saw black spots as I did the sit-ups on the ground. But I knew what I applied for, I trained over a year to get in shape and to live a healthy life before I signed up for the training camp. Even though I could say I was a fit woman, this was too much for my body all of a sudden. I needed just one second and rested my head on the ground to breathe. It was just one second, but suddenly an angry head appeared in my sight, huge shoulders covering the sun that was about to rise.

"No stopping! Only when I say!" The soldier who led the morning training shouted to my face, as if was the end of the world I stopped for one second.

I didn't say anything just continued doing the sit-ups, as we switched to making push-ups again.

"If you stop, you have nothing to do here! You didn't come here to rest, you came here to fight, to be stronger!" The man walked in front of us spitting these wise words into our faces. His voice was sharp and powerful as he shouted.

The girl next to me suddenly weakened and she fell on the floor, power leaving her body. "I said, no stopping!" He appeared again in front of us with a sharp glare.

"Excuse me, sir, I have no more strength." The girl was kneeling in front of him, not even daring to look into his sharp eyes.

"I don't care, you do it until you collapse! Get up and do squats!" He yelled as he looked down at the weak girl in front of him.

I narrowed my eyes at the girl as I switched to doing squats. I was on the verge of my power as well, I could imagine what the girl felt. Then my eyes landed on the sergeant.

"Eyes ahead! Not looking at others or me!" He shouted as he stepped in front of me again—of course, he had to notice as my eyes ran over him for one second. I just couldn't do anything, because he always just appeared there. I rolled my eyes unintentionally at the thought.

"Twenty-four! Attention!" He yelled.

"Yes, sir!" I stood like a stake. I was in trouble.

"Is there any problem?" He stood in front of me, his sharp eyes glaring straight into my soul. His hands were interlocked behind his back, his big chest pushed forward, his wide shoulders covering my view as his face was inches away from mine. He was wearing a black tank top, that was glued to his perfectly muscled body, a metal necklace that all of the official soldiers were wearing hung from his neck, on his big chest, his shoulders were double sized of his lean waist. Dark green pants were tucked into his lighter green boots.

"No, sir!" I answered as I kept the eye contact confidently.

"Then why did you just roll your eyes at me?" He yelled straight into my face; his spit landing on my cheeks.

There was no point in denying it. "Just remembered something, sir!"

The sergeant chuckled but nothing was funny in this situation. I felt as if the other's eyes averted on us too. He looked around sensing it too. "I said no looking around, mind your own business!" He yelled to the others, meanwhile, my eyes averted to his uniform where his metal name tag was hanging.

Sergeant Choi San was written on the tag and a lot of medals were shining on his uniform.

"Here is the first lesson you need to understand, Twenty-four!" He grabbed my jaw and lifted my head so I could look into his eyes. "There's no space for any kind of thoughts if you are here! You need to be here mentally and not in other places." His fingers tightened around my jaw, almost breaking the bone. It hurt as hell.

"Understood, sir!" Tears started to well up in my eyes from the pain, unintentionally. I didn't want to seem weak.

"Perfect!" He released my jaw. "Plus fifteen minutes run after the training is over for Twenty-four as a punishment!" He shouted out so the others would hear it as well. I felt embarrassed at that moment and my heart was racing from the hatred I felt towards this man.

"Don't just look at me, do the exercises and when everyone finishes, you run for another ten minutes! Chop-chop!" He clapped with a satisfied smile like he enjoyed watching others suffering.

I just glared at him. "Yes, sir!" I smiled at him, as I started to do the push-ups again.

He just won't make it more miserable here by suddenly watching every mistake I make so he can punish me.

When everyone finished up with the morning exercises, they were allowed to wash up and go to eat breakfast. Except for me, because I needed to run for fifteen more minutes. I was out of breath after all the push-ups and squats, my body was trembling, but I had to do this.

"Hey, fighting! I will wait for you at breakfast." Yunho ran to me as he placed his right hand on my shoulder. He was one of my roommates and he was the only one I talked to. It wasn't because I wanted to, he just came next to me and started talking about how he misses his little dog, Mungi—or Mangi, I don't remember, honestly.

He was a little annoying at first but then I just realized he was a sweet and happy person, and I thought it didn't harm if I could talk to someone in this mentally and physically exhausting place.

I nodded at him "Thank you, see you there!" I said as I turned towards the running field.

I saw the Sergeant still standing behind talking to someone as he glanced at me. I was still breathing fast as I walked to the field, tried to get myself together in two seconds, and then started running. All of this because of an eye-roll? Are you kidding me? Was this Choi San this sensitive? Did it hurt his ego? I was hoping so.

As I was running, I was thinking about, how I wanted to show this asshole, who knew better than anyone, that I was strong enough to be here. So, I just needed to swallow the bitter pill and just show him what I was capable of.

After training all day, going through some obstacle courses, and eating in between, later that evening we all gathered up in the canteen and were standing with straight shoulders. Five soldiers with different kinds of medals on their uniforms were standing in front of us, Sergeant Choi San included, with hands behind their backs.

"Attention!" One of them with blonde hair shouted. We all strengthened and looked forward. "At ease!" The blonde one said, now with a calmer tone. Then all of us were standing straddle-legged with our hands behind our backs.

"My name is Kim Hongjoong and I am the leader of this training camp. We gathered here so we could discuss some important things." He said with a powerful voice. "Today was difficult, you trained all day long. We know it was deep water for all of you, but it had a purpose." The blonde soldier glared at us with sharp eyes. "Today, half of you is going home!"

Silence followed his announcement. Everyone looked at the other in shock. Yunho next to me looked at me with wide eyes as I looked back at him not understanding what was happening. Were they serious? There were almost fifty people here, who wanted to be a soldier, they applied because of this. And now they want to send us home? It was not fair at all.

"This day was a test!" The blonde kept going. "We watched every single one of you throughout the day. Your skills, your strength, your want to be here, to keep going." He tried to look into the eyes of everyone one by one as he said. "Some of you were fighting with all of your strength and we do appreciate it because if you stay it is going to be hell, it is going to be cruel and more difficult, we do appreciate that you at least tried. But some of you thought it was just a joke like you came here thinking it was fun trying it. If you came here, you need to be serious, you have to be here with both your head and heart. It's not a game; this is the real life! I don't want someone who does not deserve to be here!" He walked in front of us, his voice getting higher and higher.

My heart started to beat faster and faster as I thought about the incident with Choi San in the morning. What if he said something to the Lieutenant? I thought it could be the end of my only purpose in my life.

"Whoever I say comes next to me!" Choi San shouted then. Was he going to say those who needed to go home?

"Five! Twelve! Eight! Twenty-six! Forty-one! Twenty-four!" He shouted the numbers loud, and when I heard my number, I just knew it was the end, it was all because of what happened in the morning and I just wanted to scream at myself for not knowing how to stay unbothered in situations…

I just walked there with my head held low, looking at the white floor of the canteen. I needed to hold back my emotions that suddenly drowned me. As I walked next to the Sergeant, I turned toward the other people who were standing in front of us. My eyes met with Yunho, whose eyes were whispering empathy towards me, he sincerely seemed sad that I was going to go home.

"These numbers…" Choi San started "Are the members of my team!" He announced as he glanced next to him where I was standing, then to the others. Our eyes met as I was in shock. I was prepared to go home—that is a lie, I would've cursed this man to the ground if he dared to send me home—No but honestly, okay I stayed, thank God, but why did he choose me, in his team, even though he definitely had some problems with my presence.

"I choose the members of my team based on what I saw in them. I saw determination, they wanted to show what they were capable of and because they still needed to learn how to believe in themselves!" He then turned towards us. "Welcome to the Echo team!" He saluted as we quickly did the same and shouted "Thank you, sir!" together.

Then he turned with a slightly visible smile on his face—which was unbelievable—and then the other three Sergeants chose the members of their group.

While the selection was continuing, I looked at my teammates and tried to listen to their quiet small talk next to me as they guessed who was going to go home. There were four boys and one more girl on our team. They seemed like they knew each other, probably they talked the day before, just as normal people would do.

I wasn't that type, I just hated getting to know new people, and based on my life story in which I wasn't that lucky in making friends, I just couldn't get the energy to do the same. In the end, they all are going to walk out of my life.

But there was a boy in our team who was just as quiet as me, he was standing right next to me and listened to the others, observing the team and what was happening in the canteen. He noticed I was watching him so he smiled shyly.

"Hi, my name is Jongho!" He said quietly as he reached his hand towards me to shake it.

"Y/n, nice to meet you!” I smiled at him slightly as I shook his hand. He seemed nice and not annoying like the others on my team. I just hated people, especially the ones who talked too much, Jongho seemed honest and I could imagine that we could be friends in the future.

"Are you—" Jongho started but the soldier in front of us turned.

"Enough of talking, quiet!" He looked at us first with a sharp glare, then at the others, who were louder than us, yet he looked at us first. He turned back and that was when I noticed a tattoo on the sergeant’s back. On his left shoulder, there was writing ‘Sierra’, in bold letters. I wondered who Sierra was.

I just sighed as I tried to prepare myself for the next four weeks, where he was going to be my boss, telling me what to do, watching every bad step I was going to make, so he could shout at me.

All of the leaders chose the members of their team, then twenty-four people looked at us sadly in front of us, who remained unchosen. The girl who barely collapsed in the morning next to me, was there too, with a sad but understanding expression. Some were angry, saying it was unfair and they didn't know it was a test.

No one knew it, fair or unfair, the Sergeants made their decision and the teams were made; Team Ekko, Team Zed, Team Terra, and Team Sierra. The ones who were eliminated went to pack, I looked around the canteen searching for Yunho, our eyes met and he waved at me happily jumping a little. He was in team Terra and their leader seemed like he stepped out straight from a Top Gun movie, he was tall, with silver rings and necklaces, and a black sunglass was sitting on his tall nose, even though we were inside. It looked like Yunho was glad he was in this Top Gun guy's team.

I wasn't sure about my leader though. I wasn't blind he looked handsome as hell, but not everything was about looks. And besides I didn't come here to play Tinder, it was a left and right game but with our feet as we marched towards the battle of our lives.

The week went the same way as that day, morning training then breakfast, training again, on the field or outside of the base. I could still barely do the exercises, even though we did it every day, my body was aching and trembling from the sudden impact it got from the exercises, but I kept going, the urge to prove that I was capable of anything made my body work.

In the middle of the week after a quick breakfast, our team separated from the others and got into an armored car. We were fully armored, our camouflaged uniforms matching with the dark green car that was still going on the bumpy road. I held the strange weapon in my hand, grabbing it stronger, I started to get nervous because I didn't know where we were heading or what was today's exercise. I was sitting next to Jongho, as we talked a little on the way out, guessing what we were going to do. I guessed it was some field exercise, and Jongho guessed it was some shooting exercise. The boy seemed sincere and I was glad I had someone to talk to in my team who appeared to be normal, not like the other guy, who had a big mouth and couldn't just shut up, his name was Wooyoung as it turned out. He was going to be a sure problem.

Then the car suddenly stopped and we needed to jump out of it quickly. I looked around quickly, taking in my surroundings. We were on a big field, there was a forest behind us and in front of us a clearing that was full of hills, rocks, and a lot of trees. I saw some target boards far away from us. So Jongho was right, it is going to be target shooting. My first time shooting with a weapon. And I hoped not the last one.

"Attention!" Choi Sergeant shouted suddenly, as we quickly strengthened. "At ease!" Hands behind our backs, straddle standing. I slowly got used to the things we could say and the things we needed to do.

"Today's lesson is going to be target shooting! You have to be very careful because these are real weapons and real bullets, you can't make mistakes here!" He pointed at us with a serious face.

My eyes narrowed to the dark green targets, that were barely visible in the green field. How are we going to shoot those down?

"Understood Twenty-four?" The Sergeant appeared in front of me, as he shouted. He was so annoying.

"Understood, sir!" I shouted back.

"It's not sir, it's Captain!" This guy was a joke.

"Yes, Captain!" I would've rolled my eyes at this, but I learned my lesson the other day.

After he explained the process of how to change ammunition and how to secure the weapon, we went a little closer to a little hill and we needed to shoot from there. I laid down on the ground on my stomach as Captain said. After repeating what we learned it was time to shoot.

This was the real deal now and all my focus was on the target that was a hundred meters away from us, we had six bullets to take three down. My first shot was a mistake, but this was my first-ever bullet. The second was a hit just as the others. It was as easy as cooking.

"Great," Captain shouted. "Now the next target! It's a standing battle-person silhouette, you have to immobilize the target but not kill it! Hands and legs are the target! You have one shot!"

"Just one? We are just learning to shoot, Captain!" Wooyoung, the big mouth said. He was in a problem.

"Shut up, Twenty-six! I didn't ask your opinion, now shoot or leave!" He shouted as he was standing above him.

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply and as I opened my eyes my focus was straight on the right leg of the silhouette and without a thought, I shat the bullet right into where I wanted. I was seriously surprised it was a hit.

"Good job, Twenty-four!" I heard a voice coming from beside me as I looked up at the man, the sun beaming in the sky right into my eyes as he looked down at me. He looked like an angel with a glory.

"Thank you, Captain!" I said back to him after I secured the gun. At least I thought it was secured and when I made sure it didn't shoot, the bullet just shot out of it without a thought. Luckily it was still pointed towards the targets, but if it weren't…

"Twenty-four!" I heard a familiar voice shouting, but it was never this loud and full of anger. "What the hell did I tell you about keeping the weapons secured? Were you wandering off again in your mind? Are you insane?" He came next to me, kneeled, and grabbed the weapon from my hands to watch. "How do we secure a gun, Twenty-four?" He asked as he not so nicely handed back the weapon. I kneeled in front of him as he was standing again.

I needed to secure the gun at least ten times, the others watching as he was shouting at me the whole time. I was under a lot of pressure; it wasn't the best feeling. I felt embarrassed and angry at myself how could I make a mistake like this? It wasn't a game, someone could've been hurt.

"This is serious, we talk about lives, a bullet can kill, without a thought! Why are you here if you can't follow the rules? What would you say to your family? To your mom and dad? That 'I didn't pay attention, sorry'?" He said cruelly as I was just listening to every word he was saying, but the last ones were just too much. It was a weak point of mine and was so low of him. He should have known I had no family to tell anything.

I just stared at the green grass in front of me, his military boots visible only. "I made a mistake, it won't happen again, Captain!" I said a little quieter as I couldn't shout.

"I didn't hear it! Louder! And look at me when you talk to me, Twenty-four!"

I slowly lifted my head and glared at him with an empty look. He seemed a little surprised at my face for one millisecond but disappeared immediately as his sharp glare was looking back at me. "I made a mistake, it won’t happen again, Captain!" I shouted with all my power so he could hear, because as it turned out there were some problems with his hearing.

"We will get back to this!" He pointed at me saying it a little quieter just so I could hear it as I stood up.

"Attention team!" He shouted as we gathered in one line.

"Today's lesson is finished! The majority of the team completed the task, some didn't! You can go back to the base!" That was the words I was waiting for. I was the first one to turn around and go to the car that was already waiting for us. I could barely hold myself together, the emotions that suddenly tried to drown me were just too much. Why couldn't we just turn off our emotions, they have terrible timing and I just didn't want to feel anymore, it hurt.

Back on the base, all I was waiting for was to shower, skip dinner, because I just had no appetite, and go somewhere I could be alone.

For this reason, I signed up to be one of the guards in the night. All of us needed to do at least one night, so I thought it was going to be my time. At least I was alone on the southern guarding tower. I climbed up, not sure if I was ready to be awake all night, without my thoughts drowning me. But at least I was alone.

When it comes to mentioning the word family, I just get lost. I can't do anything to stop it, all the memories I don't have just make me angrier and call life unfair because I couldn't experience the love of a family, the care of a mother, the protection of a father, or even a not so serious fight with a sibling. But I wasn't the only one to live like this, life wasn't unfair with just me, there were others too outside and this was what made me accept the fate I've got. So, in the end, it was always myself, who was my best friend, who was someone to take care of me, to comfort me. I grew up with this mentality and probably this was the reason I didn't trust anyone.

I was thinking about these things while I looked outside into the dark wildlife past the wire fence, a weapon in my hands when I heard a noise coming from underneath the tower. Quick footsteps, then I hear someone crawl up on the ladder that leads to where I was standing. My heart started to pound faster as I grabbed my weapon ready to shoot if we got attacked by some outsiders.

I tried to even my breathing that suddenly was so fast, I felt like my heart might jump out of my chest. Then the trap door made out of wood, opened and all my focus was there, just to see a familiar face that I didn't want to see.

"Jesus, Miss Kang!" Sergeant Choi said surprised as he straightened up with his hands held up when he saw me holding a gun at him.

"Shit! My apologies Captain!" I quickly put down the weapon and stood at attention.

"At ease, Kang!" He said, his voice low. I never heard him talk in this tone; I thought he could only yell at me.

"I'm sorry, I thought someone wanted to attack me." I looked down, and I felt a little shame. I just held a gun at my leader, they could even fire me for this.

He chuckled at that, I repeat—chuckled. "You would be long dead if someone would've attacked the base. You know the first ones are always the guards." He said and as I looked up, I saw a small smile on his face. And if I didn't get a heart attack when I thought, someone was going to kill me, now sure I was close to that.

I would've never thought I was going to say this, but his smile was so beautiful. As it curved up a little on both sides, his cheeks were higher, and little dimples were shining on his face. And his eyes got smaller from the smile. He was wearing the usual green pants, now paired with a grey tank top as a green bag was hanging from his shoulder.

I swore to Gods I felt like I started blushing and what the hell—get yourself together man.

"Yeah, right, I guess I still have to learn." I nodded as I turned away to look outside into the dark. It was better than looking at him, while I was fucking blushing. Why I was thinking suddenly that he was handsome? Okay, he was from the beginning but he was an asshole the whole time so I didn't notice. Who am I kidding he probably had a wife and kids already. A family…

Then I felt as if he walked next to me, grabbing the cold metal rail. As he did it, I heard a little noise and I looked down at his forefinger a golden ring that was lit by the moon shining above us. I quickly looked away from his hands.

"You still have to learn, but you made a lot of progress over a week." The Sergeant said as I felt his eyes on me.

"Yeah, especially today," I said with a sigh.

"About that, sorry if I was harsher than before, but I had to show an example for the others too and for you as well because it is a serious mistake. Could've been lives…" His voice came out softer like he felt a little guilty for yelling at me like that. But why would he? I was just one of his students if we could call it like that. There was no need to show favor towards me.

"No need to apologize, I understand, Captain! It was a big mistake and I hate myself for it." I looked down at my hands.

"You shouldn't. It happened and we are glad nothing serious happened but you learn from your mistakes. And I am sure you will always know how to secure a gun from now on." I glanced at him, and there it was—that damn smile.

"Yeah, that is sure, I won't ever forget," I said as a little smile appeared on my lips as well. It felt like a long time ago since I smiled. It felt especially strange; I didn't even realize that I don't smile often. And it was sad.

I looked away from him again, not being able to look at him for more than five seconds. "By the way, what are you doing here, Captain?"

"Oh, I almost forgot," He grabbed the bag from his shoulders and started to search for something. I looked at him with brows furrowed. "I brought you something to eat because the others said you skipped it. What I don't appreciate, by the way, you have to eat!" He looked up for a moment with sharp eyes.

I nodded at that, "Sorry, Captain I couldn't eat…"

Then he reached a box towards me with the dinner, which was some pasta and a bottle of water. Not going to lie…it was nice of him.

"You need strength here, we overwork ourselves all day, and these sources are necessary to keep going. Now sit and eat!" He commanded and all I could do was to obey immediately as he was watching my every movement.

"Yes, sir…am Captain! Thank you!" I just couldn't function when he was staring at me like that. I sat down cross-legged on the floor and opened the box. He did the same after looking around on the base and outside, he sat down. There were only the sounds of owls and a wolf calling his mate under the full moon. He sat on the opposite side of the tower in front of me and just watched as I was eating. The hell? I couldn't eat normally when someone was watching me.

"Khm…Can't you just not look at me like that while I eat…Captain?" I said a little shyly. I didn't recognize myself. I was a blushing teenager again.

"Soldiers need to do things under pressure, get used to it!" He answered with seriousness.

I was glad it was darker up there because I rolled my eyes at that. "Yeah, of course!"

"Did you just roll your eyes?" His face looked serious again, as the moonlight beamed at his face, some shadows dancing on his face, making it look sharper.

I froze for a second, not again, please. "No! I swear to God!" I held up my hands looking at him with round eyes.

Then he suddenly chuckled again. "I saw it, it's not that dark." I really couldn't figure this man out.

I put down the box I was eating from and stood up. "I know, I'm going for my fifteen-minute run."

"No, no, no. Stay, you don't have to, I was just joking." He signaled with his hands to sit down and his smile never disappeared. He enjoyed playing with me.

I snorted at that and sat down. "Very funny, Captain!"

There were a few minutes of silence between us. Both of us are deep in our thoughts.

"But that wasn't all today, didn't it?" I looked up at him with confused eyes as I finished my dinner. "It wasn't just about you making a mistake. I said something and then you suddenly changed, something is up, Kang."

I just shook my head, there was no way I would tell him. "Nothing, seriously. It was just because I felt so angry at myself and, to be honest at you as well, because I felt embarrassed. But that is all." I said trying to focus on one part of the truth.

He watched me for a few seconds, and he looked like he didn't entirely believe me, but he nodded.

"Thank you for the dinner, Captain! You can go and rest!" I stood up and grabbed my weapon. Then I chuckled a bit, "I sounded like I gave you orders!"

He smiled and hummed at that. "I'm staying with you tonight, Twenty-four!" He stood up and walked closer to me. "Didn't you know there are always two guards in one tower?" He kind of hovered over me and I looked up at him with wide eyes. "And let's not switch the roles if you may." He whispered a little closer to me.

I coughed feeling shy again…"No, Captain, I didn't know!" I straightened a bit at that. Then I turned away from him quickly. This was too much, what was this sudden change?

Then the night went away quickly, as we chit-chatted the whole night about this and that. Mostly he talked about how he became a soldier and how it changed his life. It was interesting because he was forced to be a soldier and this was the last thing he wanted to do, but in the end, it changed his mentality entirely and he couldn't imagine his life some other way. And as I thought about it, this was what I was hoping from this training camp if I was able to do it and become a soldier, it meant I was on the level he was on. And it seemed like a balanced life that I always craved for.

The next day I only had to join practice in the afternoon, because I was guarding all night. I started fresh like a salad; I was ready to overrun everyone. Well, that seemed like a joke, because nothing happened as I wished. I was bad as hell; I fell a lot of time on the obstacle training and after running for half an hour I was on the verge of collapsing.

But then our Captain decided it was the best time to practice a new weapon and how secure it was. It needed concentration and punctuality and when all my body was trembling from the impact it got, it was game over. I tried to put in its place the cartridge in its place, but my breathing was just uneven and I dropped it a few times.

"Twenty-four! Didn't you get your beauty sleep until now? You just joined your team and you are out of it! At least try to make an effort, Kang!" Sergeant Choi shouted as he stepped closer. The man from the other night was just an illusion. But I guess I understood, there were boundaries between students and sergeants. He needed to take care of his team but also to teach lessons for them.

I nodded at that and somehow managed to put in its place that thing. But then we needed to start it over. And I dropped that shit over and over again. I was totally out of my mind; I couldn't concentrate and everyone saw that.

"I'm counting the times you made a mistake, Twenty-four! We are at six hundred points!" The sergeant yelled again while he was showing the other girl with kind words how to put in its place the cartridge. I felt like it was unfair, it wasn't me the only one who made mistakes and dropped that shit. But I kept trying and eventually, I calmed down enough to succeed in securing perfectly the weapon.

When the sun started to set down, the sergeant called it a night and we all dismissed. I didn't know why I couldn't just complete the tasks as I did before and it made me feel uneasy. I just called it a bad day; everyone had a bad day.

Well, it turned out hell, when suddenly Sergeant Choi came into our room and called me out. I was confused and was ready to run in circles again when we arrived at the field. It was barely lit with some lampposts and I saw my teammates standing there as confused as me.

"Attention Team Echo!" We were standing in a line and straightened. "At ease!" He said as we were in a straddled-standing. "Today was all about exhausting our bodies to our limits and then the ability to still concentrate on little things, to be punctual." He said with his hands behind his back, as he looked into our eyes one by one. "But some of you couldn't do it, even though we are already here in a week and a half! Twenty-four step out!" Here it came, my doom. I stepped out.

"You came later on because of your night shift, left out a lot of exercises, still you couldn't make them, mistakes after mistakes. I told you I counted them. Come beside me!" He said as his gaze pierced through me. I went next to him facing my teammates. "Your teammates are going to pay for the mistakes you made today. You are going to lead the night exercise!" He said as he looked to his side where I was standing, then to my teammates.

It was cruel, other people needed to suffer because of me.

"No way! Why isn't she paying for the mistake, it's not fair!" Wooyoung complained, which if I was honest, understood because I would've felt the same.

"Stop crying and do what I tell you!" Choi shouted at Wooyoung, who trembled from the sudden impact. "You're supposed to be a team! But you can't work together because you can't step out of your comfort zones and all of you are just too egoistic to think of others and not themselves!" His voice got louder and louder. I didn't know how his voice wasn't gone by now.

"A team helps each other and makes the task easier! Miss Kang made mistakes and it has consequences, that you and her teammates have to suffer together. She is going to learn from this as well. Trust me it's hard to watch as your teammates suffer only because of you!" He looked at me with sharp and serious eyes. "Now start the exercise! Push-ups! Now!" He commanded.

"Miss Kang counts! 1! 2! 3!" He shouted as he looked at me waiting to count.

"I want to do the exercises along them, Captain!" I said to him as I felt like it wasn’t fair.

"No! You have nothing to do just count! Now!" He pointed at my teammates.

"1! 2! 3!" I started counting as my teammates started to do push-ups.

"Louder, Kang! Are we in the confession chair?"

I started counting louder, feeling like I wanted to bury myself six feet under. It didn't feel right even though I barely felt empathy toward people, I knew this was because of me. These people were strangers to me…at least in the beginning, but since we are here, something started to form between us. I still kept my distance for a reason but they were nice and those moments when we managed to do the tasks together as a team were the moments when I realized these people really do deserve to be here and that we could do a great team together.

"See? This happens when you can't be here in mind," He pointed at his head. "Your teammates suffer the consequences." He knew me too well, even though we had only been here for a short time. He was right and I hated him for that. I

hated it when people looked through me and the most when they noticed my mistakes. It would've felt better if I got the punishment. But seeing my teammates on the dirty ground doing sit-ups, out of breath after a long day, was so cruel of him. I was really on the verge of joining them or telling him I was going to do all the exercises instead of them, but I didn't. I remained silent and watched as my teammates almost collapsed from training all day and now this.

When they finished Captain dismissed us and we could go back to our room as we had less time now to get our rest. I needed to remain outside a little to clear my head. I walked a little further to the outline of the field and sat on one of the benches.

I couldn't do it like this. With a mind where chaos ruled everything. I signed up for this to prove to myself that I was capable of living. But not like this. So now I set three goals for myself; to talk with my teammates, to prove to myself and the others that I did belong here, and to let go of my past. My past was what it was and it does not lead me anywhere.

So, I had to start with a new page.

The next morning the first thing I wanted to do, after getting ready for the day, was to talk with my teammates. I couldn't sleep all night, because the guilt kept me up. I didn't even know I could feel empathy towards people. But when people are in a situation like preparing to be a soldier, which means life or death, it isn't a question. People grew close to me in no time. My teammates especially.

Wooyoung had a big mouth, but he was a fun guy even though he sometimes didn't have a filter. The other girl, Wendy, on the other hand, was the only girl beside me on our team and it was a need. We understood our needs and could talk about some girly things in this men-ruled place. Jongho was a sweet guy, who was there when I needed a little quiet. The other two guys were Changbin and Mingyu, they were both powerful and had the mindset of a real soldier. We needed them in our team. Everyone had unique abilities which moved forward our team. And when they needed to suffer because I made a banal mistake, I just couldn't get a rest. So, when I saw my teammates were in the canteen sitting at one table eating a surprisingly good breakfast, it was time for me to talk to them. At least the food was so good here, they took good care of the soldiers

"Good morning, guys!" I said as I sat next to Jongho.

"Good morning, Y/N!" Jongho greeted me immediately with a beaming smile.

"Morning!" Wooyoung said as he didn't even look at me.

I coughed a bit trying to get some attention and tried to put together what I wanted to say.

"So am…I just wanted to apologize for yesterday. I know it was my fault, yet you needed to suffer…I am sorry." I said as I looked into the eyes of everyone.

"It's okay." To my surprise, Wooyoung started to talk. "I know I didn't show it, but we all knew it wasn't your fault; everyone has a bad day. You did great at practice and I saw that you tried to put that gun together. It happens, we are glad nothing serious happened and we do not have one more hole in our bodies." Wooyoung chuckled sincerely, which truly was a surprise. My respect towards him just grew.

"Y/n, you really shouldn't worry about us, we did it for the team, and we would do it again if it was for anyone on the team," Wendy said, his shoulder-length hair now in a ponytail. The others nodded at that with agreement.

"Shit guys, I literally couldn't sleep because of the guilt I felt, and you are acting so chill about it," I said with a sincere and thankful smile.

Jongho bumped his shoulder to mine. "It's all right, Kang!" He smiled at me with a sweet, understanding smile.

And with that getting into place, I felt like we could be unstoppable. Something blocked us, until that point and now that everything was clear, I knew I could trust in these people.

The next week was about, outside training that came with no time, we couldn’t even finish our breakfast and in the blink of an eye, we were standing in front of Sergeant Choi in a dark field. This was how our week looked, getting up, eating, training, eating, and resting. And repeat.

The weather was quite cloudy today as the sun hid behind the darker clouds, it seemed it could rain at any moment.

"Attention team! Today's training is about teamwork, strength, and keeping the mind calm under pressure!" He shouted staring into our eyes.

"Your job is, to carry the equipment behind the moving combat car. It shelters you from the enemy, it's a shield from the bullets. After you manage to do it, there is going to be a military car that is stuck in the mud. You have to unpack the car and somehow get it out of the mud by pushing it out! When the car is out, the mission is completed!" The sergeant said with tranquility and slowly so we could understand the task.

"I expect, composed and measured thinking! I believe you can do it, there is no impossible here!" He shouted with an encouraging tone.

"Yes, Captain!" We all shouted together, determined as a team.

"Now, get ready, and when I tell you, start the mission!"

Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion.

We ran forward in a straight line, our chests aligned, counting our steps carefully to keep from tripping. During attack simulations, we had to take cover next to the combat vehicle. After running two kilometers in full gear, we finally reached the car, stuck deep in the mud.

When we tried to pull it free, it wouldn’t budge. Chaos erupted—everyone shouting, running in different directions. Our rhythm, our unity, seemed to break apart. And I couldn’t stand to watch it.

"Everyone, stop!" I shouted as I stepped out of the mud to the side, looking at the others. "We need a plan; we won't go anywhere if we just shout at each other! We are going to get that shit out!” I pointed at the car getting hyped up as the adrenaline ran through my body, giving me enough strength to do all of this.

“Jongho, you are strong you stay at the rear with Changbin and push the car when I tell you. Wendy, you sit in the car, we need someone at the wheel as well. Wooyoung, Mingyu, and I, are going to help with the tires with the wooden board! Let's try it!" I felt like someone had to say what we needed to do, Sergeant Choi stood next to us but did not help in how we could manage to get the car out of there. The others didn't complain, they nodded and went to their places.

"Okay, at three, push, we help on the sides as well!" I shouted out, my lungs burning from the tiredness I felt, but the adrenaline didn’t let me stop, we needed to do this.

"One! Two! Three! PUSH!" I shouted as Jongho and Changbin started pushing the car with all their strength, we managed to put the wooden boards under the tires and supported from the sides as well. At first, it seemed like it wouldn't move, but as we pushed without giving up, it was suddenly moving, the tires full of dirt as it almost buried itself.

"Keep going, it's moving!" I shouted as I gritted my teeth, giving all my power into pushing, meanwhile, my feet were buried entirely in the mud I could barely move, just like the others. But then it was easier and easier to push and then all I could see was dry ground under the tire. We made it.

"Gather here team! Attention!" We didn't even have the time to process it, we ran in front of him the car behind us, and straightened.

For a few seconds, he didn’t say anything, just stared into our eyes one, one by one. "Mission completed, Team Echo!" Then he settled on mine. "Kang! Step out!" He said, as I immediately stepped out, not breaking eye contact.

"Yes, Captain!" I shouted, as my heart was still beating fast from the mission. But it was beating faster when he called my name, I felt like I was in trouble.

"Miss Kang had the bravery to take over the team's leading!" He said as he stepped closer to me with his eyes piercing through my soul, as suddenly I felt cold, wet drops on my face. The rain as suddenly as it used to, started pouring at us, but we didn't dare to move a finger. We were still standing there as we got soaked, the mud from our faces and clothes slowly flowing down to the ground with the rain. I felt like it was a mistake what I did.

After a few seconds of silence, he said, "Which was the greatest thing you did, since you are here!" He said unblinking, even though the rain made his raven-black hair fall into his eyes, which made him look even more handsome. "Miss Kang, made a good decision, seeing her team was falling apart and took over. This is why we are here! To discover what we are capable of, to adapt to different situations! A soldier is a soldier when they know what they are capable of and when they know their boundaries! We are here to search those boundaries! Good job team, since we are here, this is the first time you made me proud!" The Sergeant shouted out, sincerely looking proud at his team. "Miss Kang, you are the temporary leader of the team from now on! Until you deserve it!" He said as he looked at me seriously.

I saluted at that. "Yes, Captain! I'm grateful for your decision, I am going to lead the team with all my power and fight for them!" I shouted with determination.

I stepped back, as we all shouted. "We will do our best!"

The rain was still pouring at us, and I needed to squint my eyes to see something, all of us were soaked to the bone. He nodded. "Now, dismiss and get a rest!" He commanded as we finally could go back to the base.

It was truly a trial mission for the team and while we were in the car to go back to the base, we all were smiling, because this was the first time we got praise from our leader and it felt good. We discussed the details of the mission and how everyone did a great job. It was a need for our team. We started to build up a strong bond between us.

When we arrived and finally could rest a bit, before I could go after the others into my room a familiar voice called me from behind. "Miss Kang!"

I turned on my heels immediately and strengthened. "Yes, Captain!" I said looking straight. Then he jogged towards me, his hair half-dried as the rain stopped a few minutes ago, his cheeks were a bit pink from the chilly air. He got rid of his soaked green jacket and only wore a black T-shirt, that was glued to his chest from the wetness. The air was caught in my throat as I watched him approach me. I wasn't supposed to feel like this, I didn't even know what I felt, but something just pulled towards him like a magnet. Probably it was because he was the most handsome man I ever met in my twenty years, and probably I was blinded by that.

"You can ease, Kang, we are not on a mission. You can relax sometimes you know?" He asked what looked like sincere curiosity.

I nodded as I tilted my head down a bit. "Yes, it's just a little harder for me, Captain!" I said sincerely.

He nodded in understanding. "Okay, then you have half an hour to get ready! We are going into the town to ease up a bit!" He said with a small smile appearing on his face, where I just couldn't read anything. He was like a mysterious box that couldn’t be opened. And I desperately wanted to open that box, I was curious about him, outside the soldier life.

At first, when he said it, I didn't believe it, it seemed like he was joking so I looked at him with big-doe eyes, not understanding what was happening.

"Miss Kang!" Then I felt warm hands on both sides of my cheeks, I could feel the hot air coming from his mouth on my face. "Did you get what I said?" Man, get your shit together, what is happening with you?

I chuckled at that, trying to ignore the fact that his hands were on my face. "Yes, yes, I understood, Captain, we are going to the town to get shit-faced!" I stated the facts.

Then his hands were gone from my cheeks as he wholeheartedly laughed. My cheeks were suddenly burning despite the air being cold outside, but I'm not going to lie, the sound of his laugh made my heart beat faster. He looked so sweet while laughing. And I would've never imagined I was going to hear his laugh; it was special and low and his dimples made it cute. I don’t know if it was the tiredness but I felt like I was going to melt right there. The Sergeant, who I thought was cold and unstoppable, was sweet and caring under the surface.

It was strange being out in town after two and a half weeks. It may seem short for others but for us, it seemed like months passed. As we were sitting beside a table with the team, the Captain invited us for a few shots. It was odd. Like it was an entirely new life. I got used to the rules and schedules it was strange and I couldn’t let go of myself.

"Miss Kang, it is allowed to relax now." I felt as the sergeant next to me bumped his shoulders into mine as he looked at me. I looked back at him for a moment to take him in. This night was full of surprises, he wasn't wearing the usual uniform we all needed; he was wearing casual clothes. And oh my God—when I saw him, my stomach definitely flipped, I didn't know if it was the butterflies or the mud I ate during the mission, but something happened. He was wearing a grey hoodie paired with black jeans and on top a black coat that reached his ankle. His hair was freshly washed and it was falling onto his forehead softly. He looked so casual and so out of what I was used to.

I was just staring down at my drink, almost full, despite we were there for more than an hour. I just nodded at what he said, it wasn't just that I got used to the strict rules on the base, it was just that, I didn't have things like these in my life. Things like sitting together with friends to grab a drink and talk all night. I was a socially distanced person and it was difficult to get used to it. And I felt regret for not being able to experience this kind of thing.

So, for this reason, I wholeheartedly started to listen to the conversation around us. After drinking two of the Gin tonics that Wooyoung ordered for me, I finally felt at ease. I felt like I was in the right place, with the right people around. We laughed and cheered as Jongho told us a speech about how good of a team we became, that we were unstoppable. The Captain just nodded at that as his cheeks were a bit pink like he was blushing, but the truth was it was hot inside and he drank a few shots with the boys. Could it be the alcohol alone, that could bring down the Captain?

All of us started to show the signs of being drunk, or at least being a bit tipsy, when we ordered some food, to eat, so we wouldn't pass out in the pub we were in. While we were eating some delicious Asian food, I felt something touched my left thigh. I didn't need to look down to know what was it. It was the Captain’s thigh. I don't know if it was the alcohol or not, but something in me started to boil at that slight touch. I felt warmer and like I got hit with a flash of lightning. I just cleared my throat as I made a little distance between our legs.

Nah, it was just weird, the feeling itself, I never felt like this before, just by a slight touch. I was wondering how it would feel if he just—

"Miss Kang, you don't look good, are you okay?" I heard his low voice coming from beside me. The others laughed loudly about something.

I cleared my throat once again. "Yes, of course I am," I said confidently as I turned my head and looked at him. Our eyes met and it felt like those eyes ignited something in me and I instantly was caught on fire. The fire was burning in my eyes, that was mirrored in his eyes. He couldn’t deny it, because it was there, I saw it and we both knew that we wanted each other.

"Miss Kang seems a bit ill, I'll take her out to get some fresh air." The Sergeant said while he didn’t even look at the others, the eye contact couldn’t be broken because if it did the world would collapse.

Then he stood up and helped me out of the booth, when his hand touched mine, I felt like I got hit with something electric. I didn’t even dare to look at the others and what they might see, what was happening between us.

When we went towards the door, he held it for me so I could go out first. The chilly air immediately hit my face like it was a brick wall as I pulled on my coat, so it would be warmer somehow. It felt nice, finally coming out of that warm room.

"Come!" I heard his demanding voice from behind as I turned to watch him go into the alley next to the pub. I followed him as his wide shoulders were in sight in front of me, his black coat flowing after him, when he took a turn to the right into the alley.

"I am sincerely okay, there's no need to—" I said as I followed him into the alley, barely being able to keep up with him, but I was interrupted by being pushed against the brick wall.

As I opened my eyes after squeezing them shut from the sudden impact I looked up at a feral-looking Captain, staring down at me like he was going to eat me whole, right there. And I didn't even have the time to ask what was happening, because suddenly I felt warm and hungry lips on mine. My mind was full of dark fog and I couldn't think clearly. It seemed his brain was also fogged because when I kissed him back without a thought, his hands immediately cupped my face to get better access. The kiss was hungry and desperate and I would've thought about the bad things this kiss might lead us to, or the consequences or the reasons. But I couldn't care less at that moment. I was curious about how it might feel to get more of him. And this. This was insane. I felt like I was losing my mind like my body would burn into ashes in his hands.

I buried my hands into his hair on his nape. It felt soft and so good. He let out a low groan at that as his hands left my cheeks just to push me more into the brick wall behind me by my waist. His lean body, pushed flesh against me, when he bit my lower lip hard, asking for permission. I was on the verge of letting out a moan at that, but my ego didn't let it. I just parted my lips and his tongue was immediately inside my mouth, discovering every inch of it, then finding my tongue to invite it for a dance. I felt like I might explode at any moment like a firework that was already lit. I didn't even realize the desire I felt towards him was this deep. Deep like the deep water I hated so much, where undiscovered beasts were lurking around in the bottom of it, to catch you when you don't pay attention. He was the beast and I was the innocent human swimming around. He caught me with his mouth and I couldn't get free. We shouldn't do this, we couldn't.

When we separated after what felt like minutes, we breathed hot air against each other's mouths. A string of saliva connected our lips like it was impossible for us to separate, as our foreheads were pushed together. His hands were still on my waist pulling me close to him like I might run away at any time. My thoughts were running around, and I couldn’t think, of a single sentence to say, I was shocked yet it was the best thing that happened to me after a while.

"Shit!" This was all I could say out loud. I didn't know why, or what it meant I just said it.

I felt as he nodded against my forehead. "Yeah…"

"We shouldn't have done it," I whispered as he pulled away a bit, his hands still pulling me close to him.

"I know…" He whispered as he looked into my eyes like he was scared I might disappear.

But then. The dark thoughts came, that hunted me all the time like they were some demons, that tried to chase away the good things that could happen to me. I was doomed to feel sad and empty all the time. And they came in questions like, what if he just needed some distraction away from the strict life he was living? What if he was married and had kids? What if I was just an escape for him from that cruel world?

All I needed was these questions to see things clear, then my hands reached to his that was on my waist just to somehow get them to release me. I stepped out from the cage he made with his huge body, putting a little distance between us.

"Look, if you just need some distraction, then go to the other side of the street and you can get anyone you want." I pointed towards the end of the alley where I saw a few women standing and inviting strangers into the nightclub.

"No, it's not that, Y/n!" He never called me by my name. He stepped closer and I saw a little guilt appear in his eyes.

"Then what is it?" My voice got louder a bit, and my emotions started to drown me. Suddenly it was all too much for me.

"I—I don't know, okay?" He nervously brushed his hair out of his sight as his voice got louder as well.

I scoffed at that. "Right, you don't know. Where is that confident Captain, who shouted at me all the time when I did something wrong? Should I do the same? It was a fucking mistake and you know we can't do shit like this." My voice turned out to be harsher as I wanted but I just honestly was so out of my mind.

"I know, I know it was a fucking mistake," He shouted back at me as he seemed just as confused as me. "But what can I do when all I can think of is you?" He continued suddenly and we both froze at that. Me, because of what he said, and he because he actually said it out loud.

All I could do was chuckle at that. "Yeah, right, about me…" I scoffed as I said.

He then stepped closer to me, like a predator hunting its prey. "Don't you feel the same?" He whispered as he leaned closer to my lips. I did, and I wanted to kiss him so bad, but…

"No, I don't. And I'm glad, because what would you do? I would be instantly fired if they would find it out." I looked into his eyes seriously, I couldn’t read his face again, his mask that fell for a few minutes was back.

"They wouldn't fire you out, I wouldn't let them." His voice came out a bit desperate like he wanted to convince me it was the right thing to do.

"I want to do this, do this on my own not with some privileges. You would be an advantage for me, I could use you easily. Would you like that?" I asked as I lifted his chin with my finger. Just this one time, I wanted to show him that he wasn't the only one who could take advantage of the other.

"I didn't think you would be someone who would do that." He said with a serious tone, his gaze piercing at me while he took off my finger from his chin.

I just shrugged. "You don't know me at all, Captain." And I just turned, leaving there a confused and disappointed Captain standing in the empty alley. Something that started with burning desire now was destroyed by the ugly truth.

Even though we wanted the other, we weren't in a situation where we could give in to our desire. We wavered for a few minutes, but everything needed to settle back to how it was, to continue. He was my Captain, and I was just a woman who wanted to be a soldier.

After that night, I wished it never happened. The training didn't stop and he was still the leader of my team. It was bad for both of us, we made a huge mistake that made my staying harder. I won't say things changed between us, but it definitely got worse. He was stricter with me, watching my every step and then shouting into my face. It was like this the whole time, but something was different when he looked at me, it seemed like it was burning with something like hatred, something like shame. I just barely looked at him, only when needed, wishing that the training camp was soon over and I hoped they were going to sign me as a soldier of the military. I just needed to get over this one week and then we might not see each other again.

But it was hard in the situations when he randomly caught me in the hall after I showered, pushed me against the cold wall, and crushed his lips against mine hungrily. I felt confused but the desire burning my body was much higher and I couldn’t think clearly. I just followed every rule he made, like I did when he commanded something. Our connection was like this all the time. He made the orders and I followed them.

And when he didn’t even wait for me to get out of the shower, was a bit over my boundaries. I was facing the wall as I was washing my hair when I felt two hands around my waist, that felt like cold chains. I knew it was him because when I looked down at the hands, there was that familiar golden ring, that made me feel guilty all the time he touched me.

“Oh my God, what are you doing?” I whispered as I looked over my shoulder. It was late in the night, but there were a few people still showering.

He softly kissed my shoulder, kissing the way up to my neck, to my ears. “I want you.” He whispered as I barely could hear it, the water coming from the shower head was loud enough to close the sounds out. I felt his naked body leaning against mine. I felt my heartbeat in my ears, all my body was throbbing from the different kinds of emotions.

“We can’t…” I said as I leaned my head on his shoulders giving him more access to my neck. I was officially an idiot.

I sighed and slowly turned around to push him away. I felt ashamed and shy all of a sudden. It was the first time he saw me naked and I saw him naked. His body was perfectly muscled, his abs were a clear view, and before my eyes would’ve gone a little downer, I stopped myself. It wasn’t the time to wander around.

“Please, just stop.” I looked at him with begging eyes.

The water was still falling on us, his hair got wet as he combed his hand through the wet strings. “I’m so sorry, Y/n,” He ran his hands through his face frustrated like he wanted to clear his mind. “I just…you drive me crazy, okay? I never felt like this, I never felt like I wanted someone by my side every minute.” He admitted as he put some distance between us, trying not to drown me.

The bathroom fell into an agonizing silence as only the water sound broke it. “Okay, but you can’t just fucking come in when I fucking shower.” My voice rose a bit as I got nervous, trying to hide my body with my hands. I felt vulnerable and I hated this feeling.

“Shit, sorry, I-I really—” It seemed like he just realized what he was doing. That fog in his mind must be dark. His eyes looked at the wet floor, not even daring to look at me. He looked like a wet stray dog, asking for shelter. “Please come to my room when you are finished and let’s talk.” He didn’t even look at me when he wanted to exit the cabin, but then he stopped and looked at me with desperate eyes. “Can I kiss you?”

“Oh my God, just leave already!” I wanted to hit him playfully; he just couldn’t be this desperate I couldn’t be mad at him anymore.

But he caught my wrist suddenly. “I leave after you gave me a kiss.” He whispered as he pulled me closer to him by my wrist.

“You are soo…” I said with a slight smile as I leaned close to his lips and pecked it softly. “Now you may leave,” I said as I pulled away to look into his sharp eyes and his now pouty lips.

I sighed, “You can’t be helped,” I leaned closer again and just bit on his pouty lower lip I didn’t know if it was a good idea because I heard him groan at that and he slowly, very carefully put his hands on my waist to walk me back to the cold wall. His lips were on mine in seconds the water now was fully flowing on us, making the kiss more wet. Our lips moved along the other’s slow, but hungry. His hands slowly travelled up on my sides, one hand cupping my jaw and the other on my throat as he pushed me more onto the wall. I let out a moan at that, the air stuck in my throat because of his hand. I couldn’t stop and I just didn’t want to.

His hand from my throat travelled around my body, discovering every inch of my wet body when his hands stopped on the back of my thighs and he lifted me up against the wall. His lips were still moving against mine desperately, with a burning passion that both of us just couldn’t stop. Then all I could feel was his full length inside me, reaching every spot I didn’t even know existed. The bathroom was full of the desperate noises we let out as we reached the top together.

Then he just left me there with the words ‘I’m waiting for you in my room’ and I just fell on the bathroom floor, the water still falling on me unstoppably like the sudden emotions that drowned me. I started crying, I buried my hands into my hair and I just wanted to disappear from the Earth.

I always had problems controlling my feelings, but this was the worst. I hated myself because of what I just did. I didn’t know anything about this man. I didn’t know if he was married. I didn’t know if he just wanted to use me. I hated that we couldn’t talk.

And at that point, I just didn’t want to see him. I couldn’t because if I did, I would fall into his trap again, without a thought.

After I somehow put myself together I was desperately trying to wash his hands off my body, I went into my room and cried myself to sleep silently.

Today's training was one of the last. As we slowly got closer to the end, I looked back at how much I developed both mentally and physically. And the fact how close I felt towards my teammates all of a sudden. There was no other way for us than to adapt to this situation and work together. This situation made us friends and I would've never thought I might find friends that seemed true and honest. I was sure this was the best idea to sign up for this training camp…until the next training came...

Water. Water was the only thing I had feared my whole life. It took my family from me, and I would never get over it.

The trauma runs deep in my bones—just as deep as the oceans where those monsters lurk. The water stole my family, its merciless hands dragging them down, refusing to let them survive. I can still hear my mother’s screams, muffled by the depths, her lungs filling with saltwater as she sank further and further. My father followed after her, swallowed by the abyss.

I had nightmares about this scene all my life, I was glad when somehow my brain decided it was enough. And to my surprise, since I was in the training camp, they never came. Like my brain built a brick wall that was so strong it kept the demons outside—well some of them. It was probably because we trained all day, we needed to be there mentally as well and I was always exhausted after a day, I was knocked out almost every time I reached my bed.

And now we were standing next to a swimming pool, deep and clear. Its blue-looking water not even moving. I was scared to my bones, but this wasn't the ocean, it was just a pool and some divers would save me if something happened. I needed to face my fears.

"Attention!" Sergeant Choi shouted as he was standing in front of us. "Today's exercise is not about teamplay, it's an individual task. You have to face one of the hardest obstacles. Water." As he said the word, my heartbeat quickened and I felt like I might get a heart attack at any time. I closed my eyes to close out the thoughts that whispered to run far away from there. I couldn’t even think about him, about the other night where everything just fucked up.

"Miss Kang, is there any problem?" As I opened my eyes at the voice, I saw him standing in front of me, and behind his serious mask, I saw a little worry hiding in his eyes.

"No, Captain!" I shouted back looking confident. He looked at me for a few seconds just to make sure it was true then walked away up to the jumping-board that was five meters high.

"The first task is simple, when I blow the whistle you run here, climb up the ladder, and jump into the pool without any hesitation!" he shouted from up there as we looked up at him. His voice was echoing around like the demons that whispered to run louder and louder.

I was the third in the line. Wooyoung started the exercise, he ran without any hesitation, climbed up, and jumped without a thought. It was impressive, but if I weren't scared of the water, I would've said it was an easy task. And then it was my turn and I was so deep in my thoughts I didn't even hear the whistle for a moment. Then I felt Jongho push me a little to get back and then, everything was in slow-motion again, as I was running towards him, climbing up, running beside him, and jumping without any hesitation. And when I collided with the water, I felt like I was my mom who couldn't get to the surface. Who was screaming but no one heard it. Then it felt like my body was separated from my mind because I jumped from the bottom to push myself up, and then my lungs could finally feel the air coming into my lungs as I was breathing like I was stuck there for at least five minutes. I swam to the edge of the pool and Jongho helped me out of the pool immediately.

"Hey, are you okay?" I felt as he grabbed my cheeks to look into his eyes. It was blurry for a few seconds but I nodded, not being able to speak.

I couldn't believe I did it. It seemed impossible for me, yet I was standing there all soaked but proud of myself because I jumped into the pool despite the fears I had. And it felt so good, I couldn’t describe it, but I felt so proud of myself, facing my fears and then fighting against them. It felt like a few of the demons disappeared and they didn't whisper to me to run anymore.

"Miss Kang! Is everything all right?" I heard the sergeant shout down at us with clear worry in his voice.

I breathed quickly, trying to get myself to speak somehow. "Yes, Captain!" My voice choked a bit as I looked up at him straight into his eyes. He knew something was up. It seemed like he knew every thought of mine, even though we barely knew each other, I was sure he analyzed all of us here and had a whole document about our personalities.

"Next one!" He shouted with the stopwatch in his hands.

I was glad no one noticed anything from my inner turmoil, so I just focused on the others doing the task.

When everyone finished, we were standing in one line again, the sergeant in front of us.

"Great job everyone! I have to tell you; it was impressive and this is what I expect from the team!" He clapped his hands two times with a slight smile. He started to grow closer to us too, he needed to admit it. "But it's not over, the real job comes now!" His face switched to serious. "As you can see there are hoops in the swimming pool," He turned to point at the hooks. "You just have to get there," He turned back to face us. "Seems simple, huh?" He raised his eyebrows. "But it's not, because it's all about the mentality and to avoid unnecessary stress. Your hands and legs are going to be tied up!" Silence took over the place and everyone looked at him like it was a joke.

"The pool is going to get deeper and deeper as you get closer to the hooks." He pointed at the pool again. "We soldiers have a technique for situations like this. It’s called survival bobbing. Your hands are going to be tied back, your legs together. At first, the pool is as deep as you, and your head is out. But. As it gets deeper you have to reach the bottom of it and jump up from the bottom to get air again, then down again, blowing the air out of your lungs to get to the bottom! This is how you will reach the hooks!" He shouted out the task we needed to do and we just looked at each other with the team, calling it impossible.

This exercise was the cruelest of all since we were here. "You need to stay calm, divers are keeping an eye on you, you won't die, and you won't drown. It's about fighting down the anxiety, the thoughts that say to us we can't do this!" He pointed at his head, while he tried to motivate us. "I believe all of you can do this! I chose you for my team because I knew you had the mentality of a real soldier! So, get into the water and don't disappoint me! This exercise is about you, not me, not your team, it's for you to fight your demons!" the sergeant shouted with all of the strength he had, almost deafening us.

I'm not going to lie; I was ready to say I couldn't do this. I wanted to give up. But after hearing the words he said, and that it was all about ourselves. Something just clicked in me, something just couldn't let me give up.

So, we were standing in the swimming pool, where the water reached our chests, our hands, and legs already tied as we were waiting for the sound of the whistle. I only could hear my heartbeat.

Thump

My heartbeat sounded like it was a gun shooting out a bullet. Then I heard the whistle from far away and I started to get into the water as I was sinking deeper and deeper. At first, it seemed easy until my feet could touch easily the bottom, but when I went deeper and I needed to be a lot more under the water than outside, something started to break in me, when the glass slowly started to crack, running through the glass, forming a root of an old tree. I tried to move forward, not giving up, his words echoing in my mind.

When I went down again after barely being up for one second and reached the bottom with my feet, at least three meters were above me. The hook was one meter away, I just needed to do it one more time and I was done.

But…the glass suddenly broke and the water ran over the gate unstoppably, the world slowed down and went a little dark. Suddenly I found myself somewhere else. I saw someone under the water. It was my mother. As the hands pulled her down into the dark. I wanted to save her, but I couldn't move. My feet were rooted, and my lungs were screaming for air, but the surface looked so far away that I thought my fate was the same as my parents. So, I just wanted my fate to be fulfilled…but as I looked up, I saw another figure swimming towards me desperately. They looked familiar but everything was so blurry under the water it was impossible to know. When the figure finally reached me… it felt like I was waiting for him my whole life. When his hands grabbed my unmoving body, I felt that familiar lightning going through my body, even though we were under the water I felt his warmth, which immediately melted the ice around my heart.

Then suddenly I was pulled out of the swimming pool, as I was sitting on the edge, the Captain was still in the water to make sure I made it out safely. I was breathing so fast I felt like I might choke as I started to cough water out of my lungs. Who knows how much I was underwater…time didn't exist for me down there.

"Fuck, Y/n, are you okay?" I felt as he pulled himself out of the water to sit next to me, his hands on my shoulder as they caressed my back. And then the glass that was already broken, broke more and I started crying. I couldn't even tell when was the last time I was crying, maybe at the funeral of my parents. I felt terrified but at the same time, I was just so disappointed, because I couldn't do it.

"Hey, Y/n! Look at me!" I felt as his hands searched for my face as I was still crouched forward, my legs still in the water.

When the wet hands found my cheeks and lifted my head to look at me, I broke once again. "I-I'm s-sorry," I sobbed as I turned towards him. "I-I couldn't…couldn't do it…" I was broken and out of my mind.

"No, no, no Y/n, calm down, please," I heard his calm voice as I looked into his eyes. He looked so worried and terrified. "Breathe with me, baby." He started to breathe in and out as I did the same his hands still cupped the sides of my cheeks. I already felt calmer when I looked at him, but I just did what he told me to do.

"Good job, baby, very good job!" he caressed my cheeks as he saw I started to calm down. "Now listen to me! That you even started the mission and gave it a try was already a success for me. I'm so proud of you, Y/n! You did what you could, and you already won, because you tried and didn’t run away!" His voice was soft and his sharp eyes were shining as he was looking at me, he seemed proud.

I nodded at that. "Y/n, are you okay?" I heard Jongho's voice from behind as he completed the task and saw that something was up.

And suddenly I realized we weren't alone, that everyone saw and probably heard how the captain calmed me down, and as I looked around, I saw eyes on me. Eyes that screamed pity. That was the last thing I wanted to see, I hated it. I wasn't a baby who needed pampering.

So, I quickly stood up, my world a little spinning but somehow, I found the door that led me out of the staring eyes. When I went outside it was already getting darker, the weather was a bit chilly—felt so freaking good with soaked hair and clothes… I didn't even know where I was heading, my feet just wanted to walk me far away from there.

"Y/N!" I heard a voice behind me—familiar, commanding. A part of me wanted to stop, instinctively obeying the tone. But after what had happened, I just couldn’t take him seriously anymore.

"Y/N, c'mon, where are you going?" The voice got closer and closer.

"Away from here, I'm done with this shit!" I shouted not even looking back.

Then I felt as if a hand grabbed my hand and swirled me around impatiently.

"You can't just leave everything behind!" His face was a mix of disappointment, sadness, and…something I could never name.

"Why not? Didn't I tell you? This was what I was talking about. I. AM. NOT. A. PRIVILAGE." I pointed my finger at him, hitting his chest with every word. "Treat me like you would treat my other teammates, Captain!" My voice quieted a little as I said.

He was staring down at the ground, he looked like he was a little cat and its owner just scolded him for breaking a vase. "It's San…" He whispered barely audible.

"What?" I frowned at him.

He looked up, straight into my eyes and his eyes were shining again, but because it was welled up with salty tears.

"My name is San…please call me San…" He said with a desperate look.

It was weird, I didn't even realize he had another name until here he was just Captain for me or Sergeant Choi, and hearing his name, which sounded so fitting for him just ran chills through my body.

And yet, I scoffed at that, "I wasn't curious about your name." I turned again ready to leave.

"I can't treat you like the others, and I won't!" I heard his confident voice again it made me freeze. Footsteps behind me, as I felt the distance between us close like he was a magnet, my body just sensed his presence since the first time I saw him. He came in front of me and slowly, carefully like I might bite, held my hands. "I won't treat you like the others, because you mean so much more for me than them. I don't know and I don't understand, but the first time I saw you, when you rolled your eyes at me," A slight smile appeared on his face as he was thinking back at the memory.

"Something just happened there, I just couldn't get you out of my mind. I was watching you from far away, the night first night when you needed to run as a punishment, when you were talking with your teammates. You seemed so nature-like, I just wanted to know you better." He seemed honest like he wasn't joking.

"And when I saw you down there when you didn’t move…I just felt the urge to protect you no matter what. Please just…" He then cupped my face as tears welled up in my eyes. "Please, forgive me! For the other night…I-I it wasn’t me, I am just so confused when I’m with you and I can’t control myself, I shouldn’t have done that and then leave you there, I was an asshole and I get it if you won’t forgive me because I do deserve that…” His voice was desperate and his eyes started to well up with tears.

“A-and I know I shouldn't have talked to you like that in front of the others, but I was so worried, Y/n," His voice cracked a bit as he got emotional.

A single tear rolled down my cheeks, straight into his palm, that held my cheeks, his face inches away from me as he leaned his forehead against mine, closing his eyes.

My hands lifted on top of his as I looked at his face, the lamppost lighting his face, where pain was only visible. "I…I'm sorry for shouting at you, you just wanted to help me, but I was so overwhelmed I didn't think clearly." His eyes opened at that, and he looked at me with something that seemed relief.

He shook his head, "You don't have to apologize, baby." He then took one of my hands and pecked the inside of my palm. Warmth trailed through my body at the gesture. Then our eyes met and I saw the same fire in his eyes as that night, but it was a lot brighter now.

“Who is Sierra?” I asked what I wanted from day one, but didn’t have the strength to hear the truth that I might not like.

He looked at me with round eyes as his hands now released mine. He seemed distant all of a sudden and I knew it was time to discuss some things.

“She’s my…” He started as he stared down at the ground. “She’s m-my little sister,” His voice was barely a whisper. “W-was my little sister.”

Tears started to flow down my cheeks at that, he looked so broken and vulnerable at that moment as his uniform was glued to his body.

I stepped closer to him as I slowly reached my hands to cup his face. His eyes were full of tears I never saw him this vulnerable. “I’m so sorry San,” I whispered with sincere understanding.

He held my hands that cupped his face. “I never knew my parents, I was too little when they left us with my little sister and we became orphans. My sister…got very sick when we were teenagers…” He looked empty as he looked back at the unwanted memory. “It was a disease that couldn’t be helped. It took her away…” His voice seemed sad but he didn’t cry, and it was a good sign because that meant he knew it wasn’t his fault.

I gently caressed his cheeks, my touch soft and understanding. "I'm so sorry, San. I wish I could have known her."

He looked at me as if he couldn’t believe I was really there. "I wish you knew her too. You’re both stubborn as hell."

Then, finally, he smiled—a smile I had missed so much, his dimples appearing with a quiet kindness. He lifted his hand between us where his ring was appearing on his finger. “This is the only thing that is left of my family. This is the Choi clan’s ring. And I know I should probably hate them for leaving us, but I just somehow can’t.” He looked down on the ring that he kept safe no matter what.

“I get it, we never know the reasons behind people’s actions…” I said as I was playing with his ring.

He nodded at that with a slight smile, then he turned serious again. “What about you? What happened in the water?” Now it was his time to caress my cheeks gently.

I took a slow, deep breath in, then exhaled, trying to gather my thoughts. "We were on vacation when my father lost control of the car… and we plunged straight into the ocean. I was the only one who survived. Not even my sister…"

Tears spilled down my face again. "I’ve been an orphan ever since. I was only six years old."

"I'm so sorry, Y/N. That must have been so difficult for you." He leaned his forehead against mine. "But I’m so proud of you for making it this far on your own."

He whispered the words so gently, and yet they made my heart race. Finally—someone who truly understood me.

"Can I kiss you properly?" He whispered, his face still close to mine as he smiled at me, his dimples showing sweetly.

"Yes, please," I whispered close to his lips, and he immediately sealed our lips together. It was the opposite of our first kiss. It was slow and passionate; he tasted so good I was afraid I might get addicted to him. His hands traveled down to my waist and gently pulled me closer to him, as my hands went up onto his wet hair. Our lips moved against the other slowly, trying to crave this moment into memory for life. I felt like my body was a firework, exploding into the clear and dark sky just to paint the sky colorful like our hearts that became whole after all the hard obstacles we ran through on our own, now it seemed we found the purpose of our lives as our lips danced together, not wanting to separate. But as I opened my mouth and his tongue met mine, it started to get faster and hungrier. The desire creeps throughout our bodies, one of his hands traveling up my body, ending up at my nape.

"Mhhmm…" He hummed as he separated from me with a frown, him realizing we both were soaked. "I didn't know it could be better, but you are going to catch a cold. Quickly into my room, Miss Kang!" He said playfully with a beaming smile, then he cupped my face with a serious face. "And if you want to talk about it, I am here for you, okay? Always." He said his voice low and caring.

I nodded at that and then he pecked my lips once again, sealing the promise he made. That he was going to be by my side despite the demons I needed to fight with. My heart was pounding so fast that I felt like the whole world was hearing it. An emotion that I was so unfamiliar with hit me suddenly, the emotion I only felt when I was with my parents…Love and happiness.

3 years later

Left-right heartbeat left-right heartbeat left-right

We marched two abreast, straight into a battlefield soaked in blood and gunpowder. My eyes narrowed on the leader of our line—he was right beside me, his stance unwavering, determined to win a battle we barely had a chance of surviving.

From my left, his face was sharp in profile, his jaw clenched as he held his gun close. Somehow, he sensed my gaze. He tilted his head slightly to the left, and our eyes met. In that brief exchange, I saw determination laced with something bitter—an unspoken fear that we might never see each other again.

At that moment, the past three years flashed before my eyes. The struggles we endured. The first time he told me he loved me. The day I took him to my parents’ grave and introduced him to them. The happiest day of my life—when he proposed, and I said yes. And then, the day everything changed—the moment we were told we had to go to war, thrown into a world unraveling into chaos.

As we pushed forward, the chaos of battle engulfed us, but through the gunfire and screams, I found clarity. I realized that, in the end, it wasn't just about survival. It wasn’t about the battles we fought or the enemies we faced. It was about the person standing beside me, the one who saw me for who I truly was, the one I had never expected to find here, in this war-torn world.

He wasn't just my comrade in arms; he was my reason to keep fighting, my reason to keep breathing. Together, we would face whatever came next, no longer just soldiers— but two souls bound by something stronger than the chaos around us.

And in the midst of the storm, I understood: we weren’t just fighting for victory. We were fighting for each other, and in that, we had already won.

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tropes-and-tales · 2 months ago

Text

Thief in the Night

(Dr. Jack Abbot x F!Reader)

CW: Heavy angst. Talk of death, dark thoughts, and booster shots.

Word Count: 2255

AN: This was requested by a lovely anonymous person for the April Showers event!

AN2: Late and un-beta'ed - the Tropes Way (tm)

It’s a terrible night at the Pitt.

It started out fine. It was quiet, though Dr. Jack Abbot never dares to think the word, let alone speak it aloud. Tuesday night in the middle of spring doesn’t usually translate to a terrible night in the emergency department; it’s not like the lunacy of full moon nights or the expected violence and trauma that spikes around the holidays, for example.

Then the storm breaks over Pittsburgh. It had been expected—rain in the forecast—but the intensity is surprising.

Over the course of the night, they treat all manner of injuries. Many are small, manageable. Slips and falls in the rain. Sprained ankles, broken wrists, abrasions from falling on asphalt. Mild concussions. It’s steady but controllable. They go through ice packs, splints, ibuprofen at a constant rate, and Abbot gets halfway through the night and thinks this isn’t so bad.

It's like he breaks a spell the moment he thinks it.

Dispatch gives the heads up:

Truck jackknifed outside of the Squirrel Hill tunnel. Multiple vehicle pile-up. Emergency services on scene. Expect multiple casualties in all stages of severity.

They handle it because that is what they do. They triage the casualties as they come in: from the concussed and bruised to the DOA. Abbot directs it all like the world’s most brutal orchestra, but he rocks that shit. It’s what he was trained to do, and ostensibly what he was born to do.

He falls into the zone. People, individuals fall away and become simple facts, their entire existence narrowed down to what Abbot needs to fix.

It’s not a middle-aged man with a family and likes and dislikes on the gurney—it’s an ulna broken in three places that Abbot immobilizes until surgery can get to him.

It’s not a seven-year-old crying in front of him, clutching a stuffed animal, snot bubbling from her nose—it’s a gash in the forehead that Abbot passes off to an intern to clean and stitch up.

It’s not the driver of the truck who police will determine, in the days to come, was both driving too fast and distracted by his phone. It’s a crushed pelvis and internal bleeding that cannot be staunched, and it’s confirming the death upon arrival.

The next arrival comes through via ECIC, and Abbot scans the details (female, early thirties, head trauma, trauma to extremities, BP low and dropping) to prepare for the next wave. He notes the source (Medic 10), knows that this nameless female in her early thirties is in the best possible hands before she gets to the Pitt—namely, your hands.

Moments later, you and your partner burst onto the scene for the patient handoff. Abbot sees you—the dark navy cargo pants, the bright yellow reflective jacket slick with rain—but then his focus is on his patient on the gurney between you.

It’s not a young woman who recently got engaged and had her whole life in front of her—it’s a skull fracture, a pelvis fracture, a million other injuries sustained from being crushed in her car by a jackknifed truck, and Abbot fights for her life for hours.

He fails. The best he can do is keep her alive for the short term. Scans confirm that she is brain dead, that she’ll never draw a breath on her own again. The ventilator keeps her alive long enough for her family and her fiancé to come to say their goodbyes.

-----

It’s a terrible night at the Pitt.

It started out fine, but it ends with Dr. Jack Abbot on the roof. His hiding spot and his singing siren both; the place that promises a break from the chaos of the ED, and the place that promises a darkness so pure that he could finally sleep without nightmares, if he only took those few steps to embrace it.

Right now, he stays on the safe side of the railing. The storm has passed, but the roof is slick, and he’s not as steady on his legs after such a brutal night. It’s still dark out anyway. Dawn hasn’t broken quite yet, but the sky is starting to lighten in the east.

“Knew I’d find you up here.”

He doesn’t need to turn around to know your voice. Medic 10 patrols closest to the Pitt. Other ambulances might go to the hospitals closest to their base—Shadyside or Presby, maybe—but you and your partner nearly always turn up at the Pitt.

And since you nearly always take the night shift, Abbot has known you now for a while.

“Tough night,” you continue. He doesn’t turn when you join him at the railing, but he shifts his arm just a bit when yours brushes his. You’re still in your ridiculous high-vis jacket, and it’s still wet from the storm.

“Lost the one you brought me,” he finally says. His voice is rough, cracked. He feels every death keenly, but this one leaves him desiccated. He’s wrung out.

He sees you shake your head out of the corner of his eye.

“Not lost yet. Dana brought me up to speed.”

“Not a save,” he snorts bitterly. “She’s as good as dead. Her body will follow as soon as her people pull the plug.”

“Her people will have time to say goodbye.”

He snorts again, a humorless sort of laugh and says nothing. What sort of good does that do, he wants to say. To have the last memory be of her like that, crushed and full of tubes and wires?

You seem to read his mind. You always seem to do that. You always seem to understand his dark thoughts, his cynicism, the hopeless futility he feels on days like this.

“It means something,” you tell him, and your voice is soft beside him. “I’ve lost people slow and I’ve lost people fast, and I tell you—getting to say goodbye is always better. Even if it’s ugly. Even if it’s hard. It might not feel like it to them downstairs right now saying their goodbyes…but it will mean something, someday. That they were able to hold her hand and tell her they love her. That they can hope that some part of her felt and heard it before she went.”

He says nothing to that either. He’s afraid that if he does, he might break. He can hear the way your words wobble a little, so he keeps his eyes fixed on the lightening sky. For a long moment, you both just stand there, hands on the safety railing but not touching. Each of you in your own thoughts, meditating on the rough night you each survived.

Abbot clears his throat and finally asks, “you really think that?” He turns his head and looks at your profile, sees your earnest nod in answer to his question.

“You know what we are?” You turn your head to face him too, and he’s struck—as he always is—at the sight of you. At your eyes gazing into his, open and searching. “You and me?”

“Medical professionals?” he guesses.

“No.” A beat. “Well, yes, but beyond that.”

“Penguin fans?”

That draws a ghost of a smile, but you shake your head. “Beyond that.”

“Masochistic assholes with suicidal tendencies who enjoy being hurt and depressed?”

You wrinkle your nose at that. “I’m not suicidal, and if you really are—”

“What are we then?” he cuts in gently.

You turn to face the sky again. Dawn is just beginning to break, the sun breaking the line of the horizon and painting the lingering ribbons of storm clouds in a glorious wash of pink and orange.

“We’re thieves,” you tell him. “We aren’t saving lives. Not really. Death always wins in the end. All we’re doing is stealing time like thieves in the night.”

Abbot turns to look at the sky too. “Cheerful. Glad I’m not really suicidal.”

That earns him a light elbow to his side that makes him smile.

“I mean it,” you continue. “The universe looked at that woman downstairs and said, ‘you’re out of time.’ But I got to her as the rescue team cut her from her car, and I stole time. Just a little. Just enough to get her to you. And you stole a little more time for her. Not very much, but enough to give her people the gift of goodbye. Sometimes we steal a lot of time, and sometimes it’s just a little, but it all means something.”

“Does it?” He doesn’t say it meanly, but if it comes out harsh, you don’t react. You know him well enough by now to know the difference between his delivery and his intent.

“I have to believe it does.” Then you take a deep breath, enough to pull his gaze back to you. He watches as you close your eyes against the sunrise, watches as you breathe deep, like you’re trying to draw the riot of colors into you to overlay the darkness you just lived through during the night. He watches your exhausted, beautiful face as the rising sun casts its rosy glow over you, and he feels the black hole in him—the endless void that seems to grow after nights like this—shrink just a little.

“Why are you still here?” he asks, but he keeps his voice low, not wanting to spoil the quiet magic of the moment. “You should have gone home hours ago.”

You reach your right hand into your pocket and pull out a specimen cup. You hold it up and show him the diamond ring inside before you slip it back in your pocket.

“It’s hers.” Your voice is just as low, just above a whisper. “I think it fell off in the ambulance. I cleaned it up and brought it back. For her family.”

Any other medic, any other case, he might joke about it. Make a bad joke about medics’ low pay and what a pilfered diamond might bring at a pawn shop. But he’d never voice it with you even if he had that sort of dark humor: most of the medics in the city care, but you care more than most. You care enough to clean up a ring and bring it back the same day rather than sending it through slower channels.

You care enough to guess how he was feeling, and you care enough to seek him out on the roof.

You care so much, sometimes he wonders how you can even breathe with how much space your heart must take up in your chest.

He shifts his eyes from your face—your eyes still closed against the sun—and the smear of red on the bright yellow of your jacket’s left arm pulls his gaze. He looks closer, sees the gash in the fabric….

“You’re hurt,” he says, and he switches from maudlin to action in a split second. He takes your wrist in his and pushes up your sleeve, takes in the rigged bandage that you probably did on yourself in the middle of your shift.

“Cut it on the frame of her car.” You try to pull away from him, but he holds you fast. He picks at the edge of tape—you hiss as it pulls at the hair on your arm—and pulls away the swatch of gauze to reveal the jagged cut still seeping blood.

“It’s fine.” You tug against him, but he doesn’t let you go. “C’mon, it’s not a big deal—”

“Bullshit.” He moves his grip from your wrist to your bicep and turns you towards the roof access door. “Downstairs, now.”

“Jack—”

“It needs cleaned, stitched. When was your last tetanus booster?”

“I can clean it myself, and it doesn’t need stitches. A Band-Aid—”

“Last tetanus shot was when?” He hustles you through the door and down the stairs.

“Before Y2K, probably.” You try one last time to extricate yourself from his grip, and when you fail, you sigh. “It’s day shift. You really gonna leave my fate in the hands of one of Robby’s little goslings?”

“Never.” He gets you downstairs, steers you into an open bay, and makes you plop down in a chair while he pulls up a kit. “I need a win to finish out the shift.”

“A baby cut and a booster shot is hardly a win,” you point out.

“Maybe.” He helps you shrug out of your jacket, and he sits down in a stool that he rolls up to you. “But I think helping you avoid tetanus is stealing, what? Years of time on your behalf? Feels like a helluva win to me.”

Then he bends his head to the task at hand, and you say little as he works. He cleans out the cut on your left arm, stitches it shut with neat precision. Covers it with a fresh bit of gauze that he tapes down. He even administers the shot (“might as well give it in the left arm too,” you tell him).

He does it all while pointedly ignoring your own engagement ring on your left hand, as he ignores it any time he’s alone with you. Another man put it there, claimed you as his, but Jack needs these moments of pretend more than he wants to admit.

He relies on these stolen moments—the paltry seconds and minutes he gets with you—to survive the tough times.

Maybe he’s a thief of time after all.

#tropes and tales #jolapenoaprilshowers #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #dr. jack abbott #dr. jack abbott x you #dr. jack abbott x reader #jack abbot #jack abbott #the pitt

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lovelettersforthedamned · 1 year ago

Text

The Winner

✰ stanford!art donaldson x stanford!f!reader

✰ word count : 1.0k

✰ summary : you never get tired of being art donaldson's girl, especially when you get to reward him for his win later that night.

✰ warnings: kissing, allusions to smut, minors dni, 18+, tashi erasure (i'm sorry), art is happy LOL.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

main m.list ⋆ art donaldson m.list

⋆ gif by @supersoldierslover

Your professor’s monotone voice was the cherry on top of your already long day. Scheduling back-to-back lectures right before Art’s game days wasn’t ideal, but you made it work. You’re grateful to not play a sport while also engaging in academics. There have been countless nights spent in the library with Art, going over his notes because his practice in the afternoon tends to run late, pushing his homework time to the late hours of the night.

With your head resting on your hand, another yawn is pulled from your body. A buzz from your back pocket jolts you awake, causing an embarrassing heat to flood your face. Quietly, you reach for your phone and check the message that almost gave you a heart attack.

artie <3: I saved you a spot! My bag should be on the seat, and there’s a snack in there for you.

You smile at the text.

you: I’ll be out of class soon! I love you, superstar.

artie <3: I love you!

And with the clock striking six thirty in the afternoon, you jump out of your seat and rush to the courts. Determination is written across your face as you frantically rush to the spot Art had saved for you that’s right at the front. Sure enough, a granola bar is inside his bag.

It only takes a few minutes before Art makes his entrance on the court, his eyes automatically searching for you. Even after months of dating, spotting him made your heart race. He’s so captivating in the way he moves, especially when he plays.

But even as he’s approaching you, you’re stuck in a daze. “Hi, pretty girl,” his voice carries a smile through it, something you’ve always appreciated. You lean over the fence and give him a kiss, his hand coming to the side of your face as if he wants to pull you impossibly closer to his touch.

Taking his other hand in yours, you can feel that his palm is slightly clammy, “Are you nervous? You shouldn’t be.”

He huffed a laugh and looked down because his ‘tough guy’ act didn’t slide past you. “I’m always nervous when you watch me play,” he admits, a rosy blush fluttering over his cheeks.

You squeeze his hand once, an unspoken form of reassurement. “Don’t be,” you smile, “I’m your number one fan.” You joke, but not really.

With one last kiss, he leaves to play the game you’ve watched him perfect for the past few years. And though he’s hitting the ball to his opponent, you can’t help but focus on your boyfriend. The muscles in his arm flex with each movement as the sweat drips down his forehead, causing him to pull the bottom of his shirt up to wipe the perspiration away. Giving you, and the girls behind you, a perfect view of the cut of his abdomen leading down to the waistband of his shorts.

Of course, you knew Art was attractive, and pair that with him being the best man on the team, he’s bound to receive attention. At first, the constant gawks and inappropriate comments towards him made your blood boil. You couldn’t stand the sight of the girls throwing themselves at your boyfriend, but now, you’ve learned to use them to your advantage.

Before dating Art, there was no way you would purposely put yourself out there. Going to parties and bars wasn’t your favorite way to spend Friday nights, but now, you’re forced to embrace the spotlight just by being associated with Stanford's star tennis player.

Art always has you by his side, an arm snaked around your waist as he greets friends at social gatherings. It took a while to get used to, but you wouldn’t have it any other way with Art by your side.

Leaning back in your seat, you enjoy the Spring sun as you watch Art’s match unfold. And with the girls behind you giggling at your boyfriend, you smile. You smile because you know you’ve won.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

With Art’s opponent hitting the ball out, that was the match; an easy victory for Stanford. You rise to your feet and smile while applauding. Slinging Art’s bag over your shoulder, you unapologetically flaunt the embroidered stitching writing, ‘DONALDSON’ towards the girls behind you before walking off.

You make your way to the exit of the locker room as you wait for Art to appear. You make casual conversation with the people around you, mostly friends and family of the other players, when some of them start to come out. Slowly, but surely, you see the mess of dirty blond hair push open the door, a smirk coming to your lips.

He puts his classic red hat on backward before engulfing you in a hug, picking you up off of your feet, and spinning you in a circle. You giggle as you find your footing on the pavement below you, “See? There's no need to be nervous when I watch. You crushed it, baby.”

“Maybe you’re my good luck charm,” he suggests, pulling away before he grabs your hand, leading the both of you to his dorm—a stupid boyish smile on his face.

You brush off the feeling of his cock pressed into your thigh as he spun you as you let him lead you to his place, “Is this you subtly asking that I come to every single one of your matches?”

“Hmm,” that smile never faded from his mouth, “maybe?”

“Are you going to prove to me why I should? Or are you going to keep subtly flirting with me until I’m the one that has to beg for you to fuck me?”

Your question surprises him and causes him to quicken his pace as you laugh behind him. He’s dragging you to his room, and you won’t stop him. Not after his big victory, he deserves to feel good tonight.

⋆ author's note: ANOTHER ART FIC BECAUSE I CANNOT GET ENOUGH OF HIM!!!! thank you for all the love on the last few art fics!!! don't forget to like, comment, and reblog this work if you loved it!! ok, ily byeeee!!!

#art donaldson smut #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson #art donaldson fluff #challengers fic #art donaldson fic #college!art donaldson #challengers 2024

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patchs-curiosity-corner · 5 months ago

Text

𝑳𝒆𝒕 𝑴𝒆 𝑯𝒆𝒍𝒑 𝒀𝒐𝒖 | 𝑺.𝑹. [𝟏]

𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟏𝟓𝐭𝐡 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟕 - 𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑩𝒍𝒖𝒔𝒉

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: A new member is added to the BAU soon after Reid’s kidnapping. She seems determined not to overlook him.

𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: angst, hurt/comfort, slight arguing, themes of drug addiction and self harm, referenced overdose, likely inaccurate depiction of drug addiction/withdrawal, Spencer and Reader being insecure.

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 2.5k

𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆: Fair warning this could be horrible. It’s part one of hopefully six total oneshots stemming from the concept of ‘5 times you help Spencer Reid heal, and one time he helps you.’ So, heart attack levels of cheese. Largely inspired by my righteous fury when no one helped Reid with his addiction. I will do a tag list for anyone interested in being alerted when part 2 comes out! Not proofread.

𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

You and Spencer Reid don’t get along.

Maybe that’s the wrong way to put it; it would be more accurate to say that he doesn’t get along with you. You were brought on a month ago, 36 days 4 hours and 27 minutes had passed since you had first walked into the bullpen and given him one more person to deal with. It didn’t help that you were sweet, gentle and understanding in a way seemed to grate on his already frayed nerves. You’re 22, but only recently, recently enough to have just barely squeaked out the title of “youngest member to join the BAU” that had previously belonged to him. It’s a childish record, he’s a 25 year old man, and it shouldn’t affect him much less upset him, but it does.

Your presence feels like a personal insult. Your arrival so soon after his kidnapping churns his stomach, makes him wonder if the team is questioning his capabilities as a profiler. Why else would they need to suddenly hire an extra person? Not-so-deep down he knows that logically, it probably had to do with the recent increase in the units budget. Nothing to do with him, but rather Hotch taking advantage of the opportunity to have another pair of boots on the ground during cases. None of that matters though, because Spencer doesn’t feel very logical right now.

He’s found more little ways to justify his distaste for you in the weeks since your arrival. The way you always seem to smile and nod along with his ramblings, despite the fact they’re not directed at you. You must be mocking him, he concludes, secretly patronizing him for his inability to shut up. Or the way you look at him after learning about his recent… ordeal with Tobias Hankel, the gentle sympathy in your eyes he willingly misinterprets as pity. He hates being pitied. He hates being patronized. He hates the analytical way you always seem to look at him, and he almost immediately convinces himself that above all: he hates you.

———

Something’s up with Reid.

You’d noticed it from day one, but it had been easy to disregard as growing pains. After all, with Emily having only joined months before you, you were sure there was going to be a bit of an adjustment period, especially when the sting of losing one of their previous teammates was still so fresh. You’d heard so many good things about Elle from everyone, and you’d be lying if it didn’t make you feel even a little bit insecure as the greenest among them.

It takes about a week for you to realize there’s something more to his behavior than awkward aloofness. The way he wears long sleeves even as the cool air of spring grows warmer, the near-constant twitch in his brow, and especially the way he seems to constantly fidget with those aforementioned sleeves, scratching nervously at his inner elbow. Even just the way his wiry fingers tighten around the strap of his bag, you can’t shake it.

Something is terribly wrong.

You try to remain casual, asking after him when he disappears into the bathroom for a touch too long, or when he takes a sick day that even as the newbie you know is out of character. Innocuous little questions like: “Is Reid alright?” or “Does he seem paler lately?” that gleaned no real answer from any of their teammates. It made you furious. Spencer was a part of their team, part of their family, regardless of his icy attitude towards you. So why wouldn’t any of them help him?

You watch him deteriorate over time, in the 36 days you’d spent on the team you’d been silently festering, mentally begging someone to do something, anything for Reid. Help him! your eyes beg Morgan, Hotch, Gideon, JJ, anyone. He’s going to die like this…

…but no one does, and enough is enough.

———

Spencer can’t eat, he can’t sleep either. Whenever he tries to his mind is filled with the memory of the horrible night he spent with Hankel, his crystal clear eidetic memory forcing him to relive that torture again and again the moment he closes his eyes. He knows there must be dark circles under his eyes, that his cheeks are likely sunken and pale, eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep. He’s certain the others must have noticed, there’s no way they couldn’t. But he tries to convince himself they haven’t, because if they had and no one had checked on him? …He doesn’t want to consider that reality.

The soft rapping of knuckles against his door stirs him out of his sleepless daze. It’s late, late enough that no one in their right mind would be awake right now, much less knocking on his door. In his drained state he heaves himself off the couch, plodding with weighted feet over to the door of his apartment. He doesn’t bother to check the peephole, if he did maybe he wouldn’t have been so startled by who he sees upon pulling open the door.

You.

A travel bag slung over your shoulder and a determined look set on your features. You both just stand there for a moment, until your voice breaks the silence.

“Hi.” It’s just one word, but it tugs at something inside him he can’t quite name.

“Hey.” He croaks back apathetically, or at least he tries to. Before he can say anything else or even question what you’re doing you push past him into his apartment, tossing your bag onto his kitchen island. “What the hell-“ Is all he manages to get out, irritation swelling in his chest as he scowls at your form, looking at him with arms crossed, fingers picking at the frayed edges of your sweater.

And just like that it’s quiet again. It’s his voice that breaks the silence this time, quiet and tired: “What are you doing here?”

“Make sure you don’t die, hopefully.” you murmur, your own voice cracked by anxiety and a frail attempt at humor. “Where are they?” That makes his jaw tighten, you both know what you’re talking about, and it causes long-suppressed frustration to boil up in his chest.

“You have no right to be here. You- you have no right to look through my things.” The words are gritted out through teeth clenched so tight you worry they may crack. It’s painful, watching him fight so hard against the help you’re trying to offer.

“Look, Spencer” you sigh, unable to hide the pained expression of your own face, “Hotch knows. I talked to him about it.” You brace for something, anything. Maybe shouting, you seriously doubted Reid would ever consider laying a hand on you but… drugs did funny things to those you would have thought you knew. “S-so you either let me help you, or I’ll be forced to report your current addiction to Strauss.” Your voice had wavered at the beginning, but the more you spoke the more conviction bled into your voice. Soon all the pent up anxiety and worry for your brilliant coworker was pushing you forward, fueling your words. “I won’t stand by Spencer, because if you keep going like this it’s not a matter of if but when it kills you, and that is the last thing I would ever want because you are too damn good for that.”

Reid glares at you, every ounce of misplaced anger in his system directed at you alone in a gaze far more furious than you or anyone thought him capable of. Then his shoulders slump, and that tired, worn appearance returns. He could deny it, claim you had no proof, but with no energy left in his tired, broken body- He didn’t have it in him to lie. When Spencer finally speaks it’s quiet, and reluctant.

“In the bathroom,” his voice croaks, “Inside the medicine cabinet.”

He would have expected you to immediately go there, to play the role of drill sergeant for his sudden makeshift rehab, but you don’t. Instead your own shoulders sag, and in a number of slow steps you cross the room to where he stands, wrapping your arms tightly around his middle. Spencer goes stiff at first, unable to process the sudden display of affection, why this girl seems to care so much about him when he’d been nothing but distant to her at best. After everything he’s been through though -even with his germaphobia- it’s impossible not to relax into the embrace, his own slender arms wrapping around you in return. It’s nice to be held again, he thinks.

“This is going to be awful.” You mumble against his chest, “A week and a half, that’s all Hotch could give us. Far as anyone’s concerned I had a family emergency and you’re on a mandated sabbatical.” It takes him a minute or so to process her words, stuck in the haze of affection after going to long without.

“…what are you talking about?” Reid asks, his voice is quiet. He can’t understand why you care so much, he just needs you to go away now, before he gets addicted to your presence as well. Before something happened to you and you left; like his Mother, like Elle.

“Getting you clean.” You say hesitantly, finally pulling away from him after what felt like a peaceful eternity. “Under normal circumstances quitting outright is a terrible idea, but-“ you swallow thickly- “you’re a federal agent, so there’s a clock ticking.”

“And your plan is…?” Spencer sighs, running a heavy hand through his hair and down his face. He tries to ignore the feeling that lingers, the ghost of you in his arms.

“Stay with you through the inevitable withdrawals, I hope.” The words are tentative, not as confidant as before while you pick nervously at the sleeve of your sweater. “The first thing I have to do is get rid of all the Dilaudid in this apartment.”

His body goes rigid again, this time with the flash of panic that goes through him at your words. Hands clenching and jaw tightening, the thought of losing the thing he’d come to rely on so desperately makes him terrified. Part of Spencer wants to say ‘no,’ to stop you- beg you not to let what gave him peace drain away… But he just can’t muster the energy, forced to watch in dejected silence as you conduct a thorough search of his apartment for the offending drug -his only comfort and companion in these past two months- and dispose of it, all in a few moments. Gone.

Once you’re finished, you settle yourself on his warm, comfortable couch, letting out a quiet sigh as you wave him closer. “C’mere.”

Reid lets himself be touched for the second time that night, accepting your offer and laying his head on your lap. He’s quickly hit with a hazy feeling as your fingers slide into his hair, playing gently with the chocolate strands and scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Are you angry with me?” You ask softly after a moment, concerned by the silent treatment he was currently giving you. Again he can’t lie to you, even compared to the unwillingness to admit his fear and anger. In an act of petty rebellion he refuses to look at you when he answers.

“…yes.”

“That’s alright.” He hears you reply, as soft and gentle as everything else you had been so far. “You can be angry, Spence.”

“Why are you even here?” He bites back, a storm of emotions behind his eyes as he finally looks up at your face: anger, sadness, confusion, fear. The brilliant ‘boy-genius’ reduced to an absolute mess.Your answer is just as easily spoken and simple as before:

“Because I care about you.” Those five words ring in his head even as you continue. “Because despite how we started out you are an incredibly genuine person, Spencer, and probably one of the most brilliant minds I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.” Spencer shakes his head, for once lost for words. Why were you here, being so nice to him? Why did you even care in the first place when he had been so cold and hostile to you over the past month.

“I don’t- you shouldn’t care.” He spits out, turning away from her. The action feels petulant.

“But I do.” You say a hint of amusement in your voice despite the circumstances. “And you can’t stop me from caring.”His face feels hot, and his jaw clenches again as he rolls back over to hide his face in your stomach. Reid mumbles in a voice almost too low to hear:

“You’re frustrating.” It makes you laugh.

“Don’t worry Reid,” you say through your laughter, “the feeling is definitely mutual.”

———

The next week is just as brutal as you had both been expecting.

Spencer didn’t know what he expected drug withdrawal to be like. He’d read plenty of textbooks sure but they did nothing to prepare him for a firsthand experience. The only way he can think of to describe it is pure, unadulterated misery. His body struggles without consistent doses of Dilaudid to keep him going, it’s evident he had become much more dependent than he realized in a short amount of time. He can’t eat, he feels violently sick. Too hot one moment and freezing the next with his emotions following much the same kind of roller coaster.

You stay through all of it, keeping him comforted during panic attacks and soothing his fevers with a cool washcloth as you try to get him to drink just a little more water, even if it may come back up minutes later. You’re tired, exhausted even, and yet you won’t leave Spencer’s side for more than a second. It’s easy to endure the moments of anger he has, shouting and cruel words flung in your direction are hardly any price at all if it means he might recover faster. He doesn’t understand how you take it, all the snapping, screaming and crying. Reid takes out every anxiety and fear he has on you, and still you remain in the end, ready to let him fall into your arms again and cry like a child.

He feels guilty, ashamed even in this state. An overwhelming feeling of helplessness weighs heavy on his heart, but little by little, things do get better, even if he doesn’t notice at first.

It must be the 8th day of this hell when he realizes that slowly, far too gradually for him to notice: things have returned to something oddly adjacent to normal. Sitting at his kitchen table with a cup of warm honey tea in his hands, watching you hum along to the radio while you prepare breakfast… Spencer almost feels human again. Things weren’t perfect by any means, his hands still trembled, the ghosts left behind by the worst of it all still tugged at his mind, a familiar voice begging him for just one more hit. But the voice is tiny now, easier to ignore. It was strangely peaceful, in fact, the way he could sit at this table and observe the domestic scene of you cooking breakfast in his kitchen. His chest warms pleasantly, and for what feels like the first time in years:

Spencer can finally breathe.

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #doctor spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #hurt/comfort #sickfic #kinda?#spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid comfort #spencer reid cm #fem!reader

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n0vaisnthere · 7 months ago

Note

Reader is actively bothering dan heng and at some point starts scratching him under his chin and he purrs

And then they kinda,, settle down and he falls asleep on their lap. I need purring dan heng please

Dragon turned cat

Summary —☆ giving grumpy Dan Heng chin scratches to bother him!

Contains —★ fluff, Imbibitor Lunae Dan Heng, mischievous reader, pre established relationship

Dragon turned cat. Except he sleeps like one.

Honestly.. After getting back after that big fight with ‘Phantylia’ on the ‘Xianzhou Luofu’, no doubt everyone is drained. So trudging back to their room, (Reader) makes an exhausted trek over to the car door. Himeko is going back to creating her 5th coffee, and Welt is just going to take a much needed break. March 7th is going to do some mild stress-shopping online. No worries.

But Dan Heng? Well, is it ‘Imbibitor Lunae’ now? Even just asking themselves that question makes (Reader) more tired. Though, they do feel pity for the Express’ cloud-piercer-turned-Vidyadhara. He really had gotten a lot of pressure from that and (Reader) couldn't imagine how he felt. So for now, they just wanted to go to their room and take the fattest nap they could, leaving Dan Heng to relax and rejuvenate himself.

Arriving and flopping on their bed, (Reader) turns and lays on their back to stare at the ceiling. You'd think that they would be passing out right away, but they aren't.

“..Damn..” (Reader) gruffed to themselves, body feeling achy, yet mind awake. “..Dan Heng…”

Pause.

“..Really did look even more attractive with horns and a tail.” (Reader) has come to that embarrassing conclusion purely on intrusive thoughts and thinking out loud. Which they quickly realized and groaned into their hands. “..Oh cmon (Reader).. He could be insanely hurt and all you could think about is how attractive he is…”

Internally berating themselves, (Reader) should be leaving poor Dan Heng alone. And yet here they are, gushing and tweaking out over the pure adrenaline of seeing a new side of the normally stoic and quiet member of the Express. To ease their now rioting mind, (Reader) closes their eyes in an attempt to sleep. But of course, that does not help. And instead, pictures and moments from the fight with ‘Phantylia’ kept playing over and over again. Fortunately, it wasn't all just frames of Dan Heng in his dragon form, but from how admirable he is for continuing to fight even though he could easily be exerting himself.

And that's one of the things that made (Reader) feel so fond of Dan Heng; For his constant determination and passion to protect everybody is just admirable, even if he gets hurt in the process.

..Which is why (Reader) suddenly feels the need to check-up on Dan Heng and make sure he’s okay.

Filled with an abrupt injection of energy, (Reader) springs out of bed and makes a quick trot down to Dan Heng’s room, filled with good intentions.

And yet they pause in front of his door, about to knock. They stop because… What if Dan Heng wanted to be alone? To think about all of the sins that he had to inherit from the previous ‘Imbibitor Lunae’? All of a sudden, (Reader)’s head gets heavy with guilt for lack of consideration on that part.

But to make themselves feel better, instead of making this an energetic pick-me-up for Dan Heng, (Reader) decides to just gently ask if Dan Heng needed anything. And so they knock.

Knock.

There was silence on the other side, but a small, tired ‘Come in’ was heard. (Reader), being ecstatic that Dan Heng seemed willing enough to let them in, quietly opened the door and peeked their head inside.

“Dan… Heng?” (Reader) starts off with a mellow voice. “You doing…” Their eyes glaze over Dan Heng, who is still in his Vidyadhara form for a few seconds. Those beautiful turquoise horns on the dark shade of his hair.. And that long mystical tail that curled around his body as he sat on the floor was just adorable and serene.

Shaking their head, (Reader) clears their throat softly. “..Al..right?” They finally finished as Dan Heng turned his head around.

And so, that's where his fatigue is clear. His face was a little gloomier than his normal gloomy, visible clues on him being very exhausted. Those greenish-blueish eyes were also glazed with overwhelming swirls. Stressed out this poor man. Truly.

Blinking and sighing, Dan Heng looked down at his crossed legs. “..I’m.. fine. Thank you for asking (Reader).” He responds, but just has that kind of vibe that he is clearly trying to make himself feel better and not have (Reader) worry about him.

Sensing absolute BS, (Reader) tilted their head as they ended up walking inside and closing his door behind them. “You sure? Cause it looks like you could drink some of Himeko’s coffee..” They joked, but quickly regretted it as it didn't seem like the right time to say that.

In response to that, Dan Heng only ‘Hmm'd' and didn't comment on (Reader) entering his room without explicit permission, which (Reader) subconsciously thanked.

The silence being so damn loud, (Reader) tries to then find some things to say or do that would lift Dan Heng’s spirits.

“..So…” (Reader) says a bit awkwardly. “..Do you need anything?”

“No thank you. Not at the moment.” Dan Heng responds with a firm tone that quickly falters to being a lazy and muttered response at the end.

“..Ah.” (Reader) nodded slowly.

At this point, they're just mentalling kicking themselves at how poorly planned out this little thing is becoming. Or well, didn't become since it’s been a literal wreck since (Reader) put their idea in motion.

“..I was just going to go back to meditating; Thinking about all of my newly shouldered responsibilities and stuff..” Dan Hend uttered as he sighed, staring back down on the floor.

Clearly he has been meditating for a long time, not physically sleeping or resting his sore body. (Reader) could very well see that.

“Okay well.. Couldn't you take a break from meditating for a little?” They suggest. “Maybe even catch some needed sleep..” (Reader) adds. But stop at that because it just sounds like they're bossing Dan Heng around.

However, the dragon didn't think so and looked up at (Reader) from the ground. “..MAybe you're right… But still. I have a lot on my mind and can't seem to relax.” He admits.

(Reader)’s heart pangs from feeling the heartfelt vulnerability coming from Dan Heng, as he really does try to handle things the best he could. So walk over and sit next to Dan Heng, also crossing their legs in that same kind of meditating position.

“Well, since you're tired and wanted to read, why don't I read whatever you need to you?” (Reader) offers with pure intentions.

Dan Heng’s face brightened up at the kind offer. “..How nice of you (Reader)..” He nodded appreciatively. Then shifted around and leaned back towards his small collection of books.

Tail moving out of his way, Dan Heng grabs a book about further research on ‘Synthesis’ or something. Handing (Reader) the book, Dan Heng leaned and relaxed on the floor, still in a restrictive ball.

(Reader) holds the book and shifts over to Dan Heng, but not too close. “A book on ‘Synthesis’..” They murmured in some amusement, then just opened up to a random page. “..Uhhh… ‘Omni-Synthesizer’ is used to create…”

And so for the next 10 minutes, (Reader) and Dan Heng both chill on the floor. (Reader) is much more energetic than the dragon, as the latter was just sitting there, listening along in silence as the tip of his tail flicked occasionally. But of course, things were getting repetitive, that was clear when (Reader) started to read with less energy. Even Dan Heng was nodding off to all of the ‘super intellectual information’ on the Omni-Synthesizer. Taking this as the cue to stop, (Reader) closes the book softly and sets it aside.

Sighing, (Reader) scoots up against the wall and rested their heavy on the shelf behind them. “Hah.. Sorry Dan Heng. But If I have to read ‘Omni-Synthesizer’ again I might knock myself out.” They apologized, looking at the horns on Dan Heng’s head first then at his tired face.

Dan Heng on the other hand, also followed in (Reader)’s lead, moving up and leaned against the shelf. “..It’s alright.”

“..So.. Do you feel more relaxed or..” (Reader) asks quietly, a yawn suddenly comes over them, so they just yawn into their hand. “..Cause I’m feeling tired again..”

At the question, Dan Heng’s tail sways back and forth on his floor, making no sound. “..I do feel.. Better, actually. Maybe I can actually sleep.” He sighs, feeling a little relieved and grateful for (Reader)’s help.

Smiling, (Reader) nodded and thought for a few seconds. They had an idea. A stupidly personal idea. But an idea. “..Yeah? Well uh,” They patted their lap with uncertainty. “...Maybe… A… HEAD MASSAGE would get you to fully relax??? You said before that you had a lot on your mind so why don't I smooth out those overwhelming feelings and thoughts?” (Reader) babbled.

Dan Heng stared blankly at the suggestion. Then sighed. “...Would that even work…?” He asks skeptically.

“..I don't know.” (Reader) admits sheepishly.

“Then it would be best to not try it. It might make my head hurt more.” Dan Heng said. Then looked away. He takes a deep sigh, seeming to calm his breathing.

Feeling a little embarrassed, (Reader) also looks away and at the lamp near his bed. “..Maybe you can't sleep because the light is on.” They say, reaching over then turned the lamp off.

Click.

The lights are off, and Dan Heng’s room suddenly turns dim. The only light source is coming from the radiating light from the nearby technology in the room.

Dan Heng makes no comments. And instead just sat there in silent brooding.

Silence again.

(Reader) thinks again and looks at Dan Heng once again in a side-glance. “..So.. How does having horns and a long tail feel?” They ask quietly.

Dan Heng looked over and looked away again. “It feels the same. I find myself not being able to feel them after a while.”

“Ah..” (Reader) slowly nods.

Awkward silence again.

“...So.. Were you always part of the Vidyadhara? Or did you just reconnect with…” (Reader) makes a confused hand gesture. Then dropped them, waving a hand. “..Nevermind.” They muttered at their dumb question.

However, Dan Heng paid no mind to it, and kept focusing on clearing his head. At this point, a few minutes pass with the heavy silence. And maybe from too many awkward moments, (Reader) starts dozing off. Or well, their head is going up and down repeatedly. Glancing over once again, Dan Heng looked up and down (Reader) and made a few shifts over. Their knees make contact and (Reader) jolted up and awake, only to be met with sudden weight on their lap; A pair of light blue eyes meet up and gaze at their own from below, and blinked tiredly, only to look off to the side.

(Reader) doesn't say anything at first, and just sits there stunned. And only did their attention hone in as one of Dan Heng’s horn things ghosted against their shirt. They stare and stare, Dan Heng stares and stares off to the side in return. Kind of an awkward action, but (Reader) makes do with it and slowly brings a hand to pat the top of Dan Heng’s head,

His hair is soft. It was visually longer, and more… Luscious?? Voluminous? Whatever it is, it’s satisfying to the touch, quickly making (Reader) addicted to petting it as weird as it sounds. Dan Heng just closed his eyes at the sensation, and does not reject or fuss about it. So (Reader) continued for a few more strokes and moved down to Dan Heng’s face.

Testing the waters, (Reader) makes a few pokes at his cheeks. Dan Heng makes a surprised grunt at first, but does not react any further.

So. Progress..? (Reader) stops poking and moves down to his chin, cupping the soft V-shape with their fingers, thumb rubbing up against his cheek. Dan Heng’s eyes remained closed, but slightly tensed at the newfound touch, but he ultimately leaned into (Reader)’s hand and made a shallow, relaxing sigh. But that ‘sigh’ comes out as some kind of… Purring noise.? Or the small, cute and soft ones that a cat would make.

(Reader) freezes, then resumes again. Who knew dragons could make such noises. Every few strokes and rubs on his cheeks produced similar meowlings, and caused some reaction in his tail - which swayed back and forth in a gradual pace, much like a feline.

Not sure how much time passed, (Reader) figured that this would be a good time to have Dan Heng take a nap and rest his body finally. Only to look down and find the Vidyadhara-being already dozing away, still leaning into their warm, soft touch with his smooth skin. (Reader) smiled to themselves, happy that they could finally have Dan Heng rest and get the sleep he deserved.

Dan Heng made another faint purring noise as he slept, and (Reader) had to hold back snickering.

Ironic how a majestic Vidyadhara could make such adorable noises while being comforted and sleeping soundly.

.・。.・゜✭・WRITTEN BY: vxxxvnii (email me for more direct contact: [email protected])

A/N: Please enjoy :3 Lmk if you guys like me or NOVA better /j SUPER LONG IM SORRY!!!! I was having a brain fart writing this

#x reader #honkai star rail x reader #dan heng x you #dan heng is sexy #dan heng x reader #imbibitor lunae #imbibitor lunae x reader #Imbibitor Lunae x you

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sirfluffletin · 19 hours ago

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Cuddling Hc Mafioso x iTrapped x Chance x Reader

I don't know what you did to get these three into bed with you, but whatever it was...Nice.

They all make a make a conscious effort to not leave you without an option for company for the night, but it happens sometimes. They’re all used to the nightlife, but when their trio becomes a quad they don’t want to assume it’s the same for you. So iTrapped tries not to isolate himself when Chance is busy, and Mafioso tries to be home at a certain time, that way you can get some affection when you feel the need. That said…it happens sometimes. Try not to give them a hard time they're trying.

Dates with the four of you are a bit of a goodiebag. iTrapped always wants some extravagance, so he really likes it when you, chance and Mafioso go big for him. The slight smile on his face when he takes in a beautifully decorated dinner table in the star-touched sky, in the luninous skyline is really something. Chance is far easier to please; he’s happy to do anything that involves some action. Mafioso on the other hand is harder to read; although he does has a fondness for the finer things in life, he also enjoys soft moments like walks through the parks and he's always looking for sibling for his fur baby so take him into a pet store, see what happens... If you accommodate their preferences, they make an effort to meet yours as well, regardless of price or difficultly to provide.

By the end of it, its up to what side of the city you are all on to determine who's bed you all fall into. Mafioso has multiple homes rented all over Robloxia, while Chance if he's not residing in one of his casino suites he's most likely in a hotel room for the night. iTrapped is the only of your lovers with a permanent residence, his safe haven and base of operation that he's so graciously allowed you all to take residence in is a spacious pristine- serial killer type clean (it's a bit scary it doesn't even look lived in) loft. Be greatful, and leave your dirty shoes at the door.

Bedtime cuddles will be the norm even when all of them aren't present, so feel free to snuggle up to whichever one of them you need to regulate your temperature at night. Mafioso runs hot, like a giant hairy heater, but iTrapped runs a bit cold while Chance is a good equilibrium between the two. Although Chance kicks off the blankets a lot, and iTrapped steals them, so expect all the sheets to migrate to one end of the bed throughout the night.

Although the attendance of your lovers may vary, sleeping positions will remain a constant through the relationship. It's a bit of an unspoken rule that Mafioso will only sleep on the edge of the bed so he is always ready for action and can spring out of bed whenever he needs to. You've come to the conclusion that it's a Mafia thing, that he has a overbearing need to protect 'his' people, there is always an arm outstretched over you and chance cradling you both into his chest whenever you're both in bed. iTrapped also sleeps on the edge of the bed but not for any sentimental protective reason, no, he just prefers not to be touched, well- of course there's a more tactful deeper reason behind this as well. He's prone to slipping out of bed in the dead of night, Mafioso is a very light sleeper so more often then not the two share very deep intimate talks, well more like iTrapped vents and rattled on about trivial affairs Mafioso listens. Quite attentively.

Then there is chance, he's the poster boy of going with the flow. Oh it's just you and him tonight? He'll be big spoon unless you want otherwise. iTrapped doesn't want to be touched tonight, cool, I'll sleep with my back to him. Chance can sometimes seem- for lack of better words 'One track minded' always betting, making predictions and sometimes it just seems he's in his own world but he's very attentive and perceptive, he has to be in his line of work. There would be multiple times in your relationship where you have an offhanded comment about needing to do something and he out of the rest of your partners would be the one to remind you.

Cuddling... Whoo!

I hope you enjoyed, as a little tid bit for anyone who cares enough to read this, I will be putting myself on a schedule mostly because

1. I am lazy and I will not write unless I'm literally holding myself at gunpoint

2. Because I often start new works without finishing previous ones

So my schedule will be as such.

Wanwood x Reader (Genesis) Jun/28

Chance x Reader (Coin Slot) Jun/29

Two Time x Angel! reader (Spawn Sent) Jun/31 @missspop (you are seen and heard I am working on it)

#forsaken x reader #forsaken #forsaken x y/n #forsaken x you #mafioso x chance #mafioso x reader #mafioso x iTrapped #chance x itrapped #chance x reader #chance x mafioso #itrapped x reader #itrapped x chance #itrapped x mafioso #itrapped forsaken #chance forsaken #mafioso forsaken

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sweet-pea-channie · 3 months ago

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Shadows of the Exile - Part 8

Azriel x female!reader

Summary: Y/N perfects a healing salve, determined to prove its effectiveness. After self-testing, she hopes to heal even deep scars. Meanwhile, Azriel struggles with her absence, missing her presence at the Town House. When she finally returns, an unspoken connection deepens between them.

Warnings: self-experimentation & medical procedures, mentions of scars & past injuries, emotional distress & isolation,

Word count: 3.9k

A/N: It's a short part, but an important one. Hope you like it!

series masterlist

Y/N took a deep breath as she carefully applied the cool salve with her fingertips. The gentle scent of the rare flower from the Spring Court, mixed with the earthy notes of the remaining ingredients, filled the room. She had spent the last month perfecting the formula—this time, she would not fail.

The transformation of the brew into a working salve had been a process that required precision. First, she had brewed the original mixture once more, meticulously ensuring that she removed it from the fire precisely on the sixth full moon. Then, she had thickened the liquid substance in a slow, careful process using a blend of beeswax and dragonroot essence. The temperature had to remain constant—one degree too hot or too cold, and the consistency would have been ruined. Finally, she had infused the mixture with a pinch of crushed moon herbs—a final, crucial step to stabilize its effects.

Now, after several days, she was testing the salve on herself. And that was the reason she hadn’t been at the Town House for so long. She couldn’t afford a mistake—not after spending a year developing this healing formula.

She ran her fingers over the spot on her forearm where she had applied the salve. Where there had once been a deep, deliberately made cut, only a thin, pale line remained. The healing process had been accelerated, almost in a way that resembled magic—but it wasn’t. This was science, combined with healing arts, a fusion of nature and alchemical precision.

A tremor ran through her fingers as she traced the healed skin. It worked. Her heart pounded faster as she turned the glass jar containing the remaining salve in her hands. She hoped this was finally the solution—that with this formula, she could heal more than just small wounds. Maybe... maybe one day, she could create something that even made scars disappear, something that could heal deeper injuries—ones even magic couldn’t completely erase.

A sigh escaped her as she leaned against the wooden table. She had hoped that neither Azriel nor Cassian would be away on a mission during this final, critical phase. If either of them had stormed into her clinic injured, she would have had to drop everything—just like last time. But this time, she had done it. No one had interrupted her, no one had come in badly wounded, demanding her full attention.

Azriel leaned against the doorframe of the Town House’s kitchen, his arms loosely crossed over his chest. His gaze rested on the table—more precisely, on Y/N’s untouched place. The chair remained empty, the plate untouched, as if it was an unspoken certainty that she wouldn’t show up tonight either.

Cassian had already given up asking about her. He knew Azriel had noticed—that she no longer came to meals regularly, that she barely spent time at the Town House anymore. But no one spoke of it. It was obvious she was busy with something, something important to her.

Azriel knew it mattered, that she had buried herself in something that demanded all her focus. But that didn’t mean it didn’t bother him. That there wasn’t this quiet pull in his chest, a dull ache every time he looked at her empty seat and wondered if she would return today.

Today was one of those nights.

He pushed himself off the wall, picked up his plate, and carried it back to the kitchen. Without another word, he disappeared into his room, closing the door behind him and letting the silence of the space settle around him.

The shadows in the corners of his room moved sluggishly, as if even his magic reflected his unrest. He sank into his chair, pulling one of the reports Rhysand had sent him closer. Routine work. Normally, he would have read through the lines with effortless concentration, but today… today, he read without truly absorbing the meaning of the words.

His gaze drifted to the candle on his desk. The flickering light cast long shadows on the wall, distorting the room’s contours. He rubbed his temple with two fingers and leaned back.

She will come when she is ready.

He knew he had to give her space. Y/N was someone who withdrew when she was working on something. Someone who only emerged when she was ready to share what she had been so obsessively perfecting. And he respected that.

But that didn’t mean it was easy.

He stood, stepping to the window. The night over Velaris was clear, the full moon casting a silver glow over the quiet streets. The city’s soft shimmer seemed colder tonight, less alive.

His jaw tightened.

Come home, Y/N.

He knew there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t push her, couldn’t go looking for her. All he could do was wait. And hope she returned soon.

Y/N sat on one of the low wooden stools in her small, makeshift workshop within the clinic. The cool night air drifted through the half-open window, while the candles on the table cast a gentle, flickering light over the five small salve tins.

Five attempts. Five possibilities.

She had already tested the first tin—the mixture with moon herbs. It had worked. The wound on her arm had nearly vanished, as if it had never existed. But now, the real test lay ahead.

Her fingers traced over one of the other tins. This one contained an additional ingredient—a rare essence known for its regenerative properties. She had blended it with one of the base components of the original salve, melted it down, stirred it until the mixture took on a silky, almost pearlescent consistency. This salve was different. Stronger. Maybe even dangerous.

A deep breath.

Y/N stood, the small jar in hand, and moved slowly toward the mirror in the corner of the room. The reflection staring back at her was one she had avoided for years. Her hands didn’t tremble—at least not outwardly. But inside, uncertainty pulsed, a heavy weight in her chest she could not shake.

She untied the laces of her top, let the fabric slip from her shoulders, and let it fall to the floor. Cold air brushed over her skin, raising goosebumps—but it wasn’t the chill that made her breath heavy.

It was the sight.

Slowly, she turned so that her back was visible in the candlelight.

Where her wings had once been, two large scars remained. They weren’t just pale, fine lines—no, the skin was uneven, thicker in some places, almost sunken in others. Where the flesh had healed, it was hardened, rough, reminiscent of old burn wounds. Scars that marked not just her body, but her soul.

Y/N’s throat tightened. She didn’t want to look. She wanted to forget.

But she couldn’t.

She took a deep breath, then opened the small tin in her hand.

The familiar scent of herbs, wax, and something light, fresh, rose to her nose. It carried memories—of long nights experimenting, of hopes and setbacks, of all the moments she had wondered if it was worth it. Her thumb brushed over the surface of the salve before she scooped up a small amount with two fingers.

Then, she touched the scars.

A faint tremor ran through her body as she carefully applied the cool salve to the scarred skin. Her fingers moved slowly, massaging the mixture in, feeling the unfamiliar sensation on a part of her body she so rarely touched. A place she avoided, a place she didn’t want to feel.

She held her breath.

And waited.

Seconds passed. Then a minute.

At first, there was nothing. No warmth, no tingling, no noticeable change. But then—a faint, barely perceptible pull beneath her skin.

Y/N’s heartbeat quickened.

It wasn’t pain, but it wasn’t exactly comfort either. It felt as though something was waking, as though nerves long silent were responding to a whisper. An echo from the past, reminding her body in a way she had thought impossible.

She looked into the mirror, searching for a change.

Nothing yet.

But she would wait.

She had to know if it worked.

If all the years of research, of experimenting, of hoping—if it had been worth it.

Slowly, she closed her eyes. Her fingers still rested on the scars.

And she waited.

Azriel sat at his desk, surrounded by reports and parchment scrolls, yet the words before him blurred, lost their meaning, became mere symbols on yellowed paper. The candles in his room burned down slowly, their wax dripping silently onto the tabletop, while his shadows stirred restlessly in the dark corners of the room. Normally, he would fully immerse himself in his work, spending hours poring over reports on enemy troop movements, espionage missions, or diplomatic negotiations without losing focus.

But not today.

Six days.

Six days since he had last seen Y/N.

His shadows had told him that she had spent almost all her time at the House of Wind, dividing her days between research and self-experimentation, barely taking a break. She ate, she rested, the house took care of her—but was that enough? Azriel knew how she was, how she lost herself in her work when something mattered to her. He knew she wouldn’t spare herself, not when she was finally on the verge of the breakthrough she had worked toward for so long.

He wanted to give her space. He respected her independence, her dedication. But that didn’t mean it was easy for him.

Sighing, he leaned back, rubbing his temples with two fingers. The dull headache that had been threatening for hours intensified, yet he knew it had nothing to do with his work.

Then—footsteps in the hallway.

Soft, deliberate. And then that familiar knock.

His door was open, but Y/N always knocked.

Azriel looked up. There she stood in the dim light of the hallway, and just the sight of her made something in his chest ease. She was here. Back.

He stood, pushing the reports aside, and stepped toward her.

"Do you have a minute?" Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

He studied her. She looked exhausted, but satisfied. Her entire posture spoke of the weight of the past days, but also of a success she had yet to put into words.

"For you, always."

They sat down on the edge of the bed, the wood creaking softly beneath them. For a moment, there was only silence between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that existed only between people who knew each other, who understood each other without the need for many words.

Then Y/N turned slightly toward him, looking directly at him.

"You know the flower we took from the Spring Court was efficient for something special I was working on, right?"

Azriel nodded slowly.

Without another word, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a small glass container. When she opened it, a brown, creamy substance came into view. A faint scent of fresh herbs and something sweet lingered in the air. Azriel observed it but said nothing.

"May I?" She reached out to him, and he let her.

He knew he shouldn’t. He knew he should pull away, as he always did. No one touched his scars. No one traced their fingers over the rough skin covering his hands, a testament to all he had endured.

But Y/N wasn’t "no one."

She had never looked at him with pity. Never with disgust. Never with the question of what exactly had happened.

And now, she touched him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if he weren’t broken.

Azriel felt it instantly.

The coolness of the salve, the gentle glide of her fingertips over his skin. It was a touch he wasn’t used to. No hesitation, no fear. Only warmth. Only care.

His mind screamed at him to pull away, to put on a mask of indifference. But his body did the opposite. He relaxed.

His shoulders lowered, the pressure on his chest eased slightly, and the faint trembling that ran through him wasn’t out of fear. Not out of resistance.

It was something else. Something he couldn’t name.

Y/N kept speaking, her voice soft as she massaged the cream into his skin.

"I tested this on myself the last few days, and I can confidently say that it’s successful. I can still refine the formula, but I think it’s good enough as it is."

He couldn’t help but look at her. Her eyes, her expression, the quiet determination in her voice. She was proud of what she had created, and yet there was that tiny flicker of uncertainty in her gaze. As if she were waiting for a reaction, for some sign that her work hadn’t been in vain.

Azriel felt the warmth spread beneath her touch. No burning. No pain. Just a subtle, pulsing warmth spreading beneath the scarred skin, as if something old, something long-rigid, was slowly loosening.

He didn’t know if it was the cream.

Or her.

A part of him wanted to say something. Wanted to find words for what was happening inside him, for the quiet pull in his chest that grew stronger the longer she touched him.

But instead, he just sat there. Felt. Allowed it. And maybe, maybe that was enough.

"I actually wanted to give this to you for Solstice."

Solstice.

She had made this for him. Not for a patient. Not for a mission. Not out of pure scientific interest.

For him.

Azriel swallowed, but his throat suddenly felt too dry to utter a single sound.

"But then everything with the incident and Rhys got in the way, and the cream wasn’t finished in time. And now I didn’t want to wait any longer and decided to give it to you now."

He couldn’t stop staring at her. Her voice was calm, a little hesitant, as if she wasn’t sure how he would react. "I always see how you rub your knuckles. And I know what it feels like when scar tissue rubs against certain spots."

His heart clenched. She had noticed.

The small, almost unconscious movements he made when the scarred skin on his fingers felt tight. How he often ran his thumb over it, sometimes without even realizing it.

"The cream won’t heal the scars, but it will ease the pain."

He heard her words, understood them—but all he could do was continue to stare at her.

Y/N hesitated. Her eyes searched his, concern flickering in them.

"Are you okay, Azriel? Does it hurt? I can take it off immediately, I—"

She moved, reaching for a cloth, but his hand shot forward, gripping hers.

"No, no, no, no."

His voice was rough, urgent. He held her hand tighter than he intended—as if he had to stop her from taking away this touch, this feeling, this moment.

"It doesn't hurt at all," he said quickly. "It feels quite nice, actually."

For a moment, silence stretched between them.

Then something in Y/N’s face softened, and a small, gentle smile flickered across her lips.

And Azriel … Azriel was suddenly no longer sure if it was really just the cream that felt so damn good.

Azriel slowly felt it—the tension in his hands easing.

He was used to his scars hurting, to the skin tightening when he curled his fingers into fists or gripped his blades for too long. He had never complained, had never really thought about the possibility that it could be different. It was just the way things were.

But now … Now, it felt as if something was loosening, as if the constant strain he had long stopped noticing was finally dissipating.

His grip on Y/N’s hand relaxed slightly, but he didn’t let go.

She didn’t seem to notice—or if she did, she didn’t show it. Instead, she took a bit more of the cream onto her fingertips and began to treat his other hand with the same care.

As she massaged the salve in, she continued speaking, and her voice held that light, cheerful undertone he heard far too rarely.

"The mixture was enough for five small jars."

Azriel watched her, listening as her fingers glided gently over his skin.

"One jar was designed to make cuts heal much faster. Faster than even my magic could. It’s phenomenal! You can take it with you to your mission to heal smaller cuts yourself."

Her eyes sparkled as she spoke, and Azriel knew—this was her passion. Her research, her knowledge, the way she created things to help others.

"Then I used the second jar for my own testing, and this one is now the third." She lifted a finger at him with a mock-stern look. "You have to use it sparingly. I only have one more jar left."

Azriel huffed softly—not in mockery, but in amusement. “You’re giving me something that works this well and then telling me to ration it?”

Y/N chuckled quietly as she worked the last remnants of the cream into his skin.

“The last jar, I refined it again with moon herbs, so it heals cuts. That way, I get more use out of it too.”

Azriel felt the warmth of her touch slowly fade as she pulled back, and his body almost protested the loss of it.

“And maybe,” she continued, “I can go back to Spring Court next year and look for the flower again. Then I can make even more.”

She sounded so determined, so certain that her work was far from over.

And Azriel…

Azriel had never wished so much for someone to just stay.

For someone to keep looking at him like that, to keep touching him like that—like he was worth caring for.

He moved his fingers cautiously, curling and uncurling his fist.

No pain.

Just warmth.

Just Y/N.

Since Azriel was still a little stunned and not saying anything, Y/N tilted her head playfully. “You’re really quiet. Is that a good sign? Or is the Shadowsinger having an existential crisis because someone actually made something for him?”

He let out an amused huff and just shook his head. “I’m just… surprised, that’s all.”

“Surprised that it works? Or surprised that I care about you?” She grinned mischievously, but her eyes studied him carefully.

He couldn’t hold her gaze for long, looking away instead, his fingers still flexing slightly. “Both.”

Y/N gently nudged his shoulder. “Idiot.”

He couldn’t help but laugh softly.

When Y/N finally closed the jar and stretched slightly—maybe a bit too abruptly after the long days at the House of Wind—her face twitched unconsciously.

Azriel, of course, noticed immediately.

“You’re exhausted.”

Y/N waved him off. “Just a little sore. Nothing I can’t handle.”

But Azriel didn’t think—he just acted.

Gently, almost hesitantly, he lifted a hand and placed it on her shoulder. His touch was careful, as if he was afraid she might pull away.

But she didn’t.

She only exhaled softly, like she was finally allowing herself to relax for the first time in days.

And Azriel realized he liked that feeling.

He didn’t pull his hand away immediately.

Y/N smiled at him—tired, but full of warmth.

“You should get some rest, Y/N.”

“I will. Just… let me sit here for a bit.”

And Azriel only nodded, like he understood without her needing to explain. He simply stayed with her. Maybe for a minute. Maybe longer. But it didn’t feel wrong. It felt just right.

Y/N rubbed her tired eyes and rolled her shoulders slightly. The long hours spent sitting, the intense focus on the smallest details of her salve—it had all settled into her muscles.

Azriel watched her in silence for a moment before he decided to speak. “You should lie down for a bit.”

She blinked at him. “I’m fine, Az. Really.”

He simply raised a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Humor me. Just for a while.”

She sighed quietly, but before she could protest, he added, “I’ll get you something to eat. You haven’t eaten properly in days, have you?”

Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it again. Of course, he had noticed.

“You like the cinnamon-almond pastries from that café near the Sidra, right?” He looked at her calmly, like it was the most natural thing in the world that he knew this. “I can get you some.”

Y/N’s lips curled into a tired smile. “Az, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to.”

Something warm spread through her chest, but before she could say anything, he added with a light, almost mischievous glint in his eyes, “And if you lie down right now, close your eyes, and actually do what I say for once, I’ll even bring you that other pastry you always get.”

Y/N frowned slightly. “What other pastry?”

Azriel’s mouth twitched. “The one you think no one notices you buying, but I do.”

She blinked. Then shook her head in disbelief. “Of course you do. Spymaster and all.”

He shrugged, as if it was obvious.

She laughed softly. “Okay, fine. But only because you bribed me.”

“Good.”

Y/N stood up, intending to return to her own room, but Azriel stopped her with a gentle shake of his head. “Stay here. Just rest. I’ll be back soon.”

Something in his quiet voice, in the unspoken promise within it, made her pause.

Y/N slowly removed her boots and placed them neatly at the foot of the bed before sinking backward. Her limbs felt heavy as she pulled the blanket over herself, curling into the soft, familiar fabric.

The bed smelled like Azriel, like the space he so often occupied—cool, mysterious, but somehow comforting.

She let out a quiet, content sigh as she nestled in, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. The day had been long, her eyes burned with exhaustion, and she felt utterly drained. But it was a good exhaustion—the kind that only asked for a moment of rest before diving back into the storm.

With one last glance at Azriel, who was still standing in the doorway, she grinned. “You better wake me only if the pastries are still warm. Otherwise, let me sleep. And don’t wake me unless it’s something really important.”

Azriel stared at her for a moment, his lips twitching into that mischievous smile she knew so well. He shook his head slightly, as if to say she could never hide anything from him. But then he simply nodded. “I won’t wake you. You rest. But if you sleep too long, I’ll eat all of them myself.”

Y/N laughed softly, already half-buried in the pillow. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Azriel only grinned and stepped back, closing the door quietly behind him. But as he took one last glance into the room, he couldn’t help but watch her—how she curled up so peacefully under his blanket, how her features softened as if she was finally allowing herself to let go.

It was a moment of stillness, one just as unfamiliar to him as it was to her.

But before he could let himself dwell on it, he turned silently and left—to bring her what she wanted.

Taglist: @princesssunderworld @tele86 @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @rose-girls-world @iluvyewman-blog @gluecksbaerchieee @lreadsstuff

Want to be added? Let me know! :)

#acotar #acotar series #azriel #azriel acomaf #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar series #azriel x reader #a court of thorns and roses #rhysand #acotar fanfic #cassian #rhysand acotar #cassian acotar #feyre #feyre acotar

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