#Sleeve and Tray Boxes

[itendtothinkalot]

u talk, i listen

summary: you’re loud, dramatic, and one emotional spiral away from a breakdown. he’s quiet, calm, and allergic to unnecessary words. at first, you drive him insane but maybe that’s part of your charm. you make the chaos, and he makes sure you don’t burn the whole world down with it.

genre: fluff | hyper gf x calm bf

characters: sunghoon x f!reader

words: 13k

warnings: none i think!

The first time you met Park Sunghoon, you’re pretty sure he hates you.

To be fair, it was your first day, and Ni-ki—who you knew for exactly ten minutes—told you pressing the green button on the espresso machine would help "wake it up."

It did not.

Instead, it made the machine scream, shoot steam into your face, and sent you stumbling backward with a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dying goose. A tray of croissants nearly went down with you.

“OH MY GOD—Ni-ki!” a voice shrieked from somewhere near the pastry display.

You coughed, flailed, and possibly cried, when someone silently reached past you and switched the machine off with a flick of his wrist. No words. Just calm, collected competence. The kind that makes you feel even more like a human disaster.

You looked up—and saw him. Park Sunghoon.

He’s quiet. Like, unnervingly quiet. Dressed in black from head to toe with his sleeves rolled just enough to show his veins (rude), and eyes that flick to you once before looking away again. Not a single word. Just a blank expression like you’re a fly he’s choosing not to swat.

“Don’t mind him,” Sunoo said, swooping in with a comforting hand on your shoulder. “That’s Sunghoon. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s not mean. I promise.”

“I didn’t say he was mean,” you muttered, still trying to rearrange the croissants you nearly obliterated.

“You thought it, though,” Sunoo grinned, like he’s already read your soul.

Meanwhile, Ni-ki was cackling in the corner, filming your breakdown for "training purposes."

Sunghoon, still wordless, wiped the steam wand clean, glanced once at the mess you’ve made, then—finally—muttered, “You shouldn’t listen to Ni-ki.”

His voice was soft, low. Dangerous. Like he only spoke when absolutely necessary.

You blinked. “Thanks for the early intel.”

He looked at you again. Longer this time.

And then, he walked away.

No other words. Just disappeared behind the back counter like you were the one who interrupted his day.

“…So anyway!” Sunoo chirped, practically dragging you away, “Let’s get you trained before you break anything else, hmm?”

You glanced back once, just in time to see Sunghoon glance over his shoulder at you.

He looked away first.

And for some reason… that annoyed you.

—

You’d worked four shifts now. Sunoo was basically your fairy godmother, Ni-ki was your unpaid therapist-slash-chaos agent, and Sunghoon?

Sunghoon was still a cardboard box with perfect skin.

He didn’t talk to you unless he had to. Didn’t smile unless he was laughing at something Sunoo said. Didn’t even look at you unless you were actively on fire, and even then, you weren’t sure he’d do more than mildly raise an eyebrow.

Which was extra annoying because somehow he was also weirdly funny. When he talked to Ni-ki or Sunoo, he’d drop the driest one-liners out of nowhere, and suddenly everyone was on the floor laughing. You tried to talk to him? Nothing. Crickets. Maybe a blink, if you were lucky.

You were cleaning the counter one evening when you caught him saying something to Ni-ki, low and casual, and Ni-ki absolutely lost it.

“Okay, that was actually good,” Sunoo wheezed. “Where was that energy earlier when she knocked over the milk?”

“She was already dying,” Sunghoon replied. “Didn’t need to bury her.”

Your head snapped up. “Excuse me?!”

He looked at you, slow and lazy, like he was surprised you heard. “It’s a compliment.”

“How is that a compliment?”

He shrugged. “You’re resilient.”

You stared. “I—what—resilient?! I tripped over my own shoelace!”

“I noticed.”

Sunoo clapped a hand over his mouth like he was about to implode.

You blinked at Sunghoon. He blinked back.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re so—”

He lifted a brow. “You’re loud.”

You opened your mouth, but Sunoo threw an arm around your shoulders like he was trying to defuse a bomb.

“Okayyy! Let’s all take a breath,” he sang. “Some of us process friendship through gentle banter and others process it by… doing whatever it is Sunghoon does... verbal sparring?”

“I’m not sparring,” Sunghoon said, already walking away.

You glared at his back. “You never spar. You just vanish.”

“Exactly,” he called over his shoulder.

You looked at Sunoo. “I don’t get him.”

Sunoo just smiled. “You will.”

You really thought you wouldn’t—until God bestowed upon you a tragic prophecy, disguised as the café schedule for the following week.

Mon–Fri Closing Shift (5PM–11PM): YOU + SUNGHOON

You stared and blinked, rubbed your eyes, tried processing.

Sunghoon saw it at the same time you did.

“…No,” he said flatly.

You crossed your arms. “Wow. Good to see you too.”

“Sunoo,” he called toward the kitchen. “Switch me. Please.”

“Nope!” Sunoo’s voice floated back. “You’ll thank me later!”

You both stared at the schedule like it had personally offended you. Then—slowly—at each other.

This was going to be a long week.

—

Monday was… quiet.

You tried to make conversation—about the playlist, the new coffee beans, even the weather—but Sunghoon gave you absolutely nothing. Just a few nods and hums, like you were a podcast playing in the background.

You swore he spent more time restocking stirrers than actually speaking to you.

You huffed under your breath, finding him impossible to work with. The shift felt ten hours longer than it actually was, and you were convinced the silence was slowly killing your soul.

As the evening dragged on, you caught him sitting at the back counter, pulling out a laptop in between cleaning duties. You tried not to be nosy—but it was hard not to peek.

Tabs upon tabs of schoolwork were open on his screen—assignments, lecture slides, even a color-coded spreadsheet. You blinked. Huh. Sunghoon was more hardworking than you’d expected. You thought he was just the type to show up, do his job, and disappear back into the void—but here he was, typing away like the shift never even ended.

You munched on your dinner, a sad slice of pizza you grabbed from down the street during your break. The cheese had hardened and the crust was borderline cardboard, but it was food. You leaned against the counter, chewing quietly, when you realized—

Sunghoon hadn’t eaten anything. Not since the two of you started at five.

You watched him from the corner of your eye, fingers tapping against his keyboard, face unreadable in the glow of his screen.

You opened your mouth. “Hey, do you—” But you stopped yourself. Closed it again.

He’d probably just get annoyed. Or say no in that flat, disinterested way of his. And then you’d feel stupid. Still, you kept glancing over at him, stealing quick looks in between bites. At one point, you noticed his hands pressing lightly against his stomach, like he was trying to ignore it. His expression didn’t change, but the movement said enough.

He was probably hungry. You looked down at the last bite of pizza in your hand and sighed.

Tuesday, you decided, would be different.

Tuesday, you showed up with an extra sandwich from the convenience store.

You didn’t say anything. Just slid it across the counter around 7PM, because the night before, he hadn’t eaten dinner and you weren’t about to let him pass out mid-espresso pull.

He stared at the sandwich. Then at you.

You raised a brow. “You didn’t eat yesterday.”

He blinked. “…Okay.”

“You’re welcome.”

You didn’t hear a thank you. But he didn’t give it back either.

Progress.

Wednesday, there was a cup of noodles in your locker.

Just sitting there. No note. No explanation. Just… sitting.

You marched up to Sunghoon, holding it in your hands like evidence. “Did you put this in my locker?”

He looked at the cup noodle. Then at you. Then blinked, deadpan. “…No.”

“Really.”

He shrugged.

You squinted at him.

He walked away.

You were this close to launching the noodle at the back of his head. Instead, you ate it. And maybe smiled. A little.

Thursday, you both brought each other dinner. At the same time.

You froze at the counter, holding out your plastic bag just as he set his down.

“…I got you something,” you said.

He stared at your bag. Then gestured to his. “So did I.”

You glanced at each other, at the food, and then away.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

He nodded. “Mm.”

You caught the tiniest tug at the corner of his mouth as he turned around.

You smiled too. But only when he wasn’t looking.

Friday, you didn’t expect anything. You were restocking the fridge when you heard it:

“Hey.”

You turned around, startled. “What?”

Sunghoon was standing there, one hand on the fridge door, the other in his pocket. His voice was quiet, like he was testing it out on you for the first time.

“I—uh,” he started, eyes flicking to yours, then away. “You always wear that hair clip. The pink one. With the sparkles.”

You blinked. “Yeah?”

He nodded slowly. “I thought it was dumb at first.”

“Okay…?”

“But now it’s kinda…” He paused, scratched the back of his neck. “I dunno. Cute, I guess.”

You stared at him.

“Forget it,” he muttered, moving past you.

“No wait,” you said, stepping into his path, a slow grin spreading across your face. “Did you just say I’m cute?”

He didn’t look at you. “I said the clip is cute.”

“That I’m wearing.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Sunghoon thinks I’m cute~” you sang, spinning in a circle while he groaned and walked away.

But you caught it—right before he turned around completely.

The smile. The real one.

And for the first time all week, you were pretty sure… he might have liked you back.

The silence didn’t feel heavy anymore. It wasn’t awkward. Just quiet. Comfortable. Like a pause instead of a wall.

You were sweeping. He was mopping. The usual end-of-shift rhythm. You hummed a song under your breath—something from the café playlist that had been looping for hours. He didn’t comment on it this time. Just kept mopping in sync with you.

The air smelled like cleaning solution and vanilla syrup. The lights were dimmed to their soft closing hour glow. Outside, the city buzzed quietly under the street lamps.

Then you heard it—his voice. Low. Careful.

“I hear you’re starting college soon.”

You blinked, glancing up from your broom. He wasn’t looking at you, just focusing on a coffee stain near the back corner of the café.

“Yeah,” you said. “Orientation’s next week.”

He nodded once. “Same.”

You stopped sweeping. “Wait—seriously?”

He nodded again, this time glancing at you. “Business major?”

“Yeah. Are you—”

“Same.”

You stared. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head, mouth twitching like he couldn’t believe it either. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”

You couldn’t help it—you grinned. “Wow. And I thought this week was the end of my suffering.”

He smirked, just a little. “Mutual, believe me.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks felt warm. “This is gonna be weird.”

“Probably.”

You leaned against your broom, tilting your head. “What if we get put in the same class?”

“I’ll transfer out.”

You laughed. Actually laughed. And the look on his face softened in that tiny, quiet way he did sometimes—like a blink-and-you-miss-it moment of fondness.

“So,” you said, brushing past him on your way to put the broom away, “does this mean we’re friends now?”

He paused. Looked at you.

Then—“You’re loud.”

You turned around, walking backward. “Not a no~”

He rolled his eyes. But he didn’t say no.

—

Your first day of college started in a lecture theatre that looked like it belonged in a movie.

Wide rows of tiered seats. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A massive screen at the front welcoming new students with a generic but oddly comforting "Welcome, Future Leaders!" banner.

You slid into a seat at the back row, instinctively avoiding the eager clusters forming near the front. It was still early, and the place buzzed with chatter, nerves, and the rustle of free tote bags and pamphlets.

You opened one of the pamphlets a student ambassador had handed you earlier and scanned it while sipping on the last of your bottled tea. Campus map. Co-curricular activities. After-school programmes. There was even a flowchart on how to balance academic and personal development. It was cheesy, but a part of you—the part that studied like hell to get here—felt… proud. You belonged here. You were surrounded by people who cared just as much as you did.

You let out a small sigh, the kind that came from contentment, then finally looked up—

And blinked.

Sunghoon was walking toward you.

Brown coat sweeping behind him. A scarf looped casually around his neck. Glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, framing his face in a way that made him look straight out of a campus brochure. He carried two cups of coffee in one hand, the sleeves of his coat pushed just enough to reveal the band of his watch.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just placed one of the cups in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stared at it. Then at him.

“…You stalking me now?”

Sunghoon raised a brow. “You’re sitting in the back row. That’s the least stalkable seat.”

“Mm,” you hummed, smirking as you took the coffee anyway. “So you do want to be friends.”

He slid into the seat beside you. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” You raised the cup. “Acts of service. Love language. I’m flattered.”

He gave you a look. “It’s just coffee.”

“And glasses,” you added, gesturing to his face. “You’re really committing to the college-boy aesthetic, huh? Next you’re gonna pull out a book of poetry.”

He rolled his eyes, but you didn’t miss the way his lip twitched like he was holding back a smile. “You’re annoying.”

You took a sip. It was warm. Slightly sweet. Exactly how you liked it.

“And yet,” you said, nudging his arm with your elbow, “here you are.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked ahead at the empty podium, his fingers wrapped around his own cup. But his shoulder stayed against yours—light, steady, unbothered.

And you… didn’t move away.

Then, the two of you were a part of a routine.

Ever since you both found out you were classmates, Sunghoon would wait in the apartment lobby every morning with a drink in hand—tea or coffee, depending on how late you texted him the night before.

Before 12AM? Chamomile. After 12? Iced latte, extra pumps of vanilla. No questions asked.

It had been a whole month of college, and while you were still adjusting, you were glad you had Sunghoon. (More like—Sunghoon was glad he had you.)

You were outgoing. People liked you, drawn in by your energy. Sure, you could be shy at first, but once you warmed up, you were easily the heart of any group. Loud. Expressive. A little dramatic. And though Sunghoon called you irritating more times than you could count, he couldn’t deny it was part of your charm.

Part of why he noticed you in the first place.

Now here you were—walking side by side, warm drink in hand, on your way to your first class of the day. You were mid-story about something ridiculous your professor said in a group chat. Sunghoon just walked quietly beside you, listening.

And somehow, that felt like the best part of your morning.

You were walking across the quad with Sunghoon, your cup in one hand, rambling about something dumb from class when a football came flying almost knocking you out.

A second later, a tall guy sprinted into your path, trying to catch it—and collided right into you.

You gasped, stumbling back, but before you could even register what happened, Sunghoon had already pulled you aside, his hand wrapping firmly around your arm, shielding you behind him.

“Shit—sorry!” the guy said, breathless, catching the ball. His cap was turned backwards, and strands of his hair stuck to his forehead from running. He looked at you, eyes wide. “You okay?”

You nodded, eyes locking with his.

He smiled.

And for a moment, your heart stuttered.

He was cute. Really cute. Sharp jaw, dimpled grin, that kind of effortless charm that made you forget what you were saying.

“I—uh, yeah. All good,” you mumbled.

Sunghoon’s hand slowly dropped from your arm. You didn’t notice. You were still looking at Yeonjun.

He looked at you too. “I’m Yeonjun, by the way.”

You smiled, just a little. “Nice to meet you.”

Sunghoon stood still beside you, silent as ever.

But he saw it.

The look. The smile. The way you laughed, a little softer than usual. The way Yeonjun’s eyes lingered when he handed you back the drink you almost dropped.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything.

He just looked away.

—

Yeonjun showed up at the café on a Friday afternoon, all sunshine and charm, and you were too busy juggling orders to notice him at first—until he waved from the counter with that same boyish smile.

Your eyes lit up. “Oh my god—hey!”

He leaned over casually, glancing at the menu. “Didn’t know you worked here. I guess I’ll have to stop by more often.”

Meanwhile, across the room, Sunghoon sat at a corner table with a textbook open in front of him and an untouched iced americano beside it. According to him, he was there to study. According to Sunoo, he was there to “keep an eye out for Selenur.” (Sunoo’s thoughtful codename for you, since he was very sure Sunghoon had a “thing” for you)

Sunghoon told him to shut up.

Now, he watched silently as you and Yeonjun exchanged numbers, your head tilted toward the screen, smile wide. He saw Yeonjun grin, say something that made you laugh, and hand you his phone.

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened.

Not my problem, he told himself, eyes flicking back to his textbook. Not. My. Problem.

You walked over seconds later, practically skipping, still holding your phone like it was made of gold. “Can you believe it? He asked me out!”

Sunghoon didn’t look up.

You slid into the seat across from him anyway, hitting his arm repeatedly with giddy little slaps. “Sunghoon. He asked. Me. Out!”

He sighed, finally meeting your eyes. “Stop hitting me.”

“Sorry,” you giggled, not sorry at all. “I’m just excited!”

He watched you bounce in your seat, hair bouncing with you, eyes sparkling like you just won the lottery. He hated to admit how adorable you looked when you were like this. But he had a reputation. And emotions. And he was firmly committed to ignoring both.

Still. Something didn’t sit right.

Sunghoon had done a little digging after the football incident. Nothing crazy. Just… a casual scroll through Instagram. And maybe a few archived posts. Some comments. A look at mutuals. Purely for research.

Yeonjun was a third-year business major. A senior. Popular. Handsome. And according to a few posts Sunghoon definitely did not save—someone who changed girlfriends like he changed outfits.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t like him.

Not for you.

But what did he know?

He looked down, turning a page in his textbook. Not my problem, he chanted in his head.

Definitely not.

—

Sunghoon stood in the apartment lobby, one hand tucked in his coat pocket, the other holding your usual coffee order. He checked his phone for the time, glanced toward the elevator—then froze.

You stepped out, smile already bright, your phone in one hand and the hem of your dress held lightly in the other. It was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen you wear—soft fabric that fell just above your knees, cinched slightly at the waist, the color making your skin glow. Your hair was styled, subtle makeup dusted across your cheeks, and your lips were curved in that effortless way that made it suddenly very hard to breathe.

You looked… gorgeous.

His heart did something stupid in his chest, but he quickly cleared his throat and looked away, pretending to be fascinated by the vending machine.

“How do I look?” you asked, voice playful.

He didn’t meet your eyes. “The same,” he muttered.

“Oh,” you said quietly. “Do I?”

You sighed, and he heard the disappointment in it—saw the way your shoulders dropped just slightly.

Guilt hit him instantly.

“In a good way,” he added quickly, almost too quickly.

You blinked. “Huh?”

He finally looked at you, then down at the coffee he was still holding. “You look… pretty today.”

He cleared his throat and shoved the cup toward you before you could say anything else. Then he turned and started walking first, trying to escape the inevitable teasing.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, you smiled behind your cup and jogged up to walk beside him.

“Why are you dressed like that?” he asked after a few beats of silence.

“My date with Yeonjun’s today,” you said with a grin.

His step faltered for a split second. “You like him that much?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know about like, but… it’s just—I’ve never been asked out before.”

You tilted your head as you said it, your voice soft. Honest.

Sunghoon frowned. “I’m surprised.”

“What’s so surprising?” you laughed. “You’ve met me. Everyone’s either calling me loud or annoying.”

“Isn’t that what’s so charming about you?”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

You turned to him, eyes wide, mouth parting. “Did you just—compliment me?”

“No,” he said immediately, gaze fixed ahead like it never happened.

You didn’t press it.

You just smiled again, even softer this time, and walked beside him like nothing had changed.

But for Sunghoon… everything had.

—-

The date started off… nice. Not mind-blowing. Not movie-level magical. But nice.

Yeonjun took you to a rooftop café near campus—fairy lights strung across the ceiling, soft music humming under the chatter. He pulled your chair out like a gentleman, complimented your dress, and told you you looked beautiful in the golden hour light. You laughed, cheeks warm, nerves fluttering. You weren’t used to this. To being seen.

“You know,” he said between sips of his coffee, “I heard you got into the business faculty because of some competition?”

You nodded, a little surprised. “Yeah. The Young Entrepreneurs’ thing in my final year.”

“That’s so impressive,” he said, leaning forward with a glint in his eye. “You must have had a really solid proposal. What was it about?”

You blinked. “Um… a sustainable student-run café model. With profit-sharing incentives and local sourcing.”

Yeonjun’s smile widened. “That’s genius. Seriously. Are you using it for any of your current modules?”

You hesitated. “Well… sort of. I’m reworking the model for this semester’s proposal project.”

He nodded slowly. “Wow. You must be at the top of your class already.”

There was a pause. You tried to smile, but something twisted in your gut. He kept asking—about the proposal, your outline, your ideas. Details most people would only bring up if they were in your group, or at least interested in the topic.

You excused yourself to go to the bathroom. The second the door closed behind you, you leaned against the sink, staring at yourself in the mirror. Something about this didn’t feel right. You couldn’t place it, but the way he kept circling back to your work felt… off.

When you returned, Yeonjun was all smiles again. Charming. Sweet. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just gently interrogated you for thirty minutes under the glow of fairy lights.

You tried to shake it off.

The next day, your phone stayed quiet. And the day after that. And the one after that, too.

No texts. No calls. No explanation.

Yeonjun ghosted you. Completely. Like the date never happened. Like you never happened.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t like you were in love with him. That it was just one date. One boy.

But it still stung.

It wasn’t about Yeonjun, not really. It was about what it made you wonder.

Maybe you were hard to like. Maybe you were too loud. Or too awkward. Maybe you talked too much, or didn’t say the right things. Maybe you weren’t pretty enough. Or cool enough. Or quiet enough.

He smiled at you. Told you you were smart. Sweet. Pretty. And still—he left. Without a word.

And it made you wonder if all the things people always said about you were true. If deep down, you were too much of everything… and not enough of anything.

You didn’t even like Yeonjun like that, not really. But being left behind like you didn’t matter—that part hurt more than you'd ever admit out loud.

Especially when all you did was try to be yourself.

Then came the worst part.

You were working on a different assignment, digging through your laptop for a reference doc when you realized… your final business proposal was gone.

Completely gone.

You stared at the empty folder for a long, frozen second. Then searched again. And again. You turned the whole desktop inside out, but the file wasn’t there.

Panic bloomed in your chest. You didn’t delete it. You never would.

Desperate, you made your way to the engineering block where your friend Heeseung was camped out, headphones around his neck and an energy drink half-empty beside him.

You dropped beside him and wordlessly shoved your laptop in front of him.

“I think my file’s gone,” you muttered. “Like—gone gone.”

Heeseung frowned, pulling the laptop toward him. Fingers flying across the keyboard. You sat still, breath caught in your throat.

After a few minutes, he leaned back in his chair.

“It says here your laptop’s last file access was through a thumbdrive. Someone plugged one in, moved your business proposal, then took it out.”

You stared at him.

“What?” you said. Your voice barely above a whisper.

He clicked again, tilting the screen. “Time stamp says it happened the day before yesterday. Around 8:42 PM.”

Your mind flicked back.

Yeonjun. That was the night of your date.

No. No way. He wouldn’t— He couldn’t—

But the timing fit. The questions. The ghosting.

No. No fucking way.

—

You were pissed.

You wiped the counters with a little too much force, angrily scrubbing at invisible stains like they personally betrayed you. The blender hadn’t even been used today, but you cleaned it twice. You huffed. You sighed. You muttered curses under your breath while flinging dishrags and slamming cabinet doors just a bit harder than necessary.

Sunghoon stood at the sink, quietly washing mugs like you were a rabid animal he didn’t want to startle.

“I—” he started.

You grunted.

“You—”

You sighed.

He blinked. You hadn’t let him get out a full sentence all shift. At this point, you were acting like him, and he was the one trying to initiate conversation.

It was terrifying.

Thirty minutes of silence passed before you finally spoke.

“You know what I hate about men?”

Sunghoon froze mid-dry. He glanced down at his own very male hands. Great. He was framed by default.

“You people,” you said, voice rising, “and your terrible innate sense of justice.”

You slammed the rag down onto the counter. “Stealing a person’s work? Pfft. How stupid do you have to fucking be?!”

Sunghoon stayed quiet, lips pressed into a thin line. He had no idea what you were going on about—only that your date with Yeonjun clearly didn’t go well.

He opened his mouth to say something, but you waved a wet dishcloth in his face like a white flag of fury.

“And you know what else?” you went on, eyes blazing. “You people are just little gremlins who take. And take. And take.”

You let out another heavy sigh, leaning against the counter like you were carrying the weight of all modern betrayal.

“And for what?!”

Your voice hit a pitch so sharp that Sunghoon actually flinched. He snapped upright like you’d physically struck him.

“I’m guessing the date didn’t go so well?” he offered carefully.

“He stole my business proposal.”

Sunghoon paused. “…What do you mean?”

You exhaled through your nose like a dragon mid-breakdown, pacing the space behind the counter as you told him everything. The date. The weird questions. The missing file. The thumb drive. Heeseung’s diagnosis. The awful, dawning realization.

By the time you were finished, Sunghoon just stood there—speechless. Stunned.

“He’s an… asshole,” he said finally, slow and deliberate, like he needed to taste each word before letting it out.

“Yuhuh,” you mumbled, flopping into the stool behind the register and dragging your hands down your face. “What am I gonna do? The deadline’s on Friday. I spent two weeks on that thing. I’m screwed.”

Sunghoon reached for the industrial bag of coffee beans under the counter, tearing it open like this was a normal Tuesday. “Well, it’s not like you can sneak into his house and steal his laptop back.”

You froze.

“…Come again?”

Sunghoon paused, one hand still buried in the bag. “No. That was just a comment. Not an idea.”

“But a good one.” You turned toward him slowly, a little too bright. A little too smiley.

He narrowed his eyes. “No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“You have to help me.”

“Why me?!”

“Because you gave me the idea!”

Sunghoon sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. Like he already knew he was going to give in but had to fight for the sake of his pride.

“You’re lucky I don’t believe in karma,” he muttered.

You grinned, victory written all over your face. “So that’s a yes?”

—

It was 3:07AM when Sunghoon found himself walking through a quiet residential street, questioning every decision that had brought him to this point.

The address you’d sent him earlier lit up on his screen. He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, exhaling into the chilly night, when—

“Psst!”

He turned his head toward a cluster of trees—and nearly jumped out of his skin.

You were crouched behind a bush, donned in an all-black ensemble: black beanie, oversized black hoodie, black jeans, and…

“Slippers?” he blinked.

You grinned, proud. “I see you noticed the vibe. I’m dressed up as a burglar.”

Sunghoon stared. “…Isn’t that a little on the nose?”

“Isn’t it cute?” you whispered, excited. “I got it all on sale just now.”

“At what? A Target for burglars?”

You swatted his chest with the back of your hand, ignoring the way he flinched with a low sigh.

“There,” you said, pointing toward the modest two-story house across the street. “That’s his house.”

“Okay, and what’s your—” You swat him again.

“Our plan?” he corrected, exasperated.

You beamed. “Glad you asked. See that room on the second floor? With the string lights and the cracked window?”

He squinted. “Yeah?”

“My intel says that’s his room.”

“…Your intel. You mean, Sunoo?”

“Yes.” You wiggled your brows mysteriously before turning serious. “So. We put up the ladder. I climb. I sneak in. I get the laptop. We disappear.”

“You’re actually insane for this,” he muttered under his breath.

You ignored him, eyes locked on the prize. “The windows are open, and I made sure he’s distracted tonight.”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. “How exactly?”

“I texted him from a fake number pretending to be a girl he ghosted last semester. He’s currently having a breakdown about his ‘reputation.’ I give us twenty minutes.”

He stared at you like you’d grown a second head.

And then he sighed. Deep. Long. Existential.

Is this worth it? He thought to himself.

He glanced down at you again—eyes full of unhinged determination, your hoodie sleeves bunched at your wrists, that tiny pout on your lips as you tried to judge the ladder distance.

God. You looked ridiculous. And cute.

So yeah. It was worth it.

“…Let’s do this,” he said.

You grinned like the gremlin you were. “I knew you liked me.”

He rolled his eyes, cheeks just a little too warm. “Regretting this already.”

But he followed you anyway.

—

You set the ladder against the side of the house like you’d done this before. Sunghoon, meanwhile, stood beside it with the stiff posture of someone definitely not okay with committing a crime at 3:15AM.

You looked back at him. “Hold it steady, okay?”

“Just… for the record,” he muttered, “this is breaking and entering.”

“I prefer the term justice retrieval.”

He sighed so hard you thought his soul left his body. “Just don’t fall and die. Please.”

You winked. “Aw, you care.”

“No, I just don’t want to explain to the police why you’re dressed like a criminal and wearing slippers.”

You began to climb.

The first few steps were fine—until one of your slippers nearly slipped right off.

“Oh, fuck—” you hissed, gripping the ladder.

“Do you need to wear those?” Sunghoon whisper-yelled from below, clutching the base of the ladder like his life depended on it.

“They’re comfy!”

“They’re a hazard.”

You ignored him, determined, as you reached the second-floor window. The breeze fluttered through the half-open pane, moonlight pooling gently across Yeonjun’s empty room. His laptop sat on the desk, closed. Glowing faintly.

Target acquired.

You carefully pushed the window open wider and swung one leg through.

Sunghoon watched from below, jaw tight, muttering to himself like a man saying his last prayers. “This is how I go down. Helping a girl in bunny slippers commit theft.”

You managed to slide inside without knocking anything over. Heart pounding. Hands slightly shaking.

You tiptoed across the carpet, grabbed the laptop, and slipped it into your drawstring bag like the world's most underqualified spy.

You were halfway back out the window when—

“HEY! WHO’S THERE?!”

A voice rang out from somewhere downstairs.

Your eyes widened. You turned to look down at Sunghoon, who was still grabbing the bottom of the ladder.

“Go, go, go—!” you whispered harshly.

You clambered down the ladder as fast as you could, nearly taking Sunghoon out as you reached the bottom. He caught your wrist before you could stumble, pulling you into a sprint without a word.

Your feet pounded against the pavement—slippers slapping, bag bouncing, hearts racing. Behind you, a door slammed open.

“HEY!” Yeonjun’s voice echoed into the street.

Sunghoon didn’t slow down. “Left!” he hissed.

You turned sharply, ducking into a narrow alley between two quiet apartment buildings. The shadows swallowed you both instantly.

“Over here—quick,” he muttered, yanking you behind a large trash bin and squeezing into the tight space beside you. It was small. Barely enough for one person, let alone two.

You pressed your back to the wall, chest heaving, adrenaline thrumming in your ears.

Sunghoon’s face was too close. Way too close.

You turned to whisper something, only to notice the way his profile was still partially visible, his cheek nearly poking out past the safety of the shadow. Panic surged through you as Yeonjun’s footsteps grew louder.

Without thinking, you reached out and grabbed Sunghoon’s face—gentle but urgent—and pulled him toward you, forcing him deeper into the corner.

He blinked, startled, his hands landing on either side of you to steady himself.

And suddenly—everything stopped.

His breath hit yours. Warm. Shaky. His nose nearly brushing yours. Your fingertips still on his cheek. You could feel the heat rising between your bodies, your heart hammering against your ribcage.

You were so focused on listening for footsteps that you didn’t notice the way he was looking at you.

His eyes were locked on yours, soft and unblinking. Like you were something precious. Something fragile. Something he wasn’t supposed to want but couldn’t help reaching for.

But then—he cleared his throat.

You blinked, still slightly dazed, and smiled—completely unaware of how close you were until you finally pulled away.

He stepped back the moment you did.

You laughed, breathless, heart still sprinting inside your chest. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

“I can’t believe you dragged me into it,” he said, grinning despite himself.

Your laughter echoed down the alley, light and free and bubbling with triumph.

And even as the moment passed, and the footsteps faded, and you both stumbled back out into the quiet night—

Sunghoon couldn’t stop thinking about how your hands had felt on his skin.

—

Sunghoon unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment as if nothing about the situation was even remotely unusual. You followed close behind, hoodie pulled low over your head, black beanie snug, sleeves covering your hands, and—most incriminating of all—a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers completing the look. If anyone had seen you on the way over, they might’ve called the cops.

Inside, the living room was dimly lit, the glow of the TV casting flickering light across Jake and his girlfriend, who were curled up under a blanket, halfway through a rom-com rerun and clearly deep into their peaceful little couple night. That peace shattered the moment Jake looked up and saw you.

He froze with a chip halfway to his mouth. His girlfriend stiffened beside him. Their gazes locked on your all-black ensemble, eyes trailing from your hoodie to your slippers, as if unsure whether to scream, laugh, or call for help.

“Sunghoon,” Jake said slowly, narrowing his eyes. “Why is there a burglar in our house?”

You smiled brightly, completely unfazed. “Hi!”

Jake blinked, turning to Sunghoon for confirmation. Sunghoon simply sighed, kicked his shoes off, and muttered under his breath, “Not how I wanted you to meet her.”

“You brought her to the house,” Jake said, still staring. “At 3 a.m. Dressed like that.”

You shrugged, strolling toward the desk and pulling Yeonjun’s laptop from your drawstring bag. “We’re breaking into a computer, not the house. Totally different vibe.”

Jake’s girlfriend leaned forward. “Are those bunny slippers?”

You nodded proudly. “They’re for stealth.”

“Right,” she said, blinking. “Very… quiet.”

Sunghoon dropped his keys on the table with a sigh, already preparing himself for the chaos about to unfold.

“She’s trying to hack into a guy’s laptop,” he said, walking to the kitchen like he needed caffeine and therapy at once. “Don’t ask.”

“Why are you helping her?!” Jake asked, scandalized.

Sunghoon opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. “I’m not.”

“You literally held the ladder for me twenty minutes ago,” you called over your shoulder.

Jake choked. “Ladder? What ladder?!”

You turned around, laptop booted up, the login screen glowing faintly. “The one I used to climb through a second-story window.”

Jake gaped. His girlfriend quietly set the chip bag down, her expression somewhere between horrified and fascinated.

“I love her,” she whispered to Jake.

“I fear her,” Jake whispered back.

Sunghoon leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. He looked at you—messy hair peeking out from under your beanie, eyes focused, face lit by the laptop screen. Completely unbothered by the scene you’d walked into.

And for some reason, despite all the madness, he still thought you looked kind of cute.

“God help us all,” Sunghoon muttered.

By the time you cracked into the laptop, Jake and his girlfriend had already retreated into their bedroom. Sunghoon had closed the door behind them with a roll of his eyes and a muttered, “That’s just code for they’re about to smash, so we should probably play some music or something.”

You’d snorted at the time, but now the silence in the room felt heavy.

The soft hum of the laptop was the only sound between you, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor next to Sunghoon’s desk. He sat beside you, legs stretched out, arms loosely folded, eyes flicking over the screen with quiet interest—until he glanced at your expression and realized you’d stopped scrolling.

“What is it?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

Your eyes were fixed on the folder open in front of you. Document after document lined the screen, all titled neatly with class names and—oddly—names. Different ones.

Mina. Elly. Jisoo. Grace.

And then… your name.

You clicked on it. Your proposal opened, just slightly reworded, your diagrams rearranged—but it was yours. Every piece of it.

You stared at the screen and crossed your arms tightly, a cold knot settling in your chest. The adrenaline was gone now. In its place was something much heavier. You felt small. Humiliated.

“I was just another one,” you muttered.

Sunghoon looked over, brows drawing together.

“Just another girl he got close to for an assignment,” you said, voice flat. “Was I that boring? That forgettable? Was I really so—unlikable—that the only time a guy showed me attention, it was because he needed my fucking work?”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head as the words tumbled out, unfiltered. “God. What is wrong with me? What did I think was gonna happen? That someone like him actually liked someone like me?”

You let your arms drop and folded your hands over your face, pressing your palms into your eyes.

“I’m so stupid,” you whispered.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything at first. He just sat beside you, close but not touching, eyes fixed on the floor like he was trying to figure out the right thing to say and coming up completely empty.

You wiped at your face with the back of your sleeve, but it was no use—your mascara had already betrayed you, running in streaks down your cheeks. You were crying harder than you realized, tears silent but relentless.

You turned to him, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “So you’re just gonna stay quiet?”

He looked up, startled. His gaze met yours, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe. You looked—God, you looked like a mess. Eyes red, lashes damp, your hoodie sleeves pushed up unevenly, and cheeks stained with tears.

And somehow, he thought you’d never looked prettier.

You weren’t pretending. Weren’t smiling for the sake of others or hiding behind jokes. You were just… you. Raw and hurting and real.

He cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck. “What do you want me to say? I’m not good at comforting people.”

“I don’t know,” you sniffled. “Say he’s an asshole or something.”

Sunghoon shrugged a little. “Well, he is.”

You looked at him, still waiting, unsure if that was all he had in him. He looked like he was about to say more, and then—he did.

“He is an asshole,” Sunghoon repeated, louder this time. “I don’t know why you even agreed to go out with him.”

You opened your mouth, confused. “I—”

“You’re loud,” he said suddenly. “You’re pretentious. You’re annoying—”

Your eyes widened, and you flinched.

“What—”

“You interrupt people all the time,” he continued, voice rising with something that wasn’t quite anger—something messier. “You talk too much. You never stop moving. You’re chaotic and stubborn and you don’t think things through—”

Tears were streaming down your face again, this time faster. You looked away, chest tightening.

But then his voice softened.

“...And you’re also caring. Kind. God, you’re the only person I know who goes to the store at four in the morning to feed stray cats in an alley every two days.”

You blinked. Slowly turned back to him.

Sunghoon exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re funny. You’re thoughtful. You remember the little things people say even when they forget they said them. Anyone would be lucky to be your friend… let alone always be with you.”

He looked at you then, eyes steady and full of something warm. Something aching.

“I’m lucky,” he said, quieter now. “I’m the luckiest bastard alive, as long as I get to stand next to you and call you my friend.”

You stared at him, heart pounding, lips parted, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

Because for the first time… it felt like he wasn’t just calling you a friend.

—

Maybe it was the crying. Maybe it was the emotional whiplash of the night—the heist, the heartbreak, the sudden unraveling of every thought you’d kept tucked neatly away. Maybe it was the way Sunghoon had looked at you when he said he was lucky.

But either way, you couldn’t keep your eyes open.

One moment you were sitting beside him, the warmth of his words still lingering in your chest like a quiet heartbeat. The next, the world had blurred softly at the edges, and your body gave out beneath the weight of it all.

So now, you were on his back.

He’d barely hesitated before lifting you, tucking your arms around his shoulders and hooking his arms under your knees. You didn’t even protest—you were too tired to argue, too comforted by the way he held you like he’d done it before.

Your cheek rested against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest as he walked, the rhythmic sway of his steps, the subtle hum of a tune you didn’t recognize—but it was sweet, and low, and made your heartbeat slow down.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything. He just walked.

Past the quiet streets. Past flickering streetlamps. Past your favorite corner store and the alley you fed cats in and the bus stop where he first bought you coffee.

He didn’t complain about your weight. Didn’t tease. Didn’t say a word about the mascara smudged against the fabric of his coat.

You didn’t know if he knew you were still half-awake, but when he gently adjusted your leg, you heard him murmur so softly you almost missed it:

“You’re not stupid.”

Your heart ached.

And then you let sleep take you.

Because if there was ever a place to rest— It was here. On his back.

—

You woke up warm.

Too warm, actually. Wrapped in layers you didn’t remember putting on. The hoodie you had on last night clung loosely to your body, sleeves pushed halfway up your arms, and your slippers were neatly placed by the side of your bed—something you definitely hadn’t done.

You sat up slowly, blinking at the sunlight streaming through your curtains. Your room was quiet. Peaceful. And completely unfamiliar in the sense that… you had no idea how you got there.

You rubbed your eyes, your body aching in the most confusing way—like you’d run a marathon, cried through an entire movie, and fought off an emotional breakdown all at once. Oh. Right.

The heist. The yelling. The crying.

Sunghoon.

You swung your legs off the bed, still a little dazed, and padded out of your room.

That’s when you smelled it—eggs. Butter. Something slightly burnt, but in a way that made your chest tighten.

You turned the corner and froze.

Sunghoon was in your kitchen.

His hair was messier than usual, falling into his eyes as he stood in front of the stove, flipping something that might have once been a pancake. He was wearing the same hoodie from the night before, sleeves pushed up, a spatula in one hand, your mismatched cat-print apron tied haphazardly around his waist.

You blinked, brain short-circuiting. “What the hell…?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “You’re awake.”

“I…” You looked down at yourself. “How did I get home?”

“You passed out,” he said simply, turning back to the stove. “I carried you.”

You stared at him. “You carried me?”

“Like a princess,” he deadpanned. “Except you drooled on my shoulder.”

You gasped. “I did not.”

“You did.”

You groaned and dropped your head into your hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

He flipped another pancake—slightly more edible this time—and shrugged. “You needed the sleep.”

You looked up at him again, softer this time. “Why are you making breakfast?”

He didn’t look at you. “Felt like you could use something warm.”

You felt your throat tighten. You wanted to say something, but the words sat too heavy on your tongue. So instead, you just stood there in the doorway, watching him quietly.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks—you felt safe.

Breakfast passed in silence.

Not awkward, not heavy—just... silent. The kind of silence that settled like sunlight through the window, warm and gentle and unspoken.

You sat across from him at your little dining table, your knees brushing every so often beneath the wood, your plate mostly untouched. He ate like nothing was different, like he hadn’t carried you home last night, like he didn’t make pancakes in your kitchen while wearing your cat-print apron.

And yet, something had shifted.

You kept stealing glances at him in between tiny sips of orange juice. The way his lashes dipped as he focused on his food. The subtle curve of his mouth as he chewed. The way his hair curled just slightly at the ends when he didn’t style it.

Your heart fluttered.

Your stomach twisted—but not in the way it did when you were nervous or sad. This was... different. Lighter. Warmer.

What is this? you thought. This weird, floaty feeling in your chest. This little ache every time you looked at him.

Sunghoon glanced up, catching your gaze.

You quickly looked down at your plate.

He didn’t say anything for a moment—just reached for his cup, took a sip, then set it down with a quiet clink.

“Go take a shower and get dressed,” he said casually.

You blinked. “Huh?”

He leaned back in his chair. “You heard me.”

“But it’s Saturday. I don’t have any—”

“I’m taking you out.”

You stared at him. “Out? Like… out out?”

“Let’s go,” he said again, nonchalantly, like it was no big deal. Like he hadn’t just casually turned your whole world upside down with three words.

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You felt the heat rush to your cheeks.

“Oh,” you said. Quiet. Surprised.

Sunghoon stood and collected your plate like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I’m not giving you the plan. Just go shower.”

And then he walked off toward the sink, sleeves rolled, calm as ever.

You sat there for another ten seconds, frozen, heart racing.

What is this feeling?

And why did you suddenly never want it to stop?

You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem of your yellow chiffon babydoll dress for the third time. It swayed lightly around your thighs, soft and airy, the color bright against your skin. You’d tied your hair into two loose pigtails, hoping it came off cute and not childish—just… soft. Sweet. Something that might look good next to him.

Sunghoon, with his wardrobe of tailored coats and muted sweaters. All clean lines and high-end simplicity. He never had to try, and he always looked perfect.

You hoped—just a little—that standing beside him, you wouldn’t look too out of place.

You took one last look in the mirror, then stepped out of your room.

He was sitting on your couch, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling casually through his phone like he hadn’t just changed your entire Saturday morning. He looked up when he heard your footsteps.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours.

Then back down to his phone.

No double-take. No compliment. Not even a blink.

“Let’s go,” he said, standing up with a stretch.

You stared at him, jaw tight. “Stupid idiot,” you muttered under your breath.

“What was that?” he asked, turning toward you, brows raised.

You plastered on a fake smile so quickly it nearly hurt. “Nothing.”

He watched you for a beat, unreadable as always, then looked away.

“You look pretty,” he said softly—so quiet it was almost drowned out by the rustle of his coat sleeve as he reached for his keys.

You blinked.

But before you could respond, he was already walking toward the door, acting like he hadn’t said anything at all.

Typical Sunghoon.

Your heart fluttered anyway.

—

“Are we there yet?” you sighed for what had to be the fifteenth time.

Sunghoon didn’t look at you—just kept walking ahead with that maddeningly steady pace. “Almost,” he said.

“You said that two hours ago.”

“Mm.”

Just a hum. No explanation. No sympathy.

You followed anyway, flats sinking further into the mud with every step. You’d taken two buses, a ten-minute train ride, and now you were walking deep into a part of the park you didn’t recognize at all. Far from your neighborhood. Far from everything.

You glanced down at your shoes, now spotted with dirt and regret. This dress, the hair, the whole effort—you were starting to think it had all been a mistake.

Then Sunghoon’s pace suddenly picked up. His eyes lit up, focused on something just beyond the next turn.

“There,” he said softly.

And before you could ask what he meant, he reached for your hand—sudden, unthinking—and pulled you with him.

Your breath caught in your throat.

His hand was warm, firm around yours, fingers interlaced like it had always been that way.

You didn’t say a word. Just followed.

He led you past a line of trees, through tall grass, and down a narrow slope. Then finally—you saw it.

A small, glimmering pond hidden in a clearing. The water was still, mirror-like, catching the soft gold of the late afternoon sun. Willow trees bent low over the banks, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. Wildflowers bloomed in quiet clusters along the edge—lilac, yellow, soft blue—and dragonflies skimmed the water’s surface, their wings catching the light like tiny stained-glass windows. It was quiet. Peaceful. Untouched.

Like something out of a fairytale.

You stared, mouth slightly parted. “How’d you even—how’d you find this place?”

Sunghoon didn’t answer right away. He just stood beside you, still holding your hand loosely.

“When I was younger,” he said after a moment, voice softer than usual, “my family came here for a vacation. My sister and I snuck out one morning and found this by accident.”

You glanced over at him. He wasn’t looking at you—just at the water, like it still held something sacred.

“I used to take her here when she cried,” he continued, “whenever she got scolded by our mum. I don’t know... it always calmed her down.”

You smiled, quietly listening.

“Why’d you bring me here?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He laughed under his breath, the sound light, almost shy.

“It’s silly,” he said, eyes still on the pond. “But last night, when you were crying…”

You looked at him then—really looked at him.

His expression was unreadable, caught between memory and now. He glanced at you finally, voice quieter.

“You reminded me of my childhood. Of her. You looked so… innocent.” He gave a faint, crooked smile. “And maybe I thought this place would cheer you up.”

Your chest ached in the most unexpected way.

Not from sadness. Not even from joy.

Just from the quiet knowing that someone had thought of you that deeply.

You looked down again at your joined hands.

Still holding. Still warm.

The two of you made your way closer to the water, weaving past the low-hanging branches until you found a flat patch of grass near the edge. You sat down carefully, smoothing the fabric of your dress beneath you, your feet dangling just above the still surface of the pond.

Sunghoon dropped beside you, resting his arms lazily on his knees, legs slightly apart, sneakers almost brushing the water. The breeze was cooler here, brushing your cheeks with the scent of wildflowers and grass. The only sounds were the rustle of leaves, the distant hum of cicadas, and the quiet ripples of the pond.

He didn’t speak.

Of course he didn’t.

You’d grown used to his silences. They weren’t cold, or distant—not really. They were just… Sunghoon. Thoughtful. Still. The kind of quiet that made you want to fill the space, not because it was empty, but because he made you feel safe enough to.

So you talked.

About everything. About nothing.

You told him about the weird dreams you’d been having lately, about the girl in your class who kept trying to copy your notes, about how you once tried to bake cookies for your primary school crush and forgot the sugar. You pointed out shapes in the clouds. Gave names to the dragonflies. Talked about the playlist you made for a fictional road trip you hadn’t taken yet.

And Sunghoon?

He just listened.

Not distracted. Not fake-listening like some people did, nodding along while their mind was elsewhere.

He listened with his whole body. Slight tilts of his head. The way he’d glance at you when he thought you weren’t looking. The quiet little hums when something made him laugh. The barely-there smile when you said something completely ridiculous.

You kicked your feet gently above the water.

“Sorry,” you said at some point, half-laughing. “I talk too much when you’re quiet.”

He shook his head slowly, still looking out over the pond. “I like it.”

You blinked. “You do?”

“You talk like you’re alive,” he said softly.

You turned to look at him.

His expression was unreadable, gaze fixed somewhere across the water. But his voice—his voice sounded like truth.

Your heart beat a little faster. You looked down at your hands in your lap, trying to will the blush away.

The two of you had been sitting there for a while now, feet dangling over the edge of the pond, sunlight dancing on the surface of the water. You’d done most of the talking—naturally—and Sunghoon had just sat beside you, quietly listening like always, eyes half-lidded from the warmth, arms resting lazily over his knees.

You were halfway through a very dramatic retelling of the vending machine incident from earlier in the week when something soft landed on your head.

You paused, blinking. “Did something just…?”

Before you could reach up to check, Sunghoon leaned in.

His hand came up slowly, fingertips brushing through your hair with careful precision. You stilled completely. He was close—closer than usual—and the moment stretched, your voice caught somewhere in your throat.

His face hovered just inches from yours, eyes focused as he plucked a single pink petal from your hair. The breeze tugged at your dress, your heart did a weird little somersault, and your brain short-circuited trying to process the proximity.

You barely dared to breathe. His breath brushed your cheek, warm and soft. He didn’t move away.

And somehow, your mind made the leap.

Oh my god. He’s going to kiss me.

Your heart leapt. You shut your eyes without thinking, every nerve in your body suddenly very, very aware of the shape of his mouth and the way your knees were touching.

But instead of a kiss, you got—

A throat clear.

You opened your eyes to find Sunghoon leaning back like nothing happened, examining the flower petal with the clinical interest of someone assessing a grocery receipt. Like he hadn’t just completely hijacked your central nervous system.

You blinked at him, heat flooding your face.

He glanced up, clearly fighting back a smirk. “Did you just—”

“No.” Your answer was immediate. Loud. Defensive.

“I didn’t even finish my senten—”

“Shut up.” You whirled on him, hands flying dramatically as the full force of your embarrassment took over. “You scooted so close to me, and you leaned in and, and I—I didn’t know what to expect, okay?!”

Sunghoon’s eyes sparkled, lips twitching. “I was taking a petal out of your hair.”

“You took your sweet time, that’s what you did,” you huffed, arms flailing now. “God, you and your–cold–cold boy exterior. I can’t read your face! You could be about to kiss me or about to tell me my card got declined, and I wouldn’t know the difference.”

He let out a soft laugh, the kind that made your chest ache a little. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Excuse me for assuming I was about to have a romantic moment by a magical pond with a boy who—”

He reached forward suddenly, both hands cupping your cheeks, and you froze mid-rant.

The world slowed.

His palms were warm. Gentle. Holding your face like you were made of something delicate. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

Then his voice came, low and steady.

“Do you want me to?”

Your words died in your throat. Your heart thundered somewhere behind your ribs.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, unsure what to say.

He didn’t press. Just looked at you with that infuriating, calm expression—the kind that made it impossible to tell if he was teasing you or being completely serious.

And somehow, that only made you fall harder.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“I—” you tried.

Sunghoon waited.

You panicked. “You took way too long with the petal.”

He laughed. This time, fully. And God, if your heart hadn’t already betrayed you, that laugh would've done it.

“Okay,” he said eventually, letting go of your cheeks like he hadn’t just gently cradled your entire soul.

You immediately buried your face in your hands.

You hated him. You adored him. You had no idea what this was.

But you kind of never wanted it to end.

—

The walk back was quiet.

Not the comfortable kind that usually settled between you and Sunghoon. This one was thick. Tense. A silence so loud it felt like it echoed.

You hadn’t spoken a word since leaving the pond.

He’d glanced at you a few times as you walked side by side, but you kept your gaze stubbornly forward, arms crossed, cheeks still warm from earlier. You couldn’t stop replaying the moment in your head—his hands on your face, that question, your silence, the way your heart had practically stopped beating altogether.

And now, here you were. Standing outside your apartment. Streetlights glowing gold above you. Crickets chirping. The air cool and still.

He hadn’t said anything either.

Not until now.

Sunghoon cleared his throat softly. “You’ve been quiet since the park.”

You let out a small, unbothered-sounding tch, keeping your eyes fixed on the sidewalk.

What a stupid question. He knew why.

You were embarrassed. Flustered. Emotionally compromised and desperately trying to hold it together. And he just stood there, calm and collected, as if he hadn’t casually almost kissed you and then walked away like it was nothing.

You turned toward him, fire rising again. “You—!”

You raised your hands, ready to start waving them mid-rant like you always did. But before a single word left your mouth, Sunghoon stepped forward and grabbed both your wrists gently, stopping them midair.

You blinked.

“What are you—?”

And then he leaned in.

Soft. Quick. Certain.

He pressed a kiss to your lips—just a brief, featherlight touch that made your breath catch and your thoughts scatter in all directions.

It was simple. Barely a second long. But it knocked the wind out of you.

“There,” he said, voice low and calm, as he pulled back.

You stared at him, completely frozen. Mouth slightly parted. Eyes wide.

“Y-You—” you stammered, hands still in his.

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. “You were being loud in your head. I could hear it.”

“I—That’s not—You don’t just—!”

He raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “Feel better now?”

Your heart was a mess. Your brain was fuzz. But still… you nodded.

He let go of your hands slowly, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“Goodnight,” he said, and turned to walk away.

You stood there, stunned, watching him go. And somewhere between your heart trying to reboot and your hand brushing against your lips…

—-

The library was quiet, save for the occasional turning of pages and the distant hum of the printer.

You were trying to focus. Really, you were. But it was hard.

Not because of your thesis—which was enough of a monster on its own—but because of him. Sitting right next to you.

Sunghoon.

The boy who kissed you once. Who sent you home after and said nothing. The boy who still picked you up for class, still shared his earbuds, still split convenience store snacks with you like nothing had changed. And maybe it hadn’t. Not really.

You weren’t kissing everyday. You weren’t dating. There were no labels. Just… this strange, sweet in-between. And it was driving you insane.

You’d been hanging out every day, and yet neither of you had brought up the kiss. Not the one by the pond. Not the one on your doorstep.

You were somewhere between friends and more, and he seemed perfectly content to sit in that quiet space—while you were losing your mind wondering what it meant.

You were currently scanning the shelves, trying—and failing—to find a book for your thesis. You swore it was here. The catalogue said it was. But after combing through the aisle three times, you were ready to throw yourself into the return bin.

“Ugh,” you muttered, turning to scan the shelf one more time.

And then, like some book-finding angel, Sunghoon stepped beside you. He reached forward casually, plucked the exact book from the shelf above your head, and handed it to you without a word.

Your jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”

You snatched it from his hand, dramatic as ever, and turned to him with wild eyes.

“I’ve been here for twenty minutes! And you—!”

Your hands flew up instinctively, ready to gesticulate in full rant mode when—

He caught them.

Both of them.

Warm fingers wrapping around your wrists, stopping you mid-rant with that infuriatingly calm expression on his face.

And then he leaned in.

And kissed you.

Just like that.

Soft. Steady. No hesitation.

Your breath caught completely. Your brain shut off. The library, the thesis, the confusion—all of it disappeared under the pressure of his lips against yours.

It was over in seconds.

He pulled back like nothing happened, still holding your hands.

“Loud,” he said, voice low and amused.

And then—he let go and walked away.

You stood frozen in the aisle, mouth still parted in disbelief, the book clutched to your chest like it had personally witnessed a crime.

Your heart was pounding. Your face was burning. You were sure your soul had just left your body.

And once again… He didn’t look back.

Typical Sunghoon.

You were unwell.

Absolutely, fully, catastrophically unwell.

Because Sunghoon kissed you again.

In a library.

After handing you a book like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And when you raised your hands—to explain, to demand answers, to yell in three different emotional languages—he just… kissed you. Again. Calmly. Casually. And walked away like it hadn’t just restructured your entire brain.

You tried not to think about it. You really did.

But the moment you sat back down at the table, book open in front of you, and he slid a highlighter across the desk toward you like he hadn’t just emotionally detonated you—

You exploded.

“Okay,” you said, too loudly for a library. “What are we?”

He looked up from his notes, blinking once.

You leaned forward. “Because you kissed me. Twice. And you keep holding my face like I’m a traumatized woodland creature and then walking away before I can process anything.”

He tilted his head, resting his chin on his palm. “So you have been thinking about it.”

You sputtered. “Of course I’ve been thinking about it!”

Sunghoon nodded slowly, flipping to the next page of his notes.

You blinked at him. “Are you ignoring me?”

“I’m studying.”

“I’m spiraling.”

“Noted.”

Your hands flailed.

And just as you raised them again, fully prepared to unleash wave two of your emotional breakdown—

He stood up from his seat, leaned across the table, and kissed you. Right there. Again.

Quick. Soft. On the corner of your mouth this time.

You froze.

“I—” you squeaked.

“You were getting loud again,” he said, sitting back down like he hadn’t just completely ended your speech mid-sentence.

You gawked at him, face on fire. “You can’t just kiss me every time I get dramatic.”

“That’s what you think.”

You opened your mouth. He raised an eyebrow.

You closed it again.

He handed you your highlighter. “Let me know when you’re done with denial.”

You stared at him, heart pounding so hard you could hear it echoing in your skull. He was calm. Unbothered. Absolutely smug.

You hated him.

You wanted to kiss him again.

You highlighted the same sentence seven times just to avoid looking at his stupid perfect face.

—

You were walking home from the library with Sunghoon again. Just like always. Quiet sidewalk, golden streetlights, late-night hum of the city in the background.

Except nothing about it felt normal anymore.

Not after the kisses.

Not after the looks he kept giving you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Not after your brain had chewed itself into pieces trying to decode what you were to him.

And tonight—you were done pretending you were fine with it.

“I just think,” you said for what felt like the fifth time, voice rising as your steps quickened, “that if you’re gonna keep kissing me, then maybe—and this is wild—I deserve to know what it means!”

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He kept walking beside you, hands in his pockets, face unreadable. Infuriatingly calm.

“And if it doesn’t mean anything, that’s fine,” you added, already lying to yourself. “But then stop doing it! You can’t just weaponize your mouth to shut me up like some human mute button—”

He stopped walking.

You blinked, still mid-rant, too fired up to notice that he’d turned until his fingers wrapped around your wrist and tugged you back—swiftly, gently, deliberately—until your back hit the cold brick wall of the nearest building.

The shock of it knocked the words straight out of your mouth.

“Wha—”

And then he kissed you.

Hard.

No hesitation. No teasing.

His lips found yours in one clean, fluid motion, like he’d been waiting, burning, counting every second leading up to this moment. His hand pressed firmly against the wall beside your head, his body angled toward yours—not pushing, just close. Too close. Close enough that you felt the heat radiating off of him, the weight of everything he hadn’t said.

You didn’t even get the chance to breathe before his other hand slipped to your jaw, tilting your face up slightly—and then his mouth opened against yours, and his tongue slid in. Slow. Confident. Sure.

You gasped softly into him, your fingers gripping the front of his sweater like it was the only thing keeping you from collapsing. And God—he tasted like mint and quiet danger, like late nights and secrets he hadn’t told you yet.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize your mouth.

Like he wanted you breathless and boneless and ruined in the best way.

And you let him.

You kissed him back like it had been building inside you too, like you’d been waiting for him to break first—waiting for this exact kind of dizzying, spine-melting surrender.

By the time he pulled back, you weren’t sure where you were anymore.

Your chest heaved. Your lips tingled. Your back was still pressed to the wall, legs weak, thoughts tangled.

Sunghoon didn’t move far—just enough to speak, his thumb still brushing softly along your cheek.

“You’re loud,” he murmured, his voice rougher than usual. “But not when you’re kissing me back.”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even glare. Your eyes were still wide and unfocused. Your body felt like it had been struck by lightning wrapped in velvet.

And him?

He just took your hand again like nothing happened.

“Let’s go,” he said, like he hadn’t just absolutely wrecked you against a wall.

You followed.

Stunned. Silent.

And for the first time in your life— You understood exactly why he did that.

Because nothing had ever shut you up like that before.

—

The next morning, Sunghoon was already waiting outside your apartment by the time you stepped out, bleary-eyed and still emotionally unstable from the night before. He stood there with his usual sleepy calmness, one hand in his pocket, the other holding your usual coffee order.

Of course he knew you hadn’t slept.

He hadn’t either.

Because while you were lying awake replaying that kiss over and over again, so was he. He’d tried to read, tried to distract himself—but every time he closed his eyes, all he could feel was you against the wall. Your fingers in his sweater. The way your lips opened under his, soft and wanting. The sound you made when he bit down gently on your lip before pulling away.

He was in trouble.

You walked toward him slowly, eyes puffy, your hoodie a little crooked from sleep. You didn’t say anything—just snatched the coffee from his hand and took three aggressive gulps like it personally wronged you.

“Hmph,” you huffed, before storming three steps ahead of him like an angry little duck.

Sunghoon blinked.

Then he laughed.

God, he was so gone for you.

“Why are you mad?” he asked, catching up easily.

You didn’t look at him. “Because—because you won’t tell me what we are. You keep kissing me every time I get dramatic, and you don’t say anything after, and you won’t tell me if you even like me, and—”

“Don’t you like it when I kiss you, though?” he asked casually, like he wasn’t setting your entire nervous system on fire.

You stumbled. “I—! I—”

He looked far too smug. You hated how good he was at this.

“You can’t just say smug shit like that and make me not want to choke you—”

You didn’t finish. Because just like last time, he moved without warning.

In one sharp, fluid motion, he backed you into the nearest tree, the rough bark grazing your spine as your back hit it with a quiet thud. His hand slid around to the small of your back, pressing you against him, while the other gripped your waist and dragged slowly down to your hip, fingers curving around it possessively.

His mouth was on yours before you could speak. No hesitation this time.

His lips crashed into yours—hot, hungry, open. He tilted his head, deepening it fast, his hand tightening at your waist as he pulled you harder against him. Your gasp disappeared into his mouth.

His tongue slipped past your lips, slow and deliberate. He kissed like he knew exactly what he was doing—like he knew how to pull sound from your throat without a word. His body pinned yours to the tree, firm and steady, his hips brushing into yours just enough to make you lose your balance and grab his sweater for support.

He groaned lowly when you kissed him back, your fingers bunching at his chest, his thumb digging into your side as his mouth moved harder, needier, lips parting, tongue sliding deeper.

And then—he bit down on your bottom lip, just enough pressure to make your breath catch.

“You didn’t stop me,” he murmured, breath warm against your skin.

Your mouth opened. “Because—”

“Because you like it,” he said again, low and certain.

You glared at him. “And what if I do?! At least I’m being honest with my feelings.”

Sunghoon raised a brow. “Are you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Because you haven’t really told me anything about your feelings,” he said simply.

You threw your hands up. “Is it not clear?!”

You folded your arms, frustration bubbling up.

“Is it not clear that I clearly like you?!”

And just like that—he was silent.

Sunghoon had always been calm, collected, a little unreadable—but something in his expression faltered then. His cool cracked just a little, the tiniest stutter of surprise flickering across his face.

His heart was doing things he would never admit out loud.

Because no matter how smooth he could be, no matter how many times he kissed you like he knew exactly what he was doing—you were the only one who could completely unravel him.

He looked at you, smiling softly.

“Look under your cup.”

You frowned. “What?”

“The cup,” he said. “Turn it over.”

You squinted at him suspiciously, lifting the cup over your head like it owed you answers. And there—scrawled in slightly smudged black marker under the base—was one word, just barely legible in his messy handwriting:

GIRLFRIEND?

Your breath hitched.

Your arms dropped.

You stared at it, then at him.

He stood there with his usual hands-in-pockets posture, pretending to be all calm and collected—but you saw it. The way his ears were just a little too red. The faint twitch of his mouth like he was holding his breath.

You blinked. “You wrote it… on the bottom of a coffee cup?”

“I thought it was romantic,” he said, completely deadpan.

You raised a brow. “You know people usually use, like, their mouths to say these things, right?”

“I figured this way, you’d actually read it instead of yelling over it.”

You paused.

Touche.

“You truly are a man of few words.”

He shrugged. “You use enough for both of us.”

You rolled your eyes—but your grin gave you away.

And then, quietly, you held the cup closer to your chest.

“…Yes,” you muttered.

His lips twitched. “You’re supposed to say it louder.”

You glared. “Don’t push your luck, loverboy.”

He smiled, wide this time. “Too late.”

Before you could react, his hands wrapped around your waist—confident, steady—and he pulled you in all at once. You let out a small yelp, half laugh, arms instinctively catching onto his shoulders as he swept you closer like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then he kissed you.

His lips pressed into yours like he already knew you’d say yes, like your quiet little “yes” had unlocked something in him. There was no teasing this time, no smirk hiding behind it—just him, kissing you like he meant it.

His grip tightened around your waist, grounding you against him, your body flush to his as his other hand came up to cradle the side of your neck, his thumb brushing just below your ear. You melted into him without a thought, your fingers curling around the back of his sweater, trying to pull him even closer.

You could feel his heartbeat, fast but steady, pressed right against yours.

When he finally pulled back, just barely, his lips hovered over yours—still close enough to steal another breath.

“I’ve been waiting to do that properly,” he whispered, voice low and warm.

[nouearth]

when the snow settles.

clark kent x male reader.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. clark’s busy spoiling his sick boyfriend with cookies and cuddles—until things heat up when someone decides a kiss (and more) is the real cure for a cold.

𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅 & 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓. one-shot [ 6.0k ].

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. male reader 〳 corenswet!clark 〳 established relationship 〳 sick!reader 〳 christmas!au 〳 sexual content: top!clark, bottom!reader, belly-bulging, breeding, rimming (r!receiving), praising, body worship, clark can alter the temp of his body (and dick).

Snow fell softly outside the apartment, blanketing Metropolis in a serene hush that contrasted sharply with the sound of sniffling from the couch. Clark’s living room was cozy, aglow with the golden twinkle of Christmas lights strung up around the windows. The faint scent of pine mingled with the sweet aroma of gingerbread baking in the oven, though the stuffy haze of your cold dulled the sharpness of both.

You sat bundled in a mountain of blankets, a tissue box on one side and a half-empty mug of tea on the other. Despite the misery of a congested head and the scratchy soreness in your throat, you couldn’t help but watch Clark with a mix of amusement and adoration.

In the kitchen, he moved with a carefree confidence, humming along to Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas as it played softly on his phone. He had insisted on baking cookies for the evening, declaring it the perfect way to boost your holiday cheer. Not that you needed much help in that department—his reindeer antler headband, bouncing with every step he took, was doing most of the work.

His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his strong forearms, and his glasses had fogged up slightly from the warmth of the oven. Even with the goofy apron he wore—a red and green monstrosity with “Santa’s Favorite Helper” embroidered across the front—he looked unfairly attractive.

Clark glanced over his shoulder at you, a soft smile spreading across his face as his gaze met yours. “You okay over there?” he asked, his voice gentle. “Need more tea? Another blanket? A better boyfriend?”

You groaned theatrically, flopping back into the throw pillows. “What I need is for my head to stop feeling like it’s stuffed with cotton.”

And stones—your flair for drama only worsened the throbbing ache from the sudden movement.

Setting down a tray of freshly baked cookies, Clark wiped his hands on a dishtowel and made his way over to you. He knelt beside the couch, one hand reaching up to take the temperature from your forehead while the other rested lightly on your knee through the blanket.

His touch was warm, steady, grounding.

“Still running hot. Sorry you’re feeling this way,” he said sincerely, his brow furrowing just a little. “If I could punch a cold in the face, you know I would.”

You laughed, but it quickly dissolved into a coughing fit. Clark was at your side in an instant, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your back until the worst of it passed. “It’s so unfair that you never get sick,” you rasped, your voice rough and strained. “You’re just… immune to everything. Meanwhile, I’m over here melting into a Christmas puddle.”

“Wow. This is the thanks I get for baking you cookies? My boyfriend wishing ill on me?” He chuckled, resting his elbows on the edge of the couch to stay level with your gaze. "If it makes you feel better, Krypto would probably be thrilled to drink you up if you were a puddle! Likes his water from the spring... spoiled dog."

His grin was boyish and a little smug, and you rolled your eyes at him, though the corners of your lips twitched upward.

“What I’m saying is… we could’ve been sick together,” you muttered, “But I can’t even enjoy them. Look here.” You picked up one of the gingerbread cookies Clark had carefully decorated earlier, the icing swirls and tiny candy buttons a testament to his painstaking attention to detail.

The cookie felt firm yet inviting in your hand, its edges slightly crisp and still warm from the oven. Breaking off a piece, you popped it into your mouth, hopeful that even through the fog of your cold, some of the sweetness might break through.

Instead, all you got was the texture—a faint crunch that dissolved into a soft crumble on your tongue. The spice you knew should be there, the warm bite of ginger and cinnamon that normally screamed Christmas, was muted to the point of nonexistence.

You frowned, swallowing the flavorless bite with effort. A sharp, scratchy sting flared in your throat, the dry irritation making each swallow feel more uncomfortable than the last. The lack of taste was almost offensive, a cruel reminder of how thoroughly your cold had robbed you of simple joys.

Clark’s eyes flicked over to you, catching your expression as you set the rest of the cookie down with a defeated sigh. “Nothing?” he asked, his voice tinged with sympathy.

“Absolutely nothing,” you muttered, your voice still scratchy. “I might as well be eating cardboard.”

Clark chuckled softly, getting up on his feet to sit beside you. “Guess that means more for me, huh?” He reached for a cookie, his teasing grin faltering when he saw your pout, but his craving persisted nonetheless. “Hey, don’t worry,” he added, nudging your shoulder gently. “Once you’re better, I’ll bake you a whole new batch. Extra ginger, just the way you like it.”

“Yeah…”

Clark bit into a gingerbread cookie with gusto, clearly enjoying his own handiwork as he snuggled beside you on the couch.

“Mmm,” he hummed dramatically, his eyes widening as he made a show of savoring the bite. “Oh, wow. These might be my best yet. Sweet, spicy, perfectly baked—chef’s kiss.” He gestured extravagantly, grinning like he’d just won a baking competition.

“Not saying these aren’t good, but I’m pretty sure the last time you made cookies, Krypto got more excited than I did."

You were about to roll your eyes at his antics when you noticed a speck of icing clinging to the corner of his mouth and a small crumb nestled in the dimple of his cheek. It was such a ridiculously human detail—charming in its imperfection—that you felt a sudden pang of affection bloom in your chest.

“Here,” you said, laughing softly as you reached up and brushed the crumb away with your thumb, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. His skin was warm, and the bashful smile that tugged at his lips made your stomach flip.

“Didn't stop you from cleaning out the cookie tray...” he murmured, his cheeks pinking slightly as he quickly licked the icing from the corner of his mouth, completely oblivious to how endearing he looked. "Thanks."

You shook your head, biting back a grin. “You’re a mess,” you teased, but your voice was far softer than usual, betraying just how much the sight of him—unpolished, sweet, and so effortlessly Clark—had utterly disarmed you.

Clark’s smile softened, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. His lips lingered for a moment, warm and impossibly tender against your fevered skin. When he pulled back, he looked at you with that impossibly earnest expression that always made your heart twist.

“It’s nice, though, isn’t it?” Clark murmured, his voice soft and warm, like the glow of the Christmas lights reflecting off his glasses. “The cookies, the Christmas specials, the decorations… being snowed in together. Like a Hallmark movie, but… not terrible?”

You could see the flicker of nostalgia in his eyes as he spoke, his tone carrying a quiet sincerity that made your heart ache in the best way. The soft crackle of the digital fireplace playing on the TV and the distant hum of holiday music only made the moment feel more intimate, as if the world outside had disappeared entirely.

A warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with fever. Clark had this infuriating knack for making everything—even being sick—feel like a kind of blessing, as long as he was beside you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, your voice rough but laced with affection. “Talking like I’ve got only two months left to live…” You tried for sarcasm, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

Clark’s grin softened into something more tender, his gaze unwavering as he watched you. “Yeah,�� you admitted quietly, letting out a small sigh. “It’s nice. Really nice.”

The weight of your words hung between you for a moment, and the corners of Clark’s mouth twitched upward again, this time into a bashful little smile. He didn’t say anything more—he didn’t need to.

Instead, his hand found yours beneath the blanket, his thumb brushing softly against your knuckles, as if to say everything he didn’t put into words.

You knew he was the strongest man in the world, but it was these quiet moments—his sincerity, his kindness—that made you feel like you were the one holding something unbreakable.

Clark squeezed your hand gently, his expression melting into something tender and a little uncertain. He studied you for a long moment, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to memorize every detail. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked softly. “I mean, really okay? I know I’m supposed to cheer you up, but I don’t want to push too much—especially if you’re not feeling great.”

You leaned your head back against the cushions, exhaling a soft sigh. “Clark, I’m fine,” you said, your voice still raspy but carrying enough exasperation to make your point. “I mean, yeah, I feel like I’ve been hit by a snowplow, but it’s not like I’m about to collapse.” Your lips quirked into a small, teasing smile as you tilted your head toward him.

“Besides, you’ve already gone above and beyond. The cookies, the mistletoe, the cozy speeches… you’re basically an elf on the shelf who magically transformed into the perfect boyfriend overnight.” You reached over, your other hand settling on Clark's broad shoulders as you gently rubbed them, a silent gesture of appreciation.

Clark chuckled at that, but the faint blush on his cheeks deepened. “Well, I don’t know about perfect…” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck in that adorably bashful way that made your chest tighten.

“Perfect,” you repeated, a little firmer this time, giving his hand a squeeze. “Even in that ridiculous apron.”

He let out a breathy laugh, and the sound sent a flutter through you. The way his smile lingered—soft and boyish, but edged with a quiet intensity—made your stomach flip. His thumb absentmindedly traced circles on the back of your hand, and though the gesture was small, it felt impossibly intimate.

“Clark,” you mumbled, leaning in slightly, the hoarseness of your voice making his name sound heavier, more charged. “Stop worrying so much.”

“I can’t help it,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a low murmur. His eyes flicked to your lips before darting away, a faint flicker of hesitation passing over his features. “You’re sick. I don’t want to… you know… make it worse.”

You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of you, though it quickly turned into a cough. Clark’s expression immediately shifted to concern, but you waved him off, catching your breath as you gave him a lopsided grin.

“Clark, I’m not made of glass. And for the record,” you added, your voice softening as you leaned in just a little closer with the support of your elbows, “I think kissing you would make me feel a whole lot better. Best medicine and all that.”

His ears turned an impressive shade of red, and he ducked his head slightly, his grin both shy and disbelieving. “You’re trouble, you know that?” he said, his voice tinged with a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

You shrugged, your grin turning sly. “And yet, you’re still here.”

“I’m still here,” he echoed softly, his voice carrying a weight of affection that made your heart ache in the best way. His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink, the soft glow of the Christmas lights casting him in a golden halo.

Slowly, tentatively, Clark leaned in, his free hand coming up to cup your jaw. “If you wake up tomorrow feeling worse,” he whispered, his lips brushing against yours in the barest of touches, “I’m blaming you.”

“Noted,” you whispered back, your breath mingling with his as you tilted your head to close the distance between you.

Strange. You hadn’t noticed the scent of cinnamon when he first brought out the cookies, but now, with your lips inching closer to his—like two cookies spreading and melding into one—you could almost convince yourself you were cured. Almost, if not for the stubborn stuffiness in your nose.

The kiss was gentle at first, as if Clark was afraid you might shatter beneath him. But when you let out a soft, contented sigh and threaded your fingers through his hair, his restraint wavered.

He deepened the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a warmth and intensity that made you forget all about the congestion and sore throat. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as his other hand pressed lightly against your waist beneath the blanket.

You tugged him closer still, your lips parting to let him in as the heat between you began to build. Clark’s kisses were like him—steady, powerful, and infused with an overwhelming tenderness that made your head spin. When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, both of you were breathing harder, the warmth of the moment erasing the chill of the winter night.

“Feeling better yet?” he asked, his voice teasing, though the worry flickering in his eyes betrayed him. It wasn’t just concern over your condition—it was something deeper, a quiet struggle to hold himself back. Not when you looked so effortlessly beautiful, your disheveled state a product of his presence.

“Better,” your voice came out in a whisper, your hand resting lightly on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm before traveling around his torso to untie his apron. “But I think I might need a few more rounds just to be sure.”

Clark let out a soft laugh as you tossed the fabric to the floor, his thumb grazing your cheek in a tender gesture. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, but this time the words were thick with affection. His teeth caught his lower lip as your hands lingered at the waistband of his pajama pants, your intentions unmistakable with the gentle tug at his drawstring.

“You sure?” he asked sincerely, large, calloused hands pressing all over your body, but mainly your bare stomach, where he began mapping out heat zones over the plane.You could feel the strength of his abdomen beneath the thickness of his sweater as your hand gently traced his body in admiration. Biting your lip, you reached up to remove his glasses and nodded.

"If you don’t mind taking care of me tonight.”

There was something about the way Clark watched you during moments like these. You couldn’t tell if it was the warmth of his touch or the intensity of his gaze that made you feel so small, so vulnerable. Either way, you savored it—the sensation of being his entire focus, the apple of his eye, and nothing else.

Your stomach sank when he slid his third finger inside of your tight hole, joining his twinned index and middle.

“I can never get tired of this…” you mumbled, unbuttoning the rest of your pajama top when the pressure below heightened your body temperature.

“I’ll say,” Clark hummed, a growing mass forming large in his pants as he was knelt on the bed, gently working you open. The sound of his lubed fingers twisting and curling deep inside of you made his cock jolt, your cheeks reddening as a result of his attraction.

Clark had always been patient, but when it came to having you submit under his touch, he seemed to relish every second. His hands moved slowly, pressing and kneading at just the right spots, his fingers curling deep and slow to the rhythm of your heart while his other hand rubbed small and smooth circles over your stomach.

It wasn’t just about easing your tension—it was about watching you. The way your breath hitched when he found a tender spot, the subtle flutter of your lashes, the way your lips parted with a moan when he spread his three digits—it all captivated him.

He couldn’t help but grin softly as his hands worked their magic, savoring the reactions that only he could coax from you. For Clark, the real reward wasn’t just in soothing your aches—it was in seeing your face completely melt under his touch, your body reacting wantonly because you craved for more.

And with that, Clark went on to give you more. Knowing how sensitive your body’s condition was in the moment, he carefully pushed your legs up, his large hands stabilizing you by the thighs, and replaced the fill of his fingers with his inquisitive tongue.

Like his fingers, he started out slow and deliberate, tracing the swollen ring of muscle to sample the fresh layer of artificially-flavored lube dripping out of your hole. He licked you with a casual ease, but the look in his eyes was anything but.

“Smells like coconut,” you sniffled softly as he lifted his head to press a few kisses to your inner thighs. The warmth of his breath lingered on your skin, but your attention caught on the sticky sheen smeared across his cheek, a glistening trace of slick that made your cock twitch.

“Close… coconut cream pie. More vanilla than I was expecting, if I had to be honest…”

A tender smile curved your lips as your fingers found their way into his hair, the soft strands slipping through your fingertips. You began to pet his head gingerly, your touch slow and soothing, grounding both of you in the moment.

“Love you.”

Clark leaned into your hand instinctively, a low hum of contentment rumbling from his chest. His eyes fluttered shut briefly, the tension in his broad shoulders melting under your touch, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to fade away entirely.

“I love you too, (M/N).”

His gaze flicked to yours, a sudden spark of mischief between the blinds of his eyelashes, before he paused for a moment, letting the anticipation build, and kept a watchful eye on you while he slowly pushed out his spit to drizzle it over your wet hole.

Then, with agonizing precision, he pushed the remainder of the saliva into the center of your opening, the wet, methodical slck of the motion sending a jolt of heat down your spine.

“Fuck…” Your fingers curled into his hair until they were grasping, pushing him and his tongue deeper into you while simultaneously rutting your hips against him.

Clark was a hungry man. He made sure to clean up any traces of his spit and lube with that thick tongue of his, slurping the remnants before adding onto it again with a generous amount of spit. Every time you thought the trail of saliva was dripping dangerously close to the bed sheets, Clark’s intuition was strong enough to blindly guide him to the leak, deftly licking it back up and kissing your flesh in passing.

He would never waste a single drop.

A quiet, satisfied moan escaped him, low and drawn out, as if savoring the sweetness of the lube and your flesh was a private indulgence. His eyes never left yours as his nose rubbed at your taint in midst of his devouring, The smile that curled at his lips—glazed and glistening—was a challenge, a silent dare that made the air between you feel heavy.

Heavier, when he found the right rhythm of flicking his tongue to make your body writhe under him.

“Clark, please…” you whined, one hand massaging your loose balls while the other toyed with your nipple, pleasuring yourself not only to the sight of Clark indulging in the warmth and taste of your flesh, but also his naked torso.

His chest rose and fell steadily, each inhale making his broad shoulders flex, the faint sheen of sweat catching the light. The planes of his abdomen looked carved, every ridge and dip inviting your eyes to linger, compelling your cock to leak out of sheer astonishment.

His arms were just as mesmerizing—thick and powerful, with veins running along his forearms that seemed to pulse with quiet authority, especially so when he’d alternative between working your hole open with his fingers and tongue again.

The strength they promised wasn’t just physical but protective. Those arms of his were built to shield and hold you.

When he finally pulled away, his gaze lingered, watching as you panted breathlessly, your chest rising and falling, desperate for him to finish what he had so teasingly begun. The tension hung there, thick and electric, like the moment itself had slowed just for the two of you.

He took off the remainder of his clothes before sprawling himself over you, his broad frame hovering just above yours while you seized the opportunity to thank him of his service. Between gentle kisses that Clark needed to get out of his system before he would lose himself in your body, you generously applied a glorious amount of lube on his large cock, though not letting Clark’s kisses answer to nobody.

His muscles pressed gently against you, the solid strength of his chest rising and falling with each breath when you took a couple of moments to thoroughly layer him in slick—to silently appreciate him for his efforts in lifting your spirits throughout the week with firm strokes.

The weight of his cock in your hands was satisfying, hefty enough to make you pause and marvel at the sheer size of it. You couldn’t get used to it, nor did you want to.

“You comfortable? Need more pillows? Tell me if your body starts hurting, okay?” Clark asked, suppressing his moans by showering your neck and face in small, lithe kisses.

His hands roamed your body at their own free-will before they began fixating on your arms, where your goosebumps were discernible. His brows furrowed in concern.

“Little cold…” One arm looped around to caress Clark by the nape, holding his forehead flushed to your own, while your other hand continued to stroke him between your collective hip grinds. You shivered again, despite being nestled so close to him, the draft still biting at your skin.

“Give me a moment,” he murmured softly, the heat of his breath brushing your ear.

You looked up at him, puzzled, but before you could ask what he meant, Clark pulled back just slightly, enough to give himself space to move. Without a word, he began to shift, his body warm and powerful as he adjusted his position. A flicker of surprise passed through you when you saw the subtle concentration on his face, but before you could ask again, you felt it when he pressed himself on top of you again, lowering his hips.

Clark’s body temperature seemed to rise—slowly, but steadily, until you could feel a gentle heat radiating off him. It was as if he was adjusting his own internal warmth, shifting it just for you. Your eyes widened in disbelief, but the shiver running through your body eased, the cold gradually melting away as his warmth enveloped you.

“You should be good now,” he said, his voice low and calm while he pulled you back into his arms, his skin now perfectly heated against yours.

You nestled against him again, finally able to relax as the cold left you entirely. “Not even going to ask,” you graced him with a kiss, reaching between your pelvis and his to adjust his cock against your hole and nodded. “I’m good to go.”

“Love you so much…” He took you by the jaw and slotted his lips into yours once more, grounding the wavering of your breath with his protection before he pushed his hips forth.

“It’s so… big, C-Clark—“ you groaned, clenching your eyes shut through the bittersweet tension of his large cock opening you up.

Clark whispered several I know’s over your lips, a strong effort in placating the pain surging beneath you, while taking a few pauses for you to catch your breath, for Clark to catch his because—you were so tight.

"You're so tight..." Clark seemed to have admitted in a whisper without realizing.

You felt yourself swell within seconds, the crown of your insides clenching him and pushing him out all at the same time, but Clark remained resilient, pushing, and pushing, allowing you to feel the slow, deliberate pressure inside of you, until he was finally deeply rooted inside of you to the hilt, earning himself a deep guttural groan from you as a reward.

“You feel so good, baby. So, so good. Taking me so well…” He peppered your whimpers with soft kisses, his words soothing you as his boyish smile remained, warm and comforting, easing you with each gentle touch and praise.

“You’re so warm too…” you muttered into the palm of his hand, kissing him at the calloused skin before you returned back to his plush lips.

Your breath caught in your throat as you shifted, the feeling of being filled growing deeper, fuller with every inch of Clark’s large cock moving inside of you. Clark’s large palm rested on your stomach, caressing over the bulge that seemed to move in conjunction with his slow, methodical thrusts.

He had never mentioned it, but you knew it was a sight that he secretly loved. Clark's eyes softened with admiration as he watched, his gaze lingering on the subtle curve of your stomach. It was unmistakable, the way it had begun to gently bulge with every rut of his hips, becoming more prominent depending on the strength, the fullness a natural sign of the way your body had been affected by what you’d taken.

And what you had taken was Clark’s love and devotion to you—his thick cock making you gape and swell from beneath.

It wasn’t easy, not by any means, but there was an undeniable pull in watching your stomach swell from his cock—an almost desperate craving for the mixture of pain and pleasure, for the way it made your body react even though your mind wavered between wanting to resist and wanting to surrender completely.

He couldn’t help but marvel at it, his fingertips lightly grazing the curve, tracing its outline with a reverent touch. The way your body had responded to him, the way it molded to the shape of the intimate moment, filled him with a quiet awe. He leaned in, brushing a soft kiss against your skin, his voice low and hushed. “You’re perfect,” he murmured, a hint of wonder in his tone, as if he couldn’t quite believe the sight before him.

Clark was never one to boast, but in this moment, the glint in his eyes spoke volumes. He’d never been so proud of having someone like you—someone so determined—take all of his girth with such unwavering focus despite the tears in your eyes. Happy tears, to which he’d only create more of, when he gently pressed on the bulge in your stomach and sandwiched his cock within your insides, plunging himself deep inside of you until the only sounds that came out of your throat were guttural.

“C-Clark—oh, god…” your cock was dripping in pre-cum, throbbing to the weight of his cock hollowing you out as he sped up his hips and pushed you deeper into the bed on instinct. You held onto his muscular shoulders as he clutched onto your waist and rocked you back and forth along to his deep thrusts.

“God, I’m so deep inside of you. Is this okay, baby? Is it okay that I’m making love to you like this? I’m being selfish, aren’t I?”

“No-please! I l-love it so much, Clark. Fuck. Keep fucking me like that… wouldn’t want anything more—”

“Like this? You like how I’m so deep inside of you to the point where your tummy’s swelling? So… good. You look so good for me…”

His forehead connected to yours again, panting over your mouth and taking a moment to marvel over how he had rendered you speechless before he could muster up the energy to kiss you again, to draw out another sound from you with his tongue.

The warmth of his mouth was almost feverish, his breath mingling with yours in a tangled, wet dance. Each movement was smooth and sensual, your tongues exploring, tasting, tracing the contours of each other’s mouths with growing eagerness. The wetness of it—the gentle press of his lips, the slick glide of your tongues—made the kiss feel all the more intoxicating, as if every flick and sweep brought you deeper into him.

Clark’s body temperature only seemed to have gotten warmer, affecting you from the inside and out as his cock was synchronous.

You could feel Clark’s dick heat you up from the inside, seemingly softening your guts to make the ease of fully wrecking you all the more easier. With each kiss, praise, and thrust, your body melted further, feeling as soft and pliable as butter left out in the warmth. The tension in your muscles faded, replaced by a liquid sensation that spread through you, leaving you entirely at ease and whimpering in his hot embrace.

The faint sheen of sweat gave him an undeniable rawness, a physicality that made your heart race. You were mesmerized by the way it clung to him, the way the droplets caught the light before sliding slowly down his torso.

Each movement he made only seemed to draw you in more, the heat radiating from his body intensifying the pull you felt. You couldn’t tear your eyes away, infatuated not just by his strength, but by the way he looked so alive, so real—like the sweat was proof of his effort, his focus, and the raw intensity of how he was making love to you and that tantalizing hole of yours.

“You’re fucking me so good, Clark. I could come like this, baby—just like this…”

“And when you make a mess—not if, but when—I’ll treat you like the prince you are. I’ll clean you up with my mouth, let you watch me lick every drop away with my tongue, and then I’ll kiss you, giving you a taste of your love for me.”

His skin, damp with the effort of his keen need to wreck you, left a trail of warmth and moisture as he pounded you, a strong, animalistic friction that made every touch feel more intimate and passionate, that made the current position of him mounting you and bending your knees till they touched your chest despite your condition well worthwhile and all the more rewarding.

It was a sound that matched the intensity of the connection between you both—no words needed, just the symphony of his sweaty skin meeting yours, and his cock hollowing you out until you two had made a permanent imprint on the mattress.

Clark’s breath hitched as he watched you, his eyes soft and filled with admiration contrasting with his hardened thrusts. “You look so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe. “Just… so perfect.”

His hand moved to your stomach again, evidently in love with the way you swelled from his cock, the weight of the moment sinking in with the aid of the bed creaking, and Clark’s sweaty skin slapping against you.

Every word he spoke, every gentle press of his lips, seemed to soften you, coaxing out of the cold that had been restricting you. It was as though you were being molded by his touch, the heat of his affection spreading through your veins, leaving you pliant, relaxed, and willing to give yourself entirely to him.

All sensation coursing through you was a tangled mess of pleasure and overwhelming intensity. Your body was on the verge of unraveling with every deep thrust of Clark’s. You could feel him swell, veins throbbing inside of you, his balls twitching as he was nearing his high just as you were.

Your eyes fluttered closed, the edges of your vision blurring the harder he pounded into you like an animal, like he was beating away at your cold, and you could feel yourself slipping into a blissful madness.

It was almost too much, yet it felt like the most real thing you’d ever known. Your body trembled from the weight of his body on you, from the girth that Clark was destroying you open with. Every muscle was tight with anticipation, yet you managed to hold onto a smile, the corners of your lips twitching despite the storm raging inside you, your cock throbbing and leaking in overdrive in warning.

“C-Clark..!“

Your hands instinctively found their way around Clark's neck, pulling him closer as if to anchor yourself in the moment. The kiss you pressed against his lips was desperate, full of need and grounding, a silent plea for him to steady you in the chaos as your balls tightened up into your core.

With each breathless press of your mouth to his, you found a sliver of control, a tether to the reality of his presence, even as the pleasure threatened to send you into pure blissful madness.

“I know—me too—“

Your smile lingered, your mind teetered on the edge, savoring every second, every touch, every thrust, and every heartbeat that connected you both, until the very moment where Clark’s name slipped from your lips in a breathless gasp.

“Clark—“

The tension had reached its peak, and when it finally broke, it was like a wave crashing over you, overwhelming and all-consuming. You came in a shared, fervent release. All muscles in your body was taut with desire, the culmination of your love for him unraveling in the form of thick white ropes shooting out of your cock, decorating your bulging stomach with layers upon layers, some splattering onto Clark’s body from the sheer amount of power and arousal.

Clark’s grip on you tightened, his body shuddering against yours as he gave into the same release, his breath ragged in the wake of it. His name left your lips in a soft, trembling sigh as he spilled his warm, thick seed deep inside of your raw hole. He left you breathless, thick, and steady, flooding you in ropes that seemed to never end. It was a powerful, consuming feeling, filling you completely, each pulse of his cock deep and unwavering, decorating your insides with a thickness that left you in awe of how much he had to give, like his body had held nothing back.

Your bodies moved together in those final moments, each thrust and touch sending shock waves through your system as Clark rode out his orgasm. You could feel every inch of him, raw and exposed. The warmth spread through you with each movement, the thick fluid of his cum filling you to the brim, a steady stream that didn’t seem to have an end leaking out of you that would surely have your flesh glued together with his.

Nothing else listed but the two of you—completely undone, unraveling together and leaving behind nothing but the sweet, tender echo of your love for each other.

The room was still, save for your breathing, as Clark’s forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath, tangled together in the beautiful, but sweaty aftermath.

“Are you… feeling better?”

His fingers traced along your skin, over the mess that you made of your stomach to let the sticky substance seep into his own palm, while he caught the remainder of his breath in the crook of your neck, fully collapsing on top of you.

“I…” You groaned, the lingering sensation of pleasure making it hard to find words. But despite the exhaustion, a sly smile tugged at your lips.

You rubbed his broad back in soothing circles, whispering in his ear, “I think I might need another prescription, Doctor.” Your voice was breathless, a mischievous glint in your eyes as the desire still simmered beneath the surface.

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[lykaglobal-07]

Sustainable Packaging Solutions for Food, Medical, Fruits and Consumer Products - Lyka Global

 In recent years, there has been a growing global concern about the environmental impact of packaging waste, particularly in industries such as food, medical, and consumer products. As a result, businesses are increasingly looking for Sustainable Packaging Solutions that minimize their ecological footprint while maintaining product quality and safety. One company that has emerged as a leader in sustainable packaging is Lyka Global. In this blog post, we will explore the innovative sustainable packaging solutions offered by Lyka Global and how they are revolutionizing the industry.

The Importance of Sustainable Packaging:

Sustainable packaging plays a vital role in reducing environmental damage caused by excessive waste generation. By opting for eco-friendly materials and manufacturing processes, businesses can contribute to a circular economy and protect the planet for future generations. Lyka Global understands this urgency and offers a range of sustainable packaging solutions that address the specific needs of the food, medical, and consumer product sectors.

Lyka Global’s Commitment to Sustainability:

Lyka Global is a pioneering company dedicated to providing sustainable packaging solutions without compromising quality or performance. They prioritize the use of renewable and recyclable materials, reducing energy consumption, and minimizing waste throughout their production processes. By adopting a comprehensive sustainability strategy, Lyka Global sets an example for other industry players to follow.

Sustainable Packaging for Food Products:

When it comes to food packaging, Lyka Global offers innovative solutions that keep products fresh, extend shelf life, and reduce food waste. They utilize compostable and biodegradable materials made from renewable resources, such as plant-based films and compostable trays. These materials not only provide excellent barrier properties to protect against moisture, oxygen, and contaminants but also minimize the environmental impact when disposed of.

Sustainable Packaging for Medical Products:

Lyka Global understands the critical nature of packaging for medical products, where safety, sterility, and compliance are paramount. They have developed sustainable packaging solutions that meet stringent industry regulations while minimizing environmental impact. From eco-friendly blister packs made from recycled plastics to bio-based medical pouches, Lyka Global offers sustainable options that ensure the protection and integrity of medical products while reducing plastic waste.

Sustainable Packaging for Consumer Products:

In the realm of consumer products, Lyka Global offers sustainable packaging options that combine functionality, aesthetics, and eco-friendliness. They work closely with clients to develop packaging solutions that reflect their brand identity while adhering to sustainable principles. From recyclable cardboard boxes to biodegradable product labels and innovative refillable containers, Lyka Global empowers businesses to package their products responsibly.

Lyka Global’s Collaborative Approach:

Lyka Global believes in collaborative partnerships with their clients, suppliers, and industry stakeholders to drive sustainable change collectively. They actively engage in research and development efforts to identify and implement cutting-edge sustainable packaging solutions. By fostering open communication and collaboration, Lyka Global ensures that their clients’ specific requirements are met while striving for continuous improvement in sustainability practices.

Conclusion:

In the face of increasing environmental concerns, Lyka Global stands out as a leader in providing sustainable High Quality Packaging solutions for the food, medical, Fruits and consumer product industries. Their commitment to eco-friendly materials, innovative designs, and collaborative partnerships positions them at the forefront of sustainable packaging innovation. By choosing Lyka Global’s solutions, businesses can not only reduce their environmental footprint but also showcase their dedication to sustainability and responsible business practices. Together, we can create a more sustainable future for packaging and protect the planet we call home.

[solxamber]

Prologue: A Day Like No Other

This is the prologue for the 1k Event! It'll split into routes from here!

1k Masterlist

When you woke up that morning, you expected an ordinary day—classes, Grim stealing food from your tray, and maybe an explosion or two courtesy of Ace and Deuce. What you didn’t expect was for nearly every boy in the entire school to suddenly decide, out of nowhere, that they wanted to ask you out.

Riddle Rosehearts

He corners you right after class, red as a lobster, clutching a rulebook in one hand like it’s his lifeline. "I… I thought you might like to attend a formal tea ceremony with me this weekend. You have excellent posture, and I believe we would engage in delightful conversation."

He clears his throat and adjusts his collar. "Of course, I’ll have a list of acceptable topics for us to discuss."

You stare at him. He's shaking slightly.

"...Is this a date?"

His ears turn crimson. "It is not—" He exhales deeply. "Yes, it is. Please say yes."

Trey Clover

Trey smiles warmly as he approaches you after club activities. "Hey, I made a batch of tarts, and I thought we could eat them together. Just us. I mean... It’d be nice to spend time with you. Alone."

He rubs the back of his neck, trying not to look embarrassed. "And if you’d like, I could teach you how to bake something... Maybe, uh, something sweet?"

Cater Diamond

Cater pops out of nowhere, phone already in hand and pointed at you. "Yooo! Wanna go on a date with me? We could take tons of selfies, make Vil jealous, and trend under #CoupleGoals."

You blink at him.

"And hey," he adds with a wink, "if we get along, maybe I’ll tag you in my socials. Exclusive content, you know?"

Ace Trappola

"Okay, look," Ace says, leaning casually against the wall. "I’m not saying you should pick me over, like, Leona or Malleus or whoever—but I’m way more fun than those guys. C’mon, let’s go out. I’ll buy you ice cream. Two scoops."

He wiggles his eyebrows. "You know you want to."

Deuce Spade

Deuce looks nervous but determined, like he’s psyching himself up for a boxing match. "I—I know I’m not the smoothest guy around, but I really like spending time with you! And if you’ll go out with me, I promise I’ll… I’ll be a perfect gentleman. Or at least, uh, I’ll try to be."

Leona Kingscholar

Leona, as usual, doesn’t even try to sugarcoat it. "Come nap with me."

"Is that your idea of a date?"

He shrugs. "You don’t seem like the type to want fancy dinners. This is less effort. Plus, I sleep better when you’re there."

Ruggie Bucchi

"Heyyyy," Ruggie grins, tugging on your sleeve. "How ‘bout you and me hit the town? I know a place that gives out free meals if you pretend to be engaged. C’mon, it’ll be fun!"

Jack Howl

Jack frowns, clearly struggling with the words. "I’m not great at this stuff, but... If you want, we could run together sometime? Or, uh, go on a walk?"

He glances away, ears twitching. "It’d be nice. With you."

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul adjusts his glasses, smiling like he’s just sealed the most important business deal of his life. "It would be an honor to escort you to a dinner at Mostro Lounge. Of course, all expenses will be covered. Consider it... an exclusive arrangement."

Jade Leech

Jade leans in just a little too close, that unsettling smile plastered on his face. "I believe we would have an interesting time exploring the woods together. Perhaps we’ll discover some mushrooms... or each other’s secrets?"

Floyd Leech

Floyd swings an arm over your shoulder, grinning ear to ear. "Oi, let’s go somewhere fun! If anyone bothers us, I’ll squish ‘em."

"Floyd, is this a date?"

"Obviously! Hehe, you're stuck with me now, Shrimpy."

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim’s eyes sparkle with excitement. "Wanna come to a party? It’ll be huge! And afterward, we can ride my magic carpet under the stars!"

You barely have time to respond before he’s already planning an itinerary.

Jamil Viper

Jamil sighs, looking like he’s regretting this already. "If Kalim hasn’t dragged you off yet… would you like to grab lunch? Somewhere quiet, where I won’t have to babysit anyone."

Vil Schoenheit

Vil regards you with a calculating smile. "We could attend an opera together. Or a fashion show, if you prefer. You have potential, you know. I wouldn’t mind refining it."

Rook Hunt

"Ah, mon trésor!" Rook exclaims, dramatic as ever. "It would be a delight to hunt for beauty with you! A picnic in the forest, perhaps? Under the moonlight, where all things enchanting dwell."

Epel Felmier

Epel grins mischievously. "Wanna go smash stuff?"

"...That’s your idea of a date?"

"Yup." He winks. "You in or what?"

Idia Shroud

Idia looks like he’s on the verge of fainting. "So, uh... I-I heard there’s this new game releasing. M-maybe we could play it together? Or not. Forget I asked."

Before you can respond, Ortho pops up cheerfully. "Say yes! My brother’s been practicing this for weeks!"

Malleus Draconia

Malleus looms over you, an almost shy smile on his face. "I would be honored if you would accompany me on a stroll through the gardens. There are many things I wish to show you... and, perhaps, learn from you as well."

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia grins, his fangs glinting in the light. "How about a little mischief together? We could visit an amusement park or play pranks on the first years. Either way, I guarantee it’ll be memorable!"

Silver

Silver, looking half-asleep, gives you a soft smile. "If you’d like, we could... I don’t know. Sit under a tree and talk. Or just... exist, I guess. As long as it’s with you."

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek stands stiffly, as if on the verge of saluting. "I would like to take you to dinner! Not that it matters to me, of course! But it would be... logical for us to spend time together. As comrades!"

Rollo Flamme

Rollo catches you alone, adjusting his pristine cuffs with his usual air of seriousness. “I dislike crowds, so I will be brief,” he says, voice as even as his posture. “Would you like to accompany me to a quiet tea house? I find your company... less intolerable than most.”

You blink at him.

He clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “Consider it a date.” Then, after a pause, he quickly adds, “If you wish, of course.”

His ears are red, but he refuses to meet your gaze, determined to keep his dignity intact.

And just like that, you find yourself drowning in invitations. Your phone buzzes with reminders from Ortho ("Don't forget to reply to my brother!") and Epel’s laughter rings in your ears. Ace and Deuce whisper ominously about Riddle’s wrath.

Leona, meanwhile, lazily waves from the other end of the hall. "Pick whoever you want. If it's not me, just don’t wake me up."

So...

Who will it be?

1k Event Masterlist (Go here for routes)

Main Masterlist

[snickerdoodlebaby]

Eat It - Namgyu x reader [pt.1]

Namgyu x Reader, Part 1

Warnings: Namgyu is a sadist, bullying, sfw

Part 2 here

Ugh, why was Namgyu always so mean? He poked the top of your head, messing up your hair slightly. “She’s still cryin’.” He spoke to Thanos as if you weren’t there.

You could feel Thanos’ eyes on you and you pressed your sweater-covered palms to your own, wiping the small lingering wetness away quickly. You didn’t want to seem like a pussy to the other group members, but you realized it was the first cry you’ve had since you joined these hellish games.

His eyes landed on Namgyu who was still standing uncomfortably close to you. “Forgetta’ bout her.” Thanos was bobbing his head to some nonexistent tune in his head. You almost envied him, it’s like he was mentally somewhere completely different, safe and far from here.

Namgyu grinned and scoffed. He looked back down at you, towering over your sitting form. Looking into his eyes was scary, you didn’t like doing it because it made you feel like you were being watched by a predator. So you kept your eyes trained on the dirty tips of your white shoes. He examines you, you can feel his black eyes burning into you. If you didn’t know any better you would’ve thought he enjoyed the sight of you crying. Drinking in your bleak and watery eyes, your cheeks stained with streaks and your face blushed slightly pink.

He finally spoke. “She hasn’t even touched her food, what a waste.” Ah, still talking as if you weren’t there, huh? He just kept staring. His foot nudged your untouched box of kimbap, and it slid a few inches across the concrete floor away from you.

“It’d be better off going to someone else, yeah?” And then he was suddenly bending down and grabbing your lunch, holding it out away from you and gauging your reaction. You jumped up, mouth agape in desperation, much to his pleasure. He grinned down at you, stepping away from you more to see you follow. When you jumped pathetically making a grasp for your lunch he laughed in your face. Wow, he really was enjoying this.

The silence of your teammates worsens the situation, makes you feel even more helpless when Min-su and Se-mi side eye the two of you and decide not to do anything. Namgyu is still smirking and laughing at you, dancing around and dodging every attempt you make to grab your food. You two almost trip into the hard metal of a bunk bed when you accidentally step on his shoe and pull on his jacket sleeve.

“Bitch, watch it.” He roughly yanks his arm away from you, making you falter a bit and fist the front of his jacket for support. His jaw clenched tightly and his breath fanned across your long hair. The two of you freeze like that for a moment. You look up into his darkened eyes and see voids, nothing’s in there and it makes goosebumps creep up your neck. They dart between both of your eyes, scrutinizing, soaking in your exasperated expression.

“Alright,” he starts darkly, out of breath, “If you want it so badly…”

Your eyes widen and you visibly wince as he tips your tray, all of your food falling onto the grimy concrete. The sight makes you want to cry again but you won’t give him the satisfaction, so you blink away the stinging sensation. Your pouty lip trembles and you bite it to keep it still. You were so hungry. You hadn’t eaten since yesterday.

You look up at him with big defeated doe eyes. He sniggers, rubbing a ringed hand over his face. “Eat it.”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

Already started writing part 2 ♡ Namgyu is a sadistic motherfucker. Smut incoming!

[ughbrie]

across distant nights | dawnbreaker!zayne

⤜ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ- “You saw me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “At the café?”

His gaze darkened, the weight of years—of searching, of longing—settling into his eyes like a storm barely held at bay. “Just for a moment,” he murmured. “A glimpse.” His thumb traced the curve of your cheek, his touch reverent, almost fragile, as if he feared you might vanish beneath his fingertips. “And that was all I needed.” His voice dipped lower, rough with something raw and unspoken.

“Do you understand now?” His forehead nearly touched yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Why I can’t let you go?”

(Or… in the haze of waking and dreaming, you meet a boy—Dawnbreaker. Over the years, he lingers, growing with you, reaching for you, until the lines between reality and dreams blur beyond return. And when you finally meet Zayne, the man who bears his face but not his memories, you realize the truth: Dawnbreaker is no mere dream, and he is driven by something more than longing—by the fear of being replaced.)

⤜ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ- dawnbreaker!zayne x female reader

⤜ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ- angst & smut

⤜ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ- 19.6k words

⤜ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ (or tags)- nsfw, mdni, no use of y/n, dawnbreaker!zayne, dom!zayne, themes of childhood trauma and violence, angst, possessive behaviour, nipple play, marking (biting), finger sucking, body worship, clit play, oral sex (cunnilingus), fingering, squirting (hinted), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, pinning, grinding, thigh fucking, penetration (p in v), breast play, rough sex, unprotected sex, mentions of ownership, and creampie.

⤜ ɴᴏᴛᴇ- Hello! This took wayyy longer than I originally said it would, and for that, I’m really sorry. University got super busy, and honestly, this story took a lot more thinking and emotional energy than I expected. I had to take a break for a week, and of course, the moment I did, a ton of uni work piled up too. So yeah… it took me a while to finally get around to finishing this.

I really hope the plot translated the way I envisioned it! I wanted to explore the idea that it was MC who started dreaming about Dawnbreaker, not Zayne himself, and that they weren’t childhood friends at all. This was the result of that concept, and I had a lot of fun writing it.

Hope you enjoy reading!!

The café smelled of roasted coffee beans and vanilla, the air thick with the hum of quiet conversations. You barely registered the low chatter, your focus settled on the glowing menu board as you waited in line, eyes tracing the list of drinks out of habit more than necessity. The morning rush had come and gone, leaving only a few lingering customers scattered by the windows, engrossed in their own worlds.

You placed your order, fingers drumming absently against the counter. Just as you stepped aside, the barista called out a name—clear, unmistakable.

“One caramel macchiato, a slice of tiramisu, and a box of assorted macarons for Zayne—to go!”

The tray was claimed before the name had a chance to linger. You turned instinctively, drawn by familiarity before your mind could fully catch up. And there he was.

The man who haunted your nights. The man you had spent years reaching for in dreams, only to wake to an empty room.

He stood just a few feet away, lifting the tray to inspect the order sticker, the faintest furrow between his brows. But something was off. His hair, as dark as you remembered, was slightly neat, framing his sharp features in a way that made him look softer, more at ease. A neatly pressed white button-up covered his frame, the sleeves fastened at his wrists—formal, composed—a white doctor’s coat slung over his arm. And the most jarring difference—thin, rectangular glasses rested on the bridge of his nose.

Your gaze flickered downward instinctively, searching. His forearms, bared just enough where the cuff shifted, were smooth, unmarked. No scars. No evidence of the battles you had seen carved into flesh. 

It was wrong. It was all wrong.

You waited—waited for something, for his gaze to lift, for his mouth to curve into something familiar, something that made sense of the years you had spent with him in the quiet corners of your mind. But when his eyes—hazel green, steady, unreadable—finally met yours, there was no flicker of recognition. No shift in his expression. Nothing that acknowledged the weight pressing against your ribs, the sudden tightness in your chest.

He didn’t know you.

A slow, dull throb settled behind your ribs.

You told yourself to speak—to say something, anything—but the words tangled, caught between disbelief and the raw edge of something else, something you couldn’t yet name. And so you waited. If he knew you, he would say something first.

But he only lingered a second longer before giving you a polite, almost absent nod, as if you were just another stranger in his periphery. Then, with his order in hand, he turned toward the exit, leaving you standing there, heart pounding against the silence he left behind.

You followed him.

It wasn’t a conscious decision, not really—more like a pull, a habit carved from years of dreams where he always walked ahead, and you always reached for him. But now, the distance felt different. Wrong. His steps were measured, unhurried, completely unaware of you until the moment he turned around, and you instinctively moved to follow.

That was when he stopped.

Before you could react, he shifted, turning toward you with quiet precision, cutting off your path with nothing more than presence alone. Up close, he seemed even more unfamiliar—hazel-green eyes sharp behind his glasses, his stance polite but firm.

“…Are you following me?”

His voice was even, not accusatory, but laced with careful curiosity, as if piecing together a puzzle he hadn’t expected to find. And for the first time, you hesitated.

This wasn’t the Zayne you knew.

You had expected him to recognize you first. To say your name, to offer even the slightest flicker of familiarity. Instead, he was watching you with mild wariness, waiting for an answer you weren’t sure how to give.

Your throat tightened. You shook your head, forcing a step back. “I—No, I’m sorry.”

Something in his gaze flickered. He didn’t move, didn’t press, only studied you with quiet scrutiny.

You exhaled, turning on your heel. “Goodbye.”

You walked away before he could respond.

And yet, as the door shut behind you, the world seemed to shift—like slipping into something just slightly misaligned.

The memory came back in full—not in pieces or echoes, but whole and sharp, like stepping barefoot onto broken glass.

It had happened before.

A long time ago.

-

It was 2034. 

You were seven years old then, when the sky split open.

They called it the Chronoshift Catastrophe, but that wasn’t what you remembered. The news reports spoke of rifts and anomalies, of the Deepspace Tunnel appearing above Linkon City like a jagged wound in the sky. They warned of Wanderers—twisted figures that moved like shadows and tore through everything in their path. They reported the casualties, the hostilities.

But none of that stayed with you.

You remembered the sirens, the way they wailed endlessly, their shrill cries bleeding into your dreams. You remembered the distant glow of fire reflecting off the windows, the thunder of helicopters beating through the sky. And you remembered sitting alone on the floor of the orphanage’s common room, knees tucked to your chest as the caretakers whispered behind locked doors. They never told you much, only that Linkon City had fallen. That people had changed.

You were one of them.

The first dream came not long after.

You had been asleep—curled beneath a too-thin blanket in your corner of the oprhanage—when the world shifted.

You woke up standing.

The floor beneath your feet was cold, uneven stone, slick with something dark that clung to your skin. The air was heavy—thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and rust, sharp enough to sting your nose. You shivered, fingers curling tightly around the hem of your nightshirt.

Then you heard it.

A sound—small, stuttering breaths, like someone was trying to stay quiet.

You turned your head and saw him.

A boy—maybe your age, maybe older—hunched against the wall. His knees were drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around them like he was trying to hold himself together. His clothes hung off him in ragged strips, torn and smeared with grime. His hands…

His hands were dark with something sticky and half-dried. Blood. He kept rubbing his palms against his knees in frantic, jerky motions, like he could scrub it off if he just tried hard enough. But it wouldn’t go away.

He hadn’t seen you yet. His head was bowed, his breath shaky and thin.

You took a step closer, and that’s when he froze. His breath hitched, and slowly—like he wasn’t sure he wanted to—he lifted his head.

His eyes were dark—hazel green—and there was something burning inside them, something that made your chest feel tight. Fear, grief… something more than that, something heavy and endless.

For a moment, he just stared at you, like he couldn’t decide if you were real.

“…Who are you?”

His voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges. Like he had been crying too long and had forgotten how to stop.

The boy didn’t move right away. His gaze stayed locked on you, wide and unblinking, like you might vanish if he looked away. His hands had stilled against his knees, fingers twitching faintly as though they couldn’t forget the blood that clung to them.

“Are you…” His voice wavered, cracking in the middle. “Are you one of them?”

“One of who?” you asked softly.

His eyes narrowed. “The monsters…”

You shook your head, your voice barely above a whisper. “No.”

He stared at you a moment longer, then exhaled—short and sharp like he didn’t believe you. His fingers curled into his sleeves, knuckles turning white.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he muttered. “You shouldn’t be—”

His breath hitched, and suddenly his shoulders were shaking again. He bit down hard on his lower lip, like that might keep the tears at bay, but his face was already crumpling. The weight of whatever he was holding back threatened to crush him right there.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t know they—I didn’t want to—”

You didn’t understand what he meant, not yet, but the words came from somewhere raw and jagged, too tangled with guilt for someone so young.

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, stepping closer. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I did,” he shot back, voice rising. “I—I couldn’t stop them. I tried to—I tried—” His hand shot up and pressed against his face, smearing dirt and blood across his cheek. “I couldn’t save them.”

His voice broke at the end, and that was what did it—the way his shoulders hunched in like he was trying to make himself small, the way his breath kept stuttering like it hurt just to keep going.

You moved before you could think better of it. Crossing the space between you, you knelt beside him, resting a hand against his arm. He flinched—his whole body jerking like he expected a blow—but you didn’t let go.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m sorry you’re alone.”

He shook his head, fast and hard. “I’m not alone,” he insisted, voice thin and strained. “I still have to—I still have to fight. I can’t—I can’t stop yet.”

“Fight?” you asked, your hand tightening slightly.

He looked at you then—really looked at you. His eyes still held that feverish gleam, but there was something else there too. Something tired.

“They keep coming,” he whispered. “The monsters, no, Wanderers.” His voice faltered, turning quiet like he was afraid saying their name would call them closer. “They used to be people. I knew some of them. But when they… change…” His gaze dropped to his hands, to the dried blood crusted beneath his nails.

“I couldn’t save them,” he repeated. His voice shook again, breaking against the words. “I tried, but…”

You swallowed hard, your fingers flexing against his arm. He was so cold beneath your touch, like the warmth had been drained out of him.

“You shouldn’t have to do that alone,” you said.

“I have to,” he muttered. His eyes flicked upward again, colder now. “There’s no one else left.”

The weight of those words hit you hard—too big for a boy his age to carry. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say.

But then you reached out, fingers brushing against his bloodied hand. His fingers twitched beneath yours—instinctively drawing back—but you held steady.

“You’re not alone right now,” you told him quietly. “Not while I’m here.”

His breath hitched again—not like he was about to cry this time, but like he didn’t know what to do with the way you were looking at him. Like he couldn’t quite believe you meant it.

“…What’s your name?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

You told him.

He hesitated, then answered quietly, “I’m Zayne.”

For a while, you just knelt there, your hand still resting against his arm. The cold pricked at your skin—sharp, almost too sharp—and yet none of it seemed to matter. Not when his breathing kept hitching, not when his fingers kept twitching like they didn’t know whether to fight or flee.

Was this real?

The thought curled through your mind, quiet and uncertain. It had to be a dream—didn’t it? You remembered falling asleep. Remembered curling beneath your blanket, still small enough that your feet barely reached the end of your bed. Dreams were strange like that—always shifting, always showing you things that couldn’t be real.

But the air smelled wrong—sharp and metallic. The chill biting at your skin hurt. And this boy—this crying, trembling boy, he felt real. His breath was warm where it ghosted against your arm. His skin—cold and cracked beneath the streaks of blood, trembled faintly beneath your fingers.

Is he real?

You didn’t know. But you couldn’t just sit there and watch him fall apart.

“How did everything start?” you asked softly.

Zayne’s fingers twitched again beneath yours, curling inwards like he was trying to keep something from slipping away. His shoulders shook, and when he finally spoke, his voice barely scraped above a whisper.

“I don’t…” His words faltered. “I don’t know how it started. I just remember… the sky…”

And then he told you. About the sky splitting open like a wound above the city. About the faces he knew—familiar, warm faces—turning cold and empty, wandering the streets like ghosts in their own skin. About his father’s voice, promising everything would be fine. About his mother’s scream, cut short before he could reach her.

His fingers flexed again—this time curling tighter, like he was holding something invisible in his hand. Frost bloomed beneath his palm, thin veins of ice creeping across the cold stone floor.

He’s scared, you realized. He’s still scared.

“You were just a kid,” you said quickly. “You are just a kid.”

“It doesn’t matter.” His gaze sharpened, colder now—too fierce for someone so small. “I can still fight. I can still keep them away.”

His other hand lifted slightly, and a sharp gust of cold prickled against your skin. Tiny flecks of ice clung to his fingers, spreading like frostbite.

This has to be a dream. The thought pushed forward again—louder this time—but you ignored it.

“Zayne…” you started carefully. His face was tight, his eyes locked on his hand like he couldn’t control what was happening.

“It won’t stop,” he muttered. “I can’t—I can’t control it sometimes. When I get scared or angry…” The ice spiked upward, jagged and wild. “I hurt people.”

“You won’t hurt me,” you said, your voice steadier than you expected. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

His gaze snapped to yours. For a moment, his eyes were wide with panic—like he didn’t believe you, like he was waiting for you to pull away.

But you didn’t.

“I’m here,” you told him again, your hand pressing more firmly against his arm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The ice began to shrink, slowly pulling back toward his fingertips. His breathing steadied—still shaky, but calmer now.

“…Okay,” he whispered. His fingers slackened in your hand. “Okay.”

And when his head dropped against your shoulder, the weight of him leaning into you like he didn’t have the strength to keep himself upright, you wrapped your arms around him. He was cold, ice still clinging faintly to his sleeves but he was warm too. Warm enough that you let yourself believe, even just for a moment, that this was real.

You remembered waking up the next morning with the cold still clinging to your skin—faint, like a whisper fading with the morning light. For a moment, you had lain there in your bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if it had all been a dream.

But it hadn’t felt like a dream. You still remembered the way his voice had trembled, the way his fingers had twitched like he was trying to hold something too sharp. You remembered the weight of him—cold but solid—when he finally let himself lean against you.

You remembered wanting—aching—for nightfall to come.

That whole day, you had barely spoken. You went through the motions—ate when you were told, followed the orphanage’s routine—but your mind kept straying. Each time the sky darkened, your pulse would quicken, hope unfurling in your chest like a bloom in spring.

But when you closed your eyes that night, there was only darkness.

And the night after that.

And the one after that.

Days stretched into weeks. Weeks bled into months. The memory of him—of Zayne, his bloodied hands, his quiet, fractured voice—lingered at the edges of your mind like a shadow you couldn’t chase away. You wondered if he was okay. If his ice had ever stopped growing wild and sharp. If he had somewhere warm to sleep. If he even knew that you had tried to find him again.

Time kept moving forward.

Somewhere in those months, a family came—a pair of Hunters who had once fought during the Chronoshift Catastrophe. They weren’t the sort of people you had expected. They weren’t cold or distant like the stories had warned—they were warm. Solid. Their presence filled the empty spaces in your life so easily that you wondered how you had gone so long without them.

They taught you how to hold a blade properly, how to move quickly but quietly. They told you about the Wanderers—about the people who had once been human, twisted and lost after the disaster. They never told you to become a Hunter like them, but you knew they would teach you if you asked.

And for a while, you stopped thinking about him.

You didn’t mean to forget. You never wanted to. But Zayne became just another face in the corners of your memory—one you couldn’t quite hold on to no matter how hard you tried.

Then, almost a year later, on a night that seemed no different from any other, you found yourself in that cold, quiet place again.

The air smelled of frost—sharp and stinging, colder than any winter you had ever known. The wind howled through the ruins, biting at your skin, and when you exhaled, your breath curled into mist before vanishing into the dark.

You weren’t sure how you knew, but the moment your bare feet touched the frozen ground, you understood.

You had been here before.

Not just here—but with him.

A sharp crack split through the air, and your gaze snapped toward the sound. At the center of the ruined space, jagged ice carved its way up from the broken concrete, glinting under the pale light. And standing before it, his arm still outstretched, was him.

Zayne.

He was taller than you remembered—still thin, still wary, but stronger now. His posture was different, steadier, and though his clothes were still worn, they fit him differently. Purposefully. He wasn’t the trembling boy you had once held in your arms.

No, he was something else now. Something sharper.

The frost curling from his fingers glowed faintly, flickering like dying embers. He was training. You could see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, in the way his breath came slow and measured. The ice in front of him wasn’t just happening—he was controlling it.

And for a moment, you hesitated.

Would he remember you?

Had he, too, waited for nightfall? Had he searched for you in the dark, only to be met with silence?

Or had he forgotten?

You didn’t realize you had whispered his name until the sound of it carried into the stillness.

Zayne’s head snapped toward you. His whole body went rigid, and the ice in his palm flared wildly before fracturing with a sharp, splintering sound.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then—his expression twisted, confusion flickering through his dark eyes, wariness settling over his features like a veil.

He took a step closer, slow, measured, like he was approaching something that might shatter at the wrong move.

His gaze swept over you, taking in every detail.

And then, softly, warily, “…You’re here.”

It wasn’t relief.

It wasn’t joy.

It was a realization—one that made his fingers twitch at his sides, as if testing whether this was real.

But you could see the shift in his expression, the faint furrow of his brows, the careful calculation behind his eyes.

He knew.

Zayne’s gaze flickered, his breath unsteady. His fingers curled at his sides, the faintest trace of frost spreading across his knuckles before melting away. He studied you for a long moment, taking in every detail—like he was trying to commit you to memory, afraid you might slip away if he blinked.

Then, finally, he exhaled.

“The last time…” His voice was quiet, as if speaking too loudly might break the moment. “It was a dream. I didn’t realize it until I woke up.”

His eyes darkened, something unreadable shifting beneath the surface.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again.”

You didn’t think twice. The moment his voice wavered—that quiet, uncertain note threading through his words—you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

He tensed at first, his whole body going rigid beneath your touch. The cold that clung to him—sharp and biting, like frost creeping across glass—made you shiver, but you didn’t let go.

“I was worried about you,” you said softly, your voice muffled against his shoulder. “I thought… I thought maybe you didn’t make it.”

For a breathless second, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, his arms lifted—hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold on. But once his fingers found your back, his grip tightened. He clung to you like something fragile—something worn thin by too much grief, too many cold nights spent alone.

“I didn’t know if you were real,” he whispered. His voice shook, the words barely holding together. “I kept thinking… maybe I imagined you.”

You shook your head against him. “I’m real.”

His arms tightened just a little more, like he was afraid to let go.

“You’re warm,” he murmured, almost to himself—as if that alone was proof enough.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your arms still looped loosely around his waist. His face was still pale, his eyes still guarded, but you could see the way his shoulders weren’t quite so stiff anymore—like some of that awful weight had finally let go.

Without thinking, you dug into your pocket and fished out a crinkled little pack of candies—brightly wrapped, half-squished from being forgotten in the pockets of your pajamas.

“I brought these,” you said, holding them out with a proud grin. “I’ve been sleeping with candy in my pockets just in case I saw you again.”

His gaze flicked from your face to the candies, like he wasn’t sure if you were serious.

“I thought… maybe if I had something when I fell asleep, I could bring it here too,” you explained. “I didn’t know if it’d work, but… I guess it kinda did?”

Zayne blinked at the small pack in your hand. Then, to your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough that it made your chest feel warm.

“You’re weird,” he mumbled. But his fingers reached out—hesitant at first—and plucked the candies from your hand like they were something rare, something delicate. He turned the pack over, his thumb tracing the edge of the wrapper.

“You don’t have to give them all to me,” he added quietly. “You can keep some.”

“I want you to have them,” you insisted. “You look like you need them more.”

He stared at the candies for a moment longer before slipping them carefully into his pocket—like they were something important. Something safe.

“Thanks,” he said, so softly you barely heard it.

You leaned in a little, curious. “What happened after I last saw you?”

Zayne glanced down at the candy in his hands, fingers idly twisting the wrapper. He hesitated for a moment, like he wasn’t sure how much to say, before letting out a quiet breath.

“Some people found me,” he admitted. “Survivors. They took me in.”

“That’s good, right?” You shifted closer without thinking, knees knocking against his. He didn’t move away—he never did. Even when he wasn’t holding onto you, he was always close, always making sure some part of him was touching you. His elbow rested lightly against yours now, grounding, like he was making sure you were real.

Zayne nodded, but his expression remained unreadable. “They’re training,” he continued. “All of us are.”

You tilted your head. “Training for what?”

“To fight,” he said simply. “To kill Wanderers.”

The words should have sounded harsh coming from an eight-year-old, but the way he said them was flat, like he had long accepted this as normal. It made something twist in your chest, a strange sort of ache you didn’t quite understand yet.

For a mmoment, you didn’t know what to say. So instead, you reached into your pocket again, pulled out another piece of candy, and pressed it into his palm.

Zayne blinked at it, then at you, before carefully peeling away the wrapper and popping it into his mouth.

The change was instant.

His hazel-green eyes, usually guarded and dark, brightened as the sweetness hit his tongue. His lips parted slightly, his brows lifting just a fraction—like he had forgotten what something good could taste like.

You giggled. “It’s good, right?”

He nodded, chewing slowly, savoring it. His knee bumped against yours again, more deliberate this time. “Really good.”

The sight of him like this—lighter, just for a moment—made you feel warm all over.

“I’ll bring more next time,” you promised.

Zayne stilled, looking at you carefully, as if testing whether you really meant it. Then, slowly, he swallowed and murmured, “Okay.”

Zayne sat quietly for a moment, rolling the candy wrapper between his fingers. Then he asked, “What about you?”

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah…” His voice dipped lower, almost hesitant. “What happened to you?”

You tucked your knees to your chest, leaning your chin against them. “I got adopted,” you said. “By some Hunters. They’re really nice—they’re strong too! They said they fought during the Chronoshift, but…” You paused, wrinkling your nose. “I guess things are better in my world. The city’s still there, and the Wanderers aren’t everywhere like… like in yours.”

Zayne’s gaze flickered down at his hands. His fingers twitched like they wanted to curl into fists again.

“But they’re still dangerous,” you added quickly. “I mean, the Wanderers. They’re still out there, hurting people sometimes.” You sat up straighter. “That’s why I wanna train too! Like my parents—I wanna be a Hunter when I grow up so I can help.”

Zayne’s head snapped up at that. “You want to fight them?”

“Well… yeah.” You shrugged. “I know I’m not strong yet, but I’ll get there. My parents say I’m getting better with a blade, and I can run pretty fast! I just…” Your fingers twisted into the hem of your sleeve. “I just don’t want people to get hurt anymore.”

He was staring at you—not with his usual wary gaze, but with something softer. Something you couldn’t quite name yet.

“You’re lucky,” Zayne muttered, barely above a whisper. “That your world’s better.”

You reached out without thinking, your hand finding his. His fingers were colder than yours—ice creeping faintly along his knuckles—but they didn’t flinch away. Instead, his hand curled around yours, clinging tightly like he was afraid to let go.

“I’ll train hard,” you promised. “So that if you ever need help… I can be there.”

Zayne didn’t answer right away. He just kept holding your hand, his knee still pressed against yours, his elbow brushing your arm. He stayed close—like he needed you to be near, needed something steady to hold onto.

“…Okay,” he said at last, voice barely louder than a breath. “Okay.”

You didn’t know what you meant by it—how could you? The two of you had only ever met in dreams, separated by two different worlds. But somehow, that didn’t matter.

You just knew that you wanted to help him—wanted him to be okay—even if you didn’t quite understand how yet.

Over the years, the dreams came like clockwork—once a year, always on the same day. Each time you drifted into sleep on that night, you found yourself there—in that cold, quiet place where Zayne waited.

He was always there. And each year, things were different—yet somehow the same.

When you were nine years old, the moment you opened your eyes, you jolted up, excitement buzzing in your chest.

It worked.

You were back.

Your head whipped around, scanning the dim surroundings, your breath fogging in the cold air. Then—there. A short distance away, standing with his arms crossed and a guarded expression, was Zayne. His hazel-green eyes flickered with something unreadable as he watched you.

The second you saw him, you took off.

You ran toward him, nearly tripping over yourself in your eagerness, and skidded to a stop just before colliding into him. Before he could react, you shoved a lollipop into his palm with a triumphant grin.

“I brought you more candy!” you announced proudly. “It worked last time, so I kept doing it!”

Zayne stared at the lollipop, then at you, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and amusement. “You really sleep with candy in your pockets, huh?”

You nodded, arms crossed. “Yep! Every night! Just in case I see you again.”

There was a beat of silence where he just stared at you, and for a second, you wondered if you had said something weird.

Then—slowly—his lips twitched, barely a ghost of a smile.

Without a word, he unwrapped the lollipop with careful fingers, almost reverent in the way he peeled away the wrapper like it was something rare. He popped the candy into his mouth and let out a quiet hum, as if savoring the taste.

“You’re weird,” he murmured around the candy.

“You’re mean,” you shot back, grinning.

But Zayne didn’t refute it. He just stood there, sucking on the candy like it was the best thing he’d ever had, his shoulders slightly less tense than before.

You plopped down onto the cold ground, patting the space beside you. Zayne hesitated for a second before sitting, his knee bumping lightly against yours. He didn’t move away.

“Did you miss me?” you asked suddenly, kicking your feet out.

Zayne blinked at you, sucking harder on the candy, and didn’t answer immediately.

“…I wasn’t sure if you’d come back,” he admitted after a moment, his voice quiet.

You huffed. “That’s not a yes or no answer.”

He shot you a side glance, his lips twitching around the lollipop’s stick.

“…Maybe,” he muttered.

Your grin widened, but you didn’t tease him.

Instead, you reached into your other pocket, your fingers closing around something small. “Oh! Look at what I also brought this time!”

Zayne watched curiously as you pulled out a small flashlight, clicking it on with a dramatic flourish. The beam flickered to life, bright and steady.

“Freeze!” you declared, aiming the light at his chest. “You’re under arrest for being a grump!”

Zayne squinted at the beam, blinking rapidly. For a second, he looked confused—then, to your surprise, he let out a small breath of laughter, shoving your arm away.

“That’s stupid,” he said, but his gaze lingered on the light.

“Wanna try?” you offered, holding it out.

He hesitated before taking it, fingers curling carefully around the handle. His thumb hovered over the switch for a moment before pressing down. The beam flickered back on, steady against the stone wall.

“…It’s been a while since I’ve seen one of these,” he murmured, quietly enough that you almost didn’t catch it.

“You don’t have one?”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t last long when you’re… outside a lot.” His voice trailed off, like he didn’t want to finish the sentence.

You didn’t press. Instead, you scooted closer, watching as Zayne wordlessly traced the beam along the wall—outlining shapes, dragging the light across the floor like he was following an invisible path.

“You can keep it,” you said when the batteries started to dim.

Zayne’s fingers tightened slightly around the flashlight. “Why?”

“In case you ever get scared.”

His lips parted like he was about to say something, but he just gave a quiet snort and tucked the flashlight into his pocket.

The dream started to blur at the edges, the cold air growing softer. Zayne’s knee bumped against yours, firmer than before—like he was bracing himself.

“You should come back sooner next time,” he muttered.

“I can’t control it,” you reminded him. “It just… happens.”

“I know.” He shifted, his shoulder knocking into yours. “…I just didn’t know when I’d see you again.”

He didn’t say he missed you.

But you could hear it anyway.

The next time you found yourself in that cold, quiet place, you were used to it.

You woke up in the dream with a jolt—blinking hard, adjusting to the dimness—and immediately looked around for him.

Zayne was there, further away this time, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His gaze flicked up at the sound of your footsteps, and for a split second, you caught the faintest trace of relief on his face.

“I knew you’d come back,” he said—like he’d been convincing himself of it for a while now.

“I brought you something!” you grinned, bouncing on your toes as you dug into your pockets. First came the candy—your usual stash, neatly wrapped. He took it without a word, but his fingers lingered against yours for a moment longer than necessary.

“And…” You reached deeper, pulling out a bundle of soft fabric. “I got this for you, too!”

Zayne’s brow furrowed as you unraveled the black scarf—long, thick, and softer than anything you’d ever owned yourself. “What’s this for?”

“For you!” You stepped closer, looping it around his neck before he could protest. “It’s warm, right?”

“It’s…” Zayne trailed off, reaching up to brush his fingers along the wool. His hand stilled halfway, curling slightly like he didn’t want to let go. “…It’s nice,” he muttered.

“You should wear it all the time,” you said proudly. “That way you won’t get cold.”

Zayne snorted, but the sound was quieter than usual—softer. “You know this is just a dream, right?”

“Yeah, but maybe you’ll still feel warmer when you wake up,” you reasoned. “Dream logic!”

He huffed a laugh under his breath, then stuffed a piece of candy in his mouth to hide his smile.

“Oh!” You straightened suddenly. “I forgot to show you something cool!”

Zayne’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “…What?”

“Watch this!”

You took a deep breath and held out your hand, fingers spread wide. At first, nothing happened—just air and silence—but then you felt it, that faint pull beneath your skin. Energy, quiet and familiar, thrummed to life at your fingertips. Tiny sparks flickered across your palm—faint, pale blue—before fading just as quickly as they came.

“Whoa,” Zayne murmured. “How’d you do that?”

“It’s my evol!” you said proudly. “My parents say it’s called Resonance.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Well…” You chewed your lip, thinking. “It’s like… I can match energy and make it stronger. Like if someone uses fire, I can make their fire burn hotter. Or if they use ice—”

“Like my evol?”

“Exactly!” You beamed. “I haven’t done that part yet, but I’m learning!”

Zayne stared at your hand like he was still processing it. “…That’s kinda cool,” he muttered, but his voice was quieter—thoughtful.

“You have an evol too,” you reminded him. “Your ice is really strong!”

“Yeah,” he said shortly, like that wasn’t something to be proud of.

“Well…” You nudged his arm with your elbow. “If you ever need help controlling it, maybe I can help!”

Zayne didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked toward your hand again—the faint traces of warmth still lingering on your fingertips—before dropping to his lap.

“You don’t have to,” he muttered.

“I want to,” you said simply.

You didn’t know what you meant by it—not really. After all, the two of you only ever met in dreams, and when you woke up, he would still be there—wherever there was—fighting his own battles.

But you meant it all the same.

The dreams went on, but when you were thirteen, that year, when the cold air of the dream settled around you, you didn’t have time to look for him.

Because the moment you opened your eyes, you felt it—the rush of footsteps, fast and urgent, and before you could turn, arms wrapped tightly around you.

“Zayne?” you gasped, stumbling back a step.

His grip only tightened.

He wasn’t just hugging you—he was clinging to you, like you were the only solid thing in a world that was slipping through his fingers. His face pressed hard against your shoulder, his breath ragged and uneven. You could feel the way his fingers dug into your back—desperate, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“Hey…” You shifted, trying to look at him, but he wouldn’t let you move. His arms stayed locked around you, his body tense like a drawn wire.

“You’re here,” he muttered under his breath. His voice sounded strange—hoarse, brittle. “You’re really here.”

“I’m here,” you promised, softening your voice. “I’m here.”

You stood there for a while, saying nothing—just feeling the way his heartbeat thrummed against your chest, too fast and too hard. Eventually, his breathing slowed, and he leaned heavier into you, like his legs couldn’t quite hold him up anymore.

“I brought candy,” you murmured after a while, your voice light—a clumsy attempt to ease the weight in the air. “You’ll crush it if you keep squeezing me like this.”

He huffed something that was almost a laugh, but it faded too quickly. Slowly—reluctantly—he loosened his grip enough for you to see him.

His face was pale—paler than usual—and there was a shadow beneath his eyes, like he hadn’t slept in days. His hazel-green gaze flickered down, avoiding yours, and that’s when you noticed it—the faint red stain on his sleeve.

“Zayne…” Your stomach tightened. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head quickly. “It’s not mine.”

“…Oh.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, too heavy to break easily.

“I—” His voice cracked, and he stopped. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he was reaching for you again but couldn’t quite bring himself to.

So you reached first.

You grabbed his hand, lacing your fingers together. He froze for a second, then squeezed back—hard enough that it almost hurt.

“Do you…” You swallowed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head again. “No.”

But he didn’t let go. His fingers stayed locked with yours, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him from drowning.

You didn’t push him. Instead, you dug into your pockets and fished out a handful of candy—more than usual this time, a bright scatter of wrappers in reds and blues and yellows.

“Here.” You pressed some into his free hand. “I brought extras.”

For a moment, he didn’t move—just stared down at the candy like he couldn’t quite process it. Then, finally, his fingers closed around it.

“You’re weird,” he muttered, voice rough, as always.

“You’re mean,” you shot back, just like you always did.

But this time, when he smiled—faint, tired—it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You ended up sitting on the cold ground together, his knee pressed tight against yours, his fingers still tangled with your own. He kept fidgeting with the scarf you’d given him two years ago, winding it tighter around his neck like he was trying to block out the chill.

At one point, he unwrapped one of the candies, popping it into his mouth with little thought. But when the taste hit his tongue, you saw something flicker in his gaze—that brief, flickering light you hadn’t seen in a long time.

“It’s good,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “You always pick the best ones.”

“You always say that,” you teased.

“Because it’s true,” he mumbled.

You felt his hand shift against yours—his fingers slipping from your grip—and you barely had time to miss the warmth before he moved again, wrapping his arm firmly around your waist instead. He leaned into you without hesitation, tucking his head against your shoulder like he belonged there.

“Zayne?” you whispered, surprised by how tightly he held on.

“Just… stay,” he muttered. “Please.”

So you stayed. You sat there in the cold, with his arm locked around you and his breath warm against your neck. His grip never loosened—even when his breathing evened out, even when his fingers twitched slightly against your side, like he was grounding himself with your presence.

And when you finally woke up at the time—warmth still lingering on your skin—you found yourself wishing you could’ve stayed longer.

-

The evening air felt colder than usual when you got home, your thoughts tangled from the encounter at the café. Zayne’sface—no, his face—kept surfacing in your mind, like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

But it couldn’t be him.

You kicked off your shoes, barely noticing the warmth of your apartment. The glow from your laptop screen flickered to life as you sat down, fingers tapping restlessly against the keyboard.

Dr. Zayne Li, Akso Hospital.

The search results filled the screen in an instant. Article after article—crisp headlines stamped with words like brilliant, prodigy, and renowned.

“The Miracle Hands of Akso Hospital: Chief Cardiac Surgeon Zayne Performs Another Groundbreaking Procedure.”

“At Just 27, Dr. Zayne Li Has Achieved What Few Surgeons Could Dream Of.”

“The Man Who Fixes Broken Hearts—An Exclusive Interview with Dr. Zayne Li.”

Your chest tightened.

The photos didn’t help. His face was the same—sharp, symmetrical features framed by dark hair, those unmistakable hazel-green eyes that had always lingered somewhere between cool metal and sunlit glass. But there was something… off.

In the photos, Dr. Zayne looked composed—poised, even. His hair was neatly styled, not tousled like the boy you remembered. His gaze, while intense, was distant—focused in a way that felt clinical, like his thoughts were always a thousand steps ahead.

But what struck you most wasn’t his face—it was his hands.

In one photo, his fingers were curled lightly around a scalpel—precise, sure, steady. The faint scars that littered his knuckles and forearms which you were used to seeing, were nowhere to be seen. His hands, that was roughened from cuts and bruises and too many rushed bandages, now looked immaculate—like they’d never known violence or blood that didn’t belong in an operating room.

And his smile…

You clicked on an interview clip. The camera panned to him—that same face, now sharper with age—answering a question with quiet confidence. His lips curved into a smile, polite and practiced. It was a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You remembered your Zayne’s smile—small and crooked, the kind that slipped out when you surprised him with candy or when your teasing pulled him out of his brooding silence. It was never perfect, but it was real.

This wasn’t.

Your Zayne wore his emotions like a second skin—tense shoulders, restless fingers, eyes that always betrayed the storm beneath. The man on the screen was calm, too calm—like he’d buried something deep inside and didn’t dare let it surface.

This man didn’t fidget with his scarf when he was nervous. He didn’t hover just a little too close like your Zayne always did, like he needed to know you were still there.

And this man’s eyes—cold and clinical—didn’t carry the weight of someone who’d spent years fighting to stay human in a world that kept turning people into monsters.

You closed the laptop, pulse pounding in your ears.

It wasn’t him.

It couldn’t be.

Sleep refused to come, you tossed and turned beneath your blankets, twisting them around your legs like vines. Each time you closed your eyes, you thought of him—your Zayne—the one who always greeted you with that tight, breathless hug, like he was scared you’d vanish if he let go. The Zayne who clung to your sleeve when you sat beside him, his knee always bumping yours. The Zayne who smiled crookedly when you teased him, who sucked on candy like it was his last meal, who had grown quieter and sadder with every passing year. 

You missed him. 

The thought hit you with a sharp ache—worse than usual, more desperate. The man you’d seen today wasn’t him. He couldn’t be.

But what if… 

What if something had happened? What if your Zayne had changed—had to change—to survive? What if he’d forgotten you, moved on without you? 

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to dream. To wake up in that cold, quiet place where your Zayne was waiting—where you could press candy into his hand and feel his fingers curl tightly around yours. 

But the dream wouldn’t come. 

It hadn’t been a year yet. 

By the time the first pale hints of morning crept through your window, your mind was already made up. 

You didn’t bother to eat. You barely remembered changing clothes before grabbing your keys and heading out. The city felt colder than usual, the early air biting at your skin, but you barely noticed. Each step felt restless, like your body was moving faster than your thoughts. 

When you finally reached Akso Hospital, you lingered outside longer than you should have. The building stretched high above you, sleek and intimidating with its glass-paneled walls. People streamed in and out of the entrance—nurses in scrubs, patients in wheelchairs, visitors clutching flowers or gift bags. 

For a moment, you wondered if this was a mistake. 

But then you remembered his face—his sharp gaze, his empty smile—and something inside you hardened. 

You stepped through the automatic doors. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled your senses, sharp and clinical. The lobby bustled with quiet energy—footsteps tapping against tiles, murmured conversations drifting through the air. 

You approached the front desk, your fingers curling into your sleeves. “Excuse me,” you said softly. “I’m looking for Dr. Zayne.” 

The receptionist barely looked up from her screen. “Do you have an appointment?” 

“No, but—” You hesitated. What were you even going to say? “I just… I need to see him.” 

“Dr. Zayne’s schedule is extremely busy,” the woman said, her tone polite but firm. “If you’d like to leave a message—” 

“I can wait.” The words left you before you’d even decided to say them. 

The receptionist’s gaze flicked toward you, taking in your stubborn expression. With a sigh, she relented. “Fine. But there’s no guarantee he’ll see you.” 

“I’ll wait,” you repeated. 

And you did. Hours passed—patients came and went, doctors hurried past in white coats, their faces tired and focused. The clock on the wall seemed to drag on endlessly. You kept your eyes on the hallway, scanning every face that passed. 

Then, finally you saw him. 

Zayne. 

His hair was neatly combed, his dark coat swept behind him as he walked with purposeful strides. His expression was calm—distant, but his face… 

God, it was still his face. 

You shot to your feet before you could think better of it. “Zayne!” 

He stopped mid-step, turning at the sound of his name. His gaze landed on you—and for a moment, just a moment, something flickered in his eyes. 

But then it was gone. 

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice smooth but guarded. 

You blinked, your heart sinking. There was no warmth in his voice—no familiarity, no recognition. 

“I…” Your throat tightened. “I just… wanted to see you.” 

His expression didn’t change. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice clipped. “I’m very busy.” He turned to leave. 

“Wait!” Desperation surged through you. “Please, just… just one minute.” 

He paused, glancing back with a sigh—and that flicker was there again, something almost hesitant. 

“One minute,” he said flatly. “That’s all.” 

He motioned for you to follow and you did. heading towards the hospital’s doors.

The air outside felt colder than before, the faint scent of trimmed grass and hospital disinfectant clinging to the breeze. The hospital’s garden was quiet—tucked away from the usual foot traffic, lined with benches and dull patches of wilted flowers. 

Zayne stood a few feet away from you, his hands tucked into his coat pockets. His gaze lingered somewhere past your shoulder, as if he wasn’t quite willing to meet your eyes. 

“I remember you,” he said at last, his voice low. “From the café yesterday.” 

You stiffened, unsure how to respond. Somehow, knowing he remembered made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t explain. 

“I wasn’t following you,” you muttered, even though you knew how it must have looked. “I just… I thought…” 

“You thought what?” His eyes finally flicked toward you—sharp and unreadable. 

“I thought you were someone I knew,” you admitted. 

Zayne gave a quiet, humorless laugh—barely more than a breath. “Well… sorry to disappoint you.” 

“You didn’t.” The words left you before you could stop them. “I mean… you look like him. But you’re not.” 

His expression didn’t change, but there was something in the way his fingers curled deeper into his pockets—something tense, like he was bracing himself. 

“I’m guessing you realized that when you followed me here,” he said dryly. 

“I didn’t—” You stopped yourself, sighing. “Yeah… I guess I did.” 

Silence stretched between you, awkward and heavy. His gaze drifted again, distant like he was already thinking about walking away. 

“I read about you,” you said quickly, hoping to keep him there just a little longer. “Online. You’re a cardiac surgeon, right?” 

His brow arched slightly. “I didn’t realize you were so interested.” 

“I just…” You struggled for words. “I didn’t think you’d… I mean, he… I didn’t think you’d be a doctor.” 

“That makes two of us.” There was a flicker of something in his tone—bitterness, maybe—but it faded as quickly as it appeared. “Look… if that’s all, I should get back.” 

He turned, already halfway down the path when your voice stopped him. 

“Wait.” 

He paused, shoulders stiff. This time, when he looked back, his face was unreadable—guarded in a way that made your chest ache. 

“Do you…” You hesitated, feeling foolish even asking. “Do you ever have weird dreams?” 

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on you, unreadable, like he was considering something—or maybe deciding what not to say. The silence stretched between you, thick with something unspoken.

But before he could respond, a voice cut through the moment.

“Dr. Zayne.”

A nurse stood at the entrance of the garden, her expression expectant. “They need you in prep. The surgery’s in fifteen minutes.”

Zayne exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before turning back to you. Whatever had been on the tip of his tongue was gone now, sealed behind a carefully neutral expression.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a sleek black card, and held it out to you.

“My contact information,” he said simply. “In case you need anything.”

His fingers brushed yours briefly as you took it. And then, without another word, he turned and walked away, the nurse falling into step beside him, leaving you standing there alone with more questions than answers.

You stared at the card in your hand, the weight of it far heavier than it should have been. The name printed in crisp, professional lettering—Dr. Zayne Li—felt foreign, unfamiliar, even though you had known a boy with that name for most of your life. But that boy had never been this composed, this distant. 

Your Zayne had sharp edges softened only by exhaustion, by the way he always reached for you first, as if grounding himself in your presence. This one? He held himself apart, his touch brief, his gaze careful. There was no desperation in the way he looked at you, no silent relief at your presence. And that, more than anything, told you what you already knew: this wasn’t him.

-

The uncertainty of it all brought you back to when you were sixteen—when, for the first time, he was nowhere to be found, leaving you to wonder if he had ever been real at all. 

The cold was the first thing you noticed. It always was. But this time, something was different.

Zayne wasn’t here.

Your eyes swept over the dream-woven space, expecting, waiting to see him. He was always here first, always standing there with that quiet, unreadable expression, waiting for you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But tonight, he wasn’t.

Your fingers tightened around the candy in your pocket. Maybe… maybe he was just late?

You sat down, resting your chin on your knees, trying to ignore the uneasy weight in your chest. It wasn’t like him to be late. He always came, even when he was tired, even when his hands shook from exhaustion, even when his eyes were heavy with something he never said out loud.

You waited.

Minutes stretched into something longer. You kept your ears open, straining for the familiar sound of his footsteps, for the quiet shift of fabric when he sat beside you. But the silence stayed.

You waited.

The cold bit deeper. Your arms wrapped around yourself, but it didn’t help. The dream space felt bigger tonight, emptier.

You waited.

Your eyelids grew heavy. The edges of the dream blurred, flickering with something distant—something you knew all too well. The slow pull of waking.

Panic clawed at your chest. No, not yet. Not without seeing him.

You clenched your fists, nails pressing into your palms, trying to ground yourself. You had never dreamed alone before. You had never sat in this cold, quiet space without him beside you.

But tonight, you did.

And then, just like that—

The dream slipped away.

-

The year after, you had hoped—desperately—that this time would be different. That you would open your eyes to find him waiting, standing just a few steps away like he always had.

But two years in a row, you woke up in the dream and found nothing but silence, nothing but cold—nothing but the aching absence of him.

It went on like that, for three more years, that you had started to believe you would never see him again. That after five years of empty dreams, of waiting in silence, of waking with the lingering ache of something missing, he was gone.

-

But then, when you were twenty, it was just another ordinary day. You hadn’t expected anything—you hadn’t even remembered what day it was. Sleep came easily, without anticipation, without longing.

And yet, when the dream took hold—he was there.

The first thing you noticed was the blood.

It dripped from the edge of his blade, slow and deliberate, staining the ground beneath his feet. It clung to the fine black wool of his coat, splattered in uneven streaks, soaking into the lines of his hands as if trying to seep into his skin. The scent of it lingered, thick in the cold air, mixing with the sharp bite of ice.

His evol was on edge.

Frost curled from his breath, dissipating into the eerie stillness of the dream space. Ice stretched outward from where he stood, jagged formations creeping across the frozen ground, spreading in uneven cracks beneath him like something alive. It was as if the cold itself had settled into his very presence, weighing down the air around him, pressing against your skin.

He stood there—rigid, unmoving, his grip around the hilt of his blade unrelenting. The sharp lines of his face were harder, more angular, his expression carved from something distant and untouchable. He was wearing black from head to toe—a long, double-breasted coat with sharp lapels, the fabric heavy against his frame. Beneath it, a tailored vest and a dark button-up, the collar neatly pressed, the tie around his neck scattered with tiny, pale specks like distant stars. A silver pin gleamed against the dark fabric, unfamiliar yet intricate, catching the light with every slow rise and fall of his chest.

And he didn’t see you.

His gaze was lowered, fixed on the blade in his hand, on the slow drip of blood pooling at his feet. His breath came steady, measured, but there was something unsteady in the way his fingers curled around the hilt—tight, white-knuckled, as if trying to ground himself. The ice beneath him cracked, settling under its own weight, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, frozen in place, as if he hadn’t yet come back from whatever had happened before you arrived.

You had wondered, countless times, what had happened to him—what had kept him away from the place where you had always met, where he had always been waiting. You had searched for answers in the silence, in the weight of empty dreams, in the absence of the one person who had been a constant since childhood.

But standing here now, hidden in the lingering shadows of the dreamscape, you weren’t sure you wanted the answer anymore.

He was different. Not just older, not just taller. Something had been carved out of him in those lost years, something you weren’t sure could ever return. The boy you once knew had always been serious, always carried a quiet weight in his gaze, but there had been warmth—small, fleeting moments of it, tucked into the way he listened to you, the way he reached for you, the way his presence had never felt cold despite his evol.

You reached forward, to call out to him, but as if on cue, the air shifted, rippling with something wrong, something other.

A crack of ice split through the silence, racing outward like veins of frost spreading over glass. The temperature plummeted, stealing the breath from your lungs, biting at your skin. A Wanderer shifted in the distance—a thing of half-formed limbs, its face a smear of writhing distortion, a nightmare clawing at the edges of the dreamscape. It let out a guttural, warping sound, something between a snarl and a scream.

And Zayne moved.

Not with hesitation, not with fear. With precision.

His blade cut through the air in one fluid motion, faster than you could track, faster than you could even breathe. The ice surged in tandem with him, responding as if it were alive, as if it were nothing more than an extension of his will. Jagged spikes erupted from the ground, impaling the creature mid-step, pinning it like an insect on glass. The Wanderer shrieked, convulsing, its body thrashing against the ice, blackened veins pulsing beneath the skin that wasn’t entirely its own.

Zayne didn’t flinch.

More ice. A crushing weight of frost and jagged edges, a prison forged in an instant. The creature barely had time to resist before its body was swallowed whole, encased in a coffin of shimmering blue. The air itself cracked under the force of it, the frozen husk shifting, creaking, breaking.

Then, his blade came down.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

The sound was sickening. The ice shattered under the weight of his attack, along with whatever remained of the Wanderer inside. Limbs snapped and crumbled, frozen flesh breaking apart like brittle porcelain. He cut through it with the same detached precision—efficient, methodical, merciless.

And yet, there was something worse than the violence itself.

It was his silence.

The boy who once looked at you with quiet understanding, who always held himself back from anything too sharp, too cruel—he was gone. In his place was a man who didn’t hesitate, who didn’t waver, who didn’t even look at what he had done. He simply turned, his breath curling in the freezing air, his blade still dripping red.

Despite it all, despite the ice, the blood, the emptiness in his eyes—you still called for him. Your voice barely broke above a whisper, but in the unbearable silence of the dreamscape, it may as well have been a scream.

“Zayne.”

He froze.

The breath hitched in his throat, sharp enough that you swore you heard it. Slowly—so slowly—it was agonizing, he turned. His face, carved from stone just moments ago, fractured at the sight of you. Shock bled into something raw, something desperate, his hazel green eyes widening as if you were a ghost, something fragile and unreal. The blade in his hand wavered, fingers tightening, loosening—like he couldn’t remember how to hold it anymore, like he couldn’t remember how to breathe.

The ice around him cracked.

Not from his evol, not from anything external, but from the weight of it all. The blood on his hands, the years that had stretched between you like an abyss, the violence that had become second nature—only now, with you standing there, did it seem to settle on him all at once. He looked at you as if the world had suddenly realigned, as if only now did he realize just how far he had fallen.

And still, he didn’t move.

Rooted in place, trapped in the space between recognition and disbelief, he simply stared.

So you moved.

You didn’t care that you were barefoot in the dream, that the ice cut into your skin, that the ground was still slick with blood. You didn’t care how much darker he had become, how the Zayne before you was nothing like the boy you used to know. None of it mattered.

You ran to him, closing the distance, arms outstretched, and before he could even react—before he could step back, before he could disappear like a ghost slipping through your fingers—you crashed into him.

You held him.

The scent of blood clung to him, iron-thick and suffocating, but beneath it was something else—something familiar. His body was rigid against yours, like he’d forgotten how to be touched, how to be held. You could feel the way his chest rose in a sharp inhale, could feel the way his muscles tensed beneath his coat.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

For a moment, he wasn’t Zayne—he was something distant, something unreachable, something hollow.

And then, slowly, his arms came around you. He murmured your name, barely a breath, barely a sound. But it shattered something inside you.

His arms barely tightened around you before he pulled back, just enough to see your face. His hazel green eyes, blown wide, flickered with something unreadable, his voice quieter than you remembered, rough like he hadn’t spoken in a long time.

“What are you doing here?”

Anger surged through you, raw and unfiltered. You clenched your fists and struck his chest—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make him feel it.

“You didn’t show up for five years!” Your voice cracked, the weight of every missed dream, every unanswered call, crashing down on you all at once. “Five, Zayne! Do you even know how long that is? Do you know how much I—”

His breath hitched, but before he could say anything, his gaze dropped—down to your feet, bare and bleeding against the ice-streaked ground. His expression twisted, sharp and exasperated, and before you could step away, his arms tightened around you.

“You’re hurt.”

You barely had time to process the words before he bent down, one arm slipping under your legs, the other steady against your back.

“Zayne—!”

He lifted you as if you weighed nothing, ignoring your protest. His grip was firm but careful, his warmth stark against the cold air, but his eyes were distant, unreadable.

“You ran barefoot across the ice.” It wasn’t a reprimand, just a quiet observation, but his jaw tightened as if the sight of your blood on the frozen ground unsettled him.

“Of course, I ran!” You huffed, your hands gripping his coat. “I saw you, and you think I’d just stand there? What did you expect me to do, Zayne?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t argue, didn’t justify his absence. He just held you, his fingers flexing slightly as if grounding himself in the feeling of you in his arms.

“Five years, Zayne.” Your voice was quieter now, trembling. “Five years, and you just—just left. You never even said why.”

His grip on you tightened. The blood on his hands, his clothes, his blade—it was still there, stark against the dark fabric. But for the first time since you saw him, he wasn’t looking at the aftermath of whatever battle he had fought.

He was looking at you.

Your fingers curled into his coat, gripping the bloodstained fabric like it could somehow ground you, keep you from unraveling. The words tumbled out, unfiltered, raw.

“Every night.” Your voice shook, but you didn’t stop. “I slept with candy in my pockets every night, just in case. I thought maybe—maybe we got it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t that day anymore. Maybe it could be any day.” Your breath hitched, frustration and heartbreak intertwining. “So I kept waiting. And waiting. And waiting.”

Zayne didn’t move, didn’t interrupt. But his hold on you? It shifted—his fingers digging into your skin just enough that you felt the weight of it, the barely restrained desperation bleeding into his grip. He looked calm, composed even, but you knew better.

“You weren’t supposed to wait.” His voice was quiet, but there was something beneath it, something fractured. “You should’ve—”

“Should’ve what?” You snapped, tilting your head back to meet his gaze. His golden eyes burned, dark and unreadable, but his jaw clenched as if he were holding something back. “Moved on? Forgotten about you?” You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Like hell I would.”

His fingers twitched against your back. His grip hadn’t loosened since he picked you up, hadn’t wavered for even a second, as if he was afraid that if he let go, you’d disappear.

“Zayne.” Your voice softened, cracking under the weight of it all. “Why?”

He exhaled sharply, his head lowering just slightly, his forehead nearly brushing against yours. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You stared, breath caught in your throat.

“Like what?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand curled tighter around you, his touch no longer just firm—it was desperate, as if holding you was the only thing keeping him from shattering.

“Like this.” His voice was hoarse, almost strained. “Blood on my hands. A blade in my grip. A monster, not a man.”

Your heart clenched.

“That’s not—”

“It is.” His forehead finally touched yours, the barest press of warmth against the cold. He inhaled, slow and deep, like he was memorizing your scent, the shape of you in his arms. “For five years, I stayed awake on this day. Every single time.”

Your breath caught.

“You—”

“I didn’t sleep.” His grip tightened, his voice barely above a whisper now. “Because if I did, you’d be here. You’d see me. And I couldn’t let that happen.”

Your chest ached, your fingers curling against his coat. “You punished yourself.”

“I protected you.”

You shook your head. “You isolated yourself.”

His eyes flickered, something unreadable flashing through them. And for the first time since you arrived in the dream, he wavered. Just for a second.

“I had to.” His voice was so quiet now, barely audible. “Because if you saw me, I wouldn’t have been able to let go.”

You didn’t think. 

Your fingers tightened against his jaw, tilting his face toward you, and before he could stop you—before he could pull away, before he could tell you that he wasn’t the person you once knew—you pressed your lips to his.

The taste of blood lingered between you, sharp and metallic, but you didn’t care. You kissed him through it, through the cold seeping from his skin, through the way his whole body locked up as if he didn’t know how to receive something so gentle, so undeserved.

Zayne made a quiet, almost broken sound, and then—his grip on you tightened, his hands pressing against your back, his breath hitching as he kissed you back. Desperation bled through the way he held you, as if trying to carve the feeling of you into his very bones, as if trying to chase away the years of loneliness in a single moment.

The dream wavered, edges blurring, but you held onto him until the very last second—until everything faded into darkness, until all that remained was the lingering warmth of his lips against yours.

And then you woke up.

You hoped to see him the year after that, but no matter how much you willed it—since then, you never dreamed of him again. 

-

The streets were quiet as you walked home from Akso Hospital.

The late morning sun cast long, pale shadows across the pavement, the sky a cloudless stretch of blue. The scent of fresh rain still clung to the air from the early drizzle, mixing with the faint aroma of baked goods drifting from a nearby café. It was almost peaceful—almost.

But your mind wasn’t here.

Your fingers toyed with the sleek black card in your pocket, tracing the edges absently. Dr. Zayne Li. You had met him, spoken to him, and yet the tightness in your chest refused to fade. He was the same, but not. Not your Zayne. His voice was familiar, but it lacked the weight, the quiet exhaustion—the desperation.

He didn’t reach for you first.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. Thinking like that wouldn’t change anything. This was reality. And your Zaynewas… gone.

The thought made something inside you twist.

The apartment building loomed ahead. You climbed the stairs with slow, steady steps, keys in hand. The hall smelled faintly of old wood and lemon cleaner, a familiar scent, a grounding one. As you reached your door, you exhaled, pressing your palm against the cool surface for just a moment before unlocking it.

The lock clicked. The door creaked open.

And then—

The world shuddered.

A deep, unnatural tremor rippled through the ground, so strong you had to grip the doorframe to keep from stumbling. The lights in the hallway flickered violently, buzzing like a swarm of angry insects.

Then came the sound.

A low, resonant wail.

It wasn’t something heard—it was something felt, something that pressed against your bones, against your skull, something that made your breath catch in your throat. The kind of sound that meant the world was breaking.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You turned—and saw the sky tear open.

Far beyond the skyline, past the rooftops and the quiet streets, reality itself was splitting apart.

A massive, jagged rupture carved through the sky, edges curling and fraying like torn fabric. The clouds around it distorted, warping into impossible shapes, bending under forces they were never meant to withstand. The air crackled with energy, tendrils of light and shadow pulsing at the edges of the wound.

Chronoshift.

Your fingers dug into the doorframe.

This wasn’t supposed to happen again. The last one had nearly wiped out the city—left streets in ruins, turned people into monsters. You still remembered the screams, the blood, the way the world had trembled beneath your feet.

And now, it was happening again.

Then—

Your Hunter Watch buzzed violently.

The sound snapped you out of your trance. You fumbled with the device, pressing it to your ear as the line connected.

“Tara?” you breathed, your own voice barely above a whisper.

“You need to turn on the news. Now.”

Her voice was tight, urgent—scared.

Your stomach dropped.

You bolted inside, barely kicking the door shut behind you as you grabbed the remote. The holoscreen flickered to life, static buzzing before shifting to a live news broadcast.

The anchor’s voice was strained, struggling to maintain composure.

“—a Chronoshift event currently occurring over Linkon City. Authorities are urging civilians to stay indoors as numerous Wanderers have begun appearing throughout the city. Hunters have been dispatched, but the situation is escalating rapidly.”

The screen shifted, cutting to a video.

Your breath caught.

A shaky, grainy recording—someone’s phone camera, zoomed in toward the sky. The frame trembled, struggling to stay focused on the massive, gaping wound in reality above Linkon City. The rift pulsed, an ugly scar of writhing light and shadow, tendrils of fractured time curling at its jagged edges. The clouds warped unnaturally around it, twisting into unnatural spirals, stretching as if being pulled into the void.

Then—

Something fell.

No—someone.

A dark figure plummeted from the rift, flung into freefall like a discarded fragment of the past. His coat billowed violently against the sheer velocity, fabric snapping in the wind. The camera wobbled as the bystander gasped, jerking the view—but not before you caught it. A glint of silver.

Your stomach lurched.

The figure twisted midair, arms slack, body limp—unconscious. The cityscape below rushed toward him, an unforgiving sea of asphalt and steel.

The air caught fire with panic.

People screamed.

Horns blared as drivers slammed their brakes, tires screeching against pavement. Some pedestrians fled blindly, while others stood frozen, their heads craned skyward, watching in helpless, breathless horror.

And then—

Ice.

It erupted outward in a violent cascade, a deafening crack splitting the air as jagged formations exploded from the ground. Frost raced across the pavement, crystalline veins tearing through asphalt and crawling up nearby streetlights. The very breath of the city seemed to freeze, snatched away in an instant as the temperature plummeted.

The moment his body struck the ice, the impact sent fractures spiderwebbing outward. Shards of frost scattered across the street, catching the weak morning sunlight like shattered glass, sharp and deadly. The unnatural chill bled into the air, seeping into the bones of every onlooker.

The camera shook violently as the person recording stumbled back. Their breathing was audible, harsh and ragged.

“Oh my God,” someone offscreen whispered. “Is he—?”

The image lurched, zooming in again.

For a long moment, the figure lay still, sprawled against the ice. The long, black coat draped over him like a shroud, his limbs slack, unmoving. Then—a twitch. A slow, almost imperceptible stir of fingers against the frozen ground.

A harsh gasp came from behind the camera. The voices in the background grew more frantic, some people shouting for help, others urging someone to run.

Then the screen cut.

The holoscreen snapped back to the news anchor, her face pale, her voice thin.

“Authorities have confirmed the man was recovered alive but unconscious. He is currently being transported to AksoHospital for emergency care.”

The remote nearly slipped from your grasp.

Akso.

Your knees almost gave out beneath you.

Tara’s voice crackled in your ear again, sharp with urgency.

“Get ready. Wanderers are swarming the city, and I don’t think this is just a random event. Something came through that rift.”

Her words barely registered.

Because you already knew.

Your Zayne had clawed his way through the boundaries of time itself.

And now—he was here.

The holoscreen flickered off with a sharp click, but the image burned into your vision didn’t fade. Your feet moved before reason could catch up—out the door, down the steps, and into the chaos of the city.

The streets were in disarray. People flooded the sidewalks, some running, others frozen in groups, their gazes still fixed toward the sky as if expecting another horror to fall through. Horns blared as drivers abandoned their cars in the middle of the road, their vehicles haphazardly blocking intersections. Sirens howled from every direction, their wailing cry blending into the frantic hum of emergency broadcasts spilling from shop windows and billboards.

You barely registered any of it.

You ran.

Not even trying to hail a cab—there was no point. The streets were already jammed, choked with confusion, fear, and the distant echoes of gunfire as Hunters engaged the Wanderers that had slipped through the rift.

But none of that mattered.

Not now.

Your lungs burned as you pushed forward, weaving through the panicked crowds. The closer you got to the avenue, the sharper the chill in the air became, creeping through your skin like a phantom touch.

Then—you saw it.

The impact site.

Your steps faltered as you skidded onto the street, your breath hitching.

Ice.

Everywhere.

Massive, jagged formations had burst from the asphalt, their sharp, uneven edges jutting out like frozen ribs from a broken body. Frost had slithered across the pavement in fractal veins, swallowing entire street signs and lampposts in an unnatural white sheen. The air was still cold—unnaturally so. Even under the midmorning sun, the ice didn’t melt. It clung to the city like a scar, a wound from something that shouldn’t exist.

Emergency responders worked around the site, barricades hastily thrown up, but you could still see the cracks in the street—the crater where he had landed.

Your stomach twisted.

This was real.

He was really here.Your pulse thundered in your ears, your breath ragged as you pushed yourself forward, toward AksoHospital. The city blurred past you, a cacophony of sirens, of frightened voices, of distant Hunter gunfire. But you only had one destination. 

Akso Hospital loomed ahead, its sleek glass exterior reflecting the chaos outside. People were gathered by the entrance—reporters, onlookers, patients trying to get inside despite the heightened security. 

You pushed forward, reaching the reception desk. A nurse barely glanced up before returning to her holopad, her fingers swiping through incoming emergency cases.

You opened your mouth, about to ask—

But before you could utter a word, a hand grabbed your wrist.

Firm. Desperate.“I need—” You barely got the words out before a hand seized your wrist.

The grip was firm—urgent. Not forceful, but desperate.

You turned—and your breath caught.

Dr. Zayne.

But this time, for the first time since you met him—he didn’t look composed.

His face, usually an unreadable mask of cool professionalism, was anything but. His dark eyes burned with something raw—frustration, confusion… something dangerously close to fear.

“You knew.”

His voice was low, strained.

You swallowed hard. “What?”

His grip on your wrist didn’t tighten, but it didn’t loosen either. He exhaled sharply, eyes searching yours, his control fraying at the edges.

“You asked me if I had dreams,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You looked at me like you expected something. And now, today, this happens.”

Your heart pounded.

He knew.

Maybe he didn’t have all the pieces yet, but he knew you weren’t just another curious stranger. He knew you weren’t just here by coincidence earlier, especially not when you had asked him about dreams nor when you had called out to him yesterday in the coffee shop.

His jaw tensed. Then, without another word, he turned sharply, pulling you along.

You didn’t resist.

Through the corridors, past nurses and staff who barely gave you a second glance in the midst of the chaos. The hospital was buzzing with tension, the aftermath of the Chronoshift catastrophe spilling into every department.

But none of it mattered.

Because you already knew where he was taking you. Dr. Zayne stopped in front of a room—a guarded one. Your stomach twisted. He turned the handle, pushing the door open. And there—lying unconscious on the hospital bed, surrounded by the faintest traces of frost still clinging to his skin—was him.

The air in the hospital room was unnaturally cold. Not just from the lingering frost clinging to him, but from the sheer weight of the moment. Your legs locked in place just past the doorway, your pulse roaring in your ears. 

He was here. 

Zayne—your Zayne—was sprawled on the hospital bed, his face pale against the stark white sheets. He was eerily still, but you could see the subtle rise and fall of his chest beneath the thin hospital gown. His lips were parted slightly, a faint trace of frost still melting along the curve of his jaw.

Your stomach twisted. He looked so much like Dr. Zayne.

But at the same time, he didn’t.

Your Zayne was leaner, his body honed by survival rather than long hours in a surgical ward. His jawline was sharper, his skin just a little more worn, his hands rougher. He looked like he had lived through hell.

But most of all—he looked real.

Not just a dream. Not just a fading memory.

Your knees nearly buckled, but before you could take a step closer—

The door clicked shut behind you.

You turned sharply, realizing too late that Dr. Zayne had followed you inside.

He was standing just a few steps away, arms crossed, gaze locked onto your face with unsettling intensity. The warmth of his usual composure was gone.

“I need you to tell me what’s going on.” His voice was calm, but the control in it was fragile, stretched thin over something deeper—something urgent.

“I—” Your breath caught, mind racing to process everything. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

Dr. Zayne exhaled sharply through his nose. “Don’t lie to me.”

His words weren’t cruel, nor were they demanding. They weren’t spoken as an accusation.

They were a plea.

You swallowed, shifting uneasily. “I—Zayne, I swear, I don’t—”

“That’s not my name,” he said quietly. “Not to you.”

You flinched. 

He wasn’t wrong. You had called him Zayne. Without hesitation. Without thought. But Dr. Zayne? Even now, standing in front of him, your tongue felt heavy, like the name didn’t belong to him. Because it didn’t.

Dr. Zayne studied you, his dark eyes sharp with restrained emotion. “Who is he?”

The words sent a shiver down your spine.

You glanced back at the bed—at the unconscious figure resting there, at the silver strands of his hair damp with sweat, at the faint scars hidden beneath the edge of his sleeve.

How could you explain?

How could you even begin to put it into words?

“I… I don’t know what you want me to say.” Your voice wavered.

Dr. Zayne stepped closer, his presence steady, unwavering. “Tell me the truth.”

You clenched your fists. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering. “He’s…” Your voice trembled. “He’s Zayne.”

The silence was deafening, Dr. Zayne’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture stiffened. Slowly, he turned his gaze back to the unconscious man in the bed. His brows furrowed, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

He was a doctor—a scientist. He lived in a world of logic and reason. He knew this wasn’t possible. And yet—the proof was right in front of him.

He let out a slow, unsteady breath. “This—” He hesitated. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“I know,” you whispered.

Another beat of silence.

Dr. Zayne rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling. “I don’t—” He cut himself off, swallowing his words. Then, softer, “You knew, didn’t you?”

Your breath hitched.

He met your gaze again, eyes dark, searching. Desperate.

“You knew this was coming,” he murmured.

Before you could answer, a sharp breath cut through the air. The sound sent a shiver down your spine. You turned just in time to see the man in the hospital bed move—not sluggishly, not groggily, but with the kind of immediate, instinctive awareness that sent your heart pounding. The IV stand rattled, the sheets barely shifted, and then he was already on his feet.

You barely had time to react before his hand caught your wrist. The heat of his palm burned against your skin despite the lingering cold still clinging to him. His grip was firm, possessive, as if anchoring himself to reality—and to you. His breath came uneven, his frame taut with restrained tension. And then, with barely any effort, he pulled you against him.

Your chest met his, the solid strength of his body grounding and overwhelming all at once. His arm came around your waist, securing you against him in a silent declaration. A tremor ran through his fingers where they held you—not from weakness, but from something deeper, something raw. Your heart thundered against your ribs, because this was him. Your Zayne. The one you had dreamed of, the one who had clawed his way through time itself.

But his entire body was rigid. His shoulders drawn tight, his breathing controlled but heavy. Slowly, his head turned, his gaze locking onto the only other person in the room.

Dr. Zayne.

His hold on you tightened.

Dr. Zayne met his stare, unreadable but assessing, a hint of something cautious in the way his hands remained by his sides. He took a step forward, his voice calm, steady. “You shouldn’t be standing. Your body—”

“Stay away from her.”

The warning was quiet but sharp, a quiet snarl beneath the exhaustion. His grip on you flexed, his thumb brushing over your wrist in a silent claim. Dr. Zayne didn’t move, but you saw his gaze flick to where your Zayne was holding you, taking in every detail.

“I’m not here to hurt her,” he said simply. There was no hesitation in his tone, only facts.

Your Zayne didn’t relax. His jaw clenched, his muscles coiled like a wire pulled too tight. He took a slow breath, but there was no mistaking the way he pressed you just a little closer, the way his fingers curled in a silent refusal to let go. His presence wrapped around you like frost creeping across glass—cold, fierce, unyielding.

Dr. Zayne exhaled, his tone edged with something close to patience. “Look—”

“Stop talking.”

The words were low, dangerous, the weight of them laced with unspoken meaning.

Dr. Zayne’s brow furrowed just slightly. His focus was clinical, analytical. You could see the way he was studying your Zayne, assessing his health, his stability, the impossible reality in front of him. But your Zayne saw something else entirely.

A stranger. A threat. An intruder.

Your fingers curled tighter into the thin fabric of his hospital gown. “Zayne,” you murmured, trying to ground him, to ease the palpable tension in the air.

He dipped his head, just enough that his forehead brushed against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. For a moment, the entire world outside of him ceased to exist. And then, quietly, with a finality that sent a shiver through you—

“I’m not letting him take you away from me.”

Dr. Zayne’s gaze lingered on the way your Zayne held you—the way his grip never loosened, the way his body remained positioned between you and the rest of the room, like he was preparing to shield you from something unseen. There was something unreadable in his expression, something sharp and contemplative, but his voice remained level when he spoke.

“I need to run tests,” he said, though it wasn’t an argument. It was a fact, delivered with calm precision. “His body—”

“Later,” you interrupted, your voice firm but not unkind.

Dr. Zayne’s brow furrowed slightly, as if weighing his next words.

You took a slow breath, steadying yourself. “I’ll explain everything to you. Just… not right now.”

For the first time, hesitation flickered across his face. He wasn’t an easy man to read, his emotions always carefully measured, controlled—but you had spent enough time observing him to recognize the conflict in his silence.

“Please,” you added, softer this time. “Just give me time.”

He exhaled, his jaw tightening slightly before he finally gave a slow nod. “Alright,” he said, stepping back. “But I’ll be back soon.”

You nodded, though you barely heard him. Your focus was on the man holding you—the one who, despite everything, still hadn’t let go.

Dr. Zayne hesitated for a fraction of a second longer, his gaze flicking between the two of you. Then, without another word, he turned and exited the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silence settled in his absence, thick and heavy.

Your Zayne exhaled slowly, his breath ghosting against your temple, but he still didn’t release you. His fingers pressed into the fabric of your clothes, as if reassuring himself that you were real, that this wasn’t just another dream slipping through his grasp.

You shifted slightly in his arms, tilting your head to look up at him. “Zayne… you can let go now.”

His gaze found yours, deep and unreadable. He didn’t move.

“No,” he murmured. 

Your fingers curled slightly against the fabric of his coat, the material still laced with the remnants of cold. He hadn’t let go. Not even for a second. His hand rested against the small of your back, firm and unyielding, while the other cradled the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair as if anchoring himself to you. His breath was warm against your temple, yet his body trembled faintly—not from exhaustion, but from restraint.

Swallowing, you forced yourself to speak. “Why…” Your voice faltered, unsteady beneath the weight of the moment. “Why didn’t I dream of you for years after the last time?”

His grip on you tightened—not painfully, but enough to make your breath catch.

“I tried,” he murmured against your hair. “I spent years trying.”

A shiver crawled down your spine, though you weren’t sure if it was from his closeness or his words.

He exhaled, his lips brushing lightly against the crown of your head before he spoke again. “After the last dream, after the kiss… I couldn’t take it anymore.” His voice was raw, tinged with something deeper—something breaking apart at the seams. “The next year, I shattered the dreamscape. I tore through it, trying to reach you.” His forehead pressed against yours now, the coolness of his skin a stark contrast to the feverish way he held you. “But I broke it completely. That’s why you stopped seeing me.”

Your heart clenched painfully. You had thought he’d left. That maybe, in some cruel way, the dreams had simply ceased because whatever force had connected you two had finally severed. But no. He had been trying all along.

“And now?” you asked, voice barely a whisper.

His arms tightened around you, pulling you flush against him. “I found a way,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. “It took me months, but I found a way to cross through different worlds and timelines. And after so many years, now I’m here.”

Your chest ached with something unspeakable. How much had he suffered, clawing his way through time, through dimensions, just to stand before you?

But before you could ask him more, his fingers brushed against your jaw, tilting your chin up slightly, his gaze searching yours.

“Are you close with him?” His voice was quiet, but the words struck like a forceful wave. “The other me.”

Your lips parted slightly in surprise. “Dr. Zayne?”

His eyes darkened, his thumb tracing absently along the curve of your cheek. “Did you meet him and replace me?” The question wasn’t accusatory, but there was something deeply vulnerable in the way he asked it, something fragile beneath the desperation.

Your breath caught.

His hands never stopped moving—never stopped touching. One of them slid down to rest against your waist, fingers flexing as if testing the reality of you, the other remained cupped at your cheek, his thumb brushing along your skin in slow, lingering strokes. He wasn’t trying to hold you captive—he didn’t need to. You weren’t going anywhere.

You shook your head slightly, your hands lifting to press against his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. “No,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the emotion coiling in your throat. “I didn’t replace you.”

Something in his expression wavered, like a fracture forming in ice. But he didn’t speak. He only pressed closer, his fingers curling against you like a man clinging to the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

His hold on you remained unrelenting, his fingers tracing patterns against your skin as if trying to memorize you all over again. He exhaled, slow and deliberate, his forehead pressing against yours as if grounding himself.

“After I broke the dreamscape,” he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of exhaustion and longing, “I stopped seeing you. But I started dreaming of something else.” His fingers trailed down the length of your spine, his other hand still cupping your cheek, thumb brushing the curve of your jaw. “I dreamt of him. Of his life.”

You stiffened slightly in his arms, the meaning of his words settling in.

He went on, his voice quiet but unshaken. “At first, I thought it was another timeline—just another possibility that had nothing to do with yours. I’ve searched so many, trying to find you.” His grip tightened. “But yesterday… when I saw you, even if it was only a flicker, I knew. It was you.”

Your heart pounded in your chest.

“I’ve spent years,” he whispered, “years searching, looking into every possibility, trying to find you in places where you existed. But I never did. Until now.”

His breath was warm against your lips, his touch desperate, reverent. You could feel the restraint in him, the aching need to pull you even closer, to claim what had been taken from him for far too long.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his coat, your mind spinning.

“You saw me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “At the café?”

His gaze darkened, the weight of years—of searching, of longing—settling into his eyes like a storm barely held at bay. “Just for a moment,” he murmured. “A glimpse.” His thumb traced the curve of your cheek, his touch reverent, almost fragile, as if he feared you might vanish beneath his fingertips. “And that was all I needed.”

His voice dipped lower, rough with something raw and unspoken. “Do you understand now?” His forehead nearly touched yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Why I can’t let you go?”

His fingers curled at the back of your neck, pulling you in before you could answer. The kiss crashed into you—possessive, raw, like he was trying to drown in you, trying to carve this moment into reality with nothing but the press of his lips. He kissed you like a man who had spent years fighting against the impossible, clawing through time itself just for this—just for you.

A tremor ran through him, his other hand splayed against your back, locking you against him. He didn’t stop—he couldn’t. Between each desperate kiss, words spilled from his lips, breathless, reverent. Soft, broken things that barely made sense, except they did—to him.

“—real, you’re real—” A shuddering inhale, his lips ghosting along your jaw before finding your mouth again. “Not a dream, not slipping away—” His fingers tightened against your skin, as if confirming you wouldn’t disappear. “Mine.” A whisper, hoarse with something closer to prayer than possession. “Finally, mine.”

Your breath barely had time to steady before he moved again—guiding, pressing, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the hospital bed. His grip never wavered, his hands mapping over you like he was memorizing, grounding himself, as if at any moment, you might vanish into nothing.

Then—he pushed.

Your back hit the mattress, the sterile sheets cool against your skin, but all you could feel was him. He loomed over you, bracing his weight on one arm beside your head while the other dragged up your side, slow and deliberate, fingertips pressing into the fabric of your clothes as though he could imprint his touch into your very bones.

His gaze was dark, heavy-lidded with something unrestrained—something raw. His lips parted, breaths shallow, his chest rising and falling too fast. Yet when his fingers traced along the side of your face, they were impossibly gentle, reverent, a worshiper before his altar.

“You don’t know,” he whispered, voice thick, shaking. He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his breath warm, tasting of desperation. “How long I’ve waited. How long I’ve searched.”

Then—his lips were on yours again.

Not hesitant. Not careful. This was a claiming, an unrelenting need spilling into every movement, the press of his body against yours leaving no space, no air, nothing but him. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss, stealing your breath as though it was the only thing tethering him to this reality.

He wasn’t going to stop.

He couldn’t.

His hands found the hem of your shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, hesitating for only a moment—then he tugged. The cool air kissed your skin as he pulled it over your head, discarding it somewhere forgotten. His breath hitched, his gaze dragging over you, dark and unreadable.

Then—he touched.

His hands skimmed over your bare shoulders, tracing the delicate line of your collarbone before trailing lower, palms mapping the shape of you like he was trying to memorize every inch. His fingertips traced reverent patterns against your skin, his movements slow, almost aching. He wasn’t just touching—he was committing you to memory, branding you into his senses.

“You’re real,” he murmured, his voice raw, as though saying it aloud made it more certain. He bent down, his lips pressing softly against the hollow of your throat, lingering there, breathing you in. Then, another kiss—featherlight, just below your collarbone. And another. Each touch was deliberate, almost devotional, as if he was worshiping every part of you.

His calloused hands splayed over your ribs, thumbs stroking idly along the soft skin beneath your breasts. He exhaled shakily against you, his forehead pressing against your sternum for a moment before his lips found the soft swell of your breast, his touch growing bolder yet still aching with restraint. 

You could feel the desperation radiating off him in waves as his palms mapped out the curve of your breasts, the weight of them filling his hands like a sacred offering. He squeezed gently, almost painfully, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of ever letting you go. His thumbs circled your nipples, the rough pads teasing and tugging until they pebbled under his touch, aching for more. 

Zayne leaned in close, latching his lips on one of your nipples, his mouth engulfing as much as your soft flesh as he could. He sucked hard, his tongue swirling and flicking over the sensitive peak, teasing it into a stiff, aching point. He groaned against your skin, the vibrations sending shock waves of pleasure coursing through you.

His other hand cupped your other breast roughly, kneading and squeezing, as if he couldn’t get enough of the feel of your soft weight in his palm. His fingers dug into your skin, leaving imprint marks of his desperation. He tugged and plucked at your nipple, rolling it between his fingers, the dual sensations of his mouth and hand driving you wild with need.

Then, he pressed open-mouthed kisses against your sternum, latching on just as hungrily over your other breast, just as desperately. He sucked harder this time, his teeth grazing your nipple, his tongue laving over the angry bud. He was consuming you, devouring you, his hunger for your breasts insatiable. He acted like he was a man dying of thirst and your nipples were the only source of water left in the world.

You moaned softly as his mouth worked over your sensitive nipples, your breathy gasps and whimpers filling the air. 

“Oh…” you panted, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him against you.

As he sucked harder, your moans grew louder, more urgent. “Fuck—!” you cried out, arching your back, pushing your chest forward, offering yourself up to his hungry lips. The wet sounds of his suckling filled the room, punctuated by your wanton cries and the creaking of the hospital bed beneath you.

His hands reached up to hold your forearm, his his lips slowly trailing up the soft skin of your wrist, his mouth lingering at your pulse point. He could feel the frantic pounding of your heartbeat against his lips, the evidence of your arousal and desire. He licked over it once, twice, before pressing a open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive spot, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin.

He brought your hand up to his mouth, his fingers intertwining with yours, squeezing gently. He raised your hand to his lips, his eyes locked onto yours as he pressed a lingering kiss to your palm, his mouth hot and soft against your skin. His tongue snaked out, tracing the lines of your palm, the rough surface dragging over your sensitive flesh.

You protested, your eyes wide with anticipation and surprise, “Zayne, what are you—”

He brought your fingers to his mouth, his lips wrapping around your index finger, sucking gently. He held your gaze as he slowly pulled your finger out of his mouth, his tongue swirling around the tip before releasing it with a wet pop. He moved onto your next finger, and the next, sucking each one slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the taste of your skin.

Your breath hitched and caught in your throat as you watched him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. Leaving a kiss on your palm, he proceeded and continued his journey downward, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the soft skin of your stomach. His tongue licked stripes over your belly button, dipping teasingly into the hollow, before blazing a path lower still. He mapped every inch of your stomach with his mouth, his hands gripping your hips as he worked his way down.

He paused at your hips, nudging your thighs further apart with the hand resting on your hip, while the other gripping the waistband of your pants. He looked up at you from under his lashes, his green eyes dark and hungry, a wicked smirk playing on his lips.

“Lift your hips,” he commanded, his voice low and rough with desire. “I need to taste all of you.” The words sent a shiver down your spine, anticipation coiling tightly in your belly.

You hurried to comply, raising your hips so he could tug your pants and panties down your legs. He helped you shimmy out of them, his hands skimming up your thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake, before he tossed them carelessly to the floor. 

He settled himself between your legs, the heat of his breath fanning over your most sensitive place. He looked up at you as he traced a finger teasingly along your slit, a low groan rumbling up from his chest as he found you wet and ready.

“You’re so…” he growled, a finger slipping inside your tight heat, stroking slowly, almost languidly. He curled it upwards, finding that sensitive spot deep inside that made your hips jerk forward, a choked moan falling from your lips.

“Oh my-!”

He pressed a kiss against the skin of your inner thigh, his thumb circling your clit, teasing it, toying with it. He dipped his head lower, his lips brushing against your folds, his breath hot and heavy against your skin.

He licked a slow stripe up your slit, his tongue delving between your folds, tasting your arousal, your desire. He groaned against your skin, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through you. Then, his lips found your clit, and he sucked—hard.

He took his time, savoring every fold and crease, every teasing taste of your essence. He licked at you like you were the most exquisite dessert, a rare delicacy he wanted to linger over, to prolong the pleasure as long as possible. His tongue explored your cunt with a thoroughness that was almost reverent, as if he were worshipping at the altar of your pleasure.

He started slow, his tongue tracing wide, lazy circles around your clit, the bud peeking out shyly to meet his mouth. He licked and lapped at you, his tongue a warm, wet brand against your sensitive flesh. He took his time, just as he used to with those lollipops you gave him before, his tongue swirling and curling around the hard candy, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked on them with single-minded focus.

But now, it was your essence he savored, your honeyed nectar dripping onto his tongue as he pleasured you. He chased every drop, his mouth hot and hungry against you, his hands gripping your thighs tightly as he buried his face between them.

He dipped his tongue inside your tight sheath, delving deep, his nose brushing against your clit as he plunged inside you again and again. He fucked you with his tongue, his muscles flexing and rippling as he thrust into your heat.

His fingers crept up to join his tongue, sliding into your dripping cunt, pumping slowly, matching the rhythm of his licks. He curled them upwards, stroking that secret spot inside you, the one that made your toes curl and your back arch, a sharp cry tearing from your throat.

“Zayne-! T-There-”

You bit your lower lip, reaching up to cover your mouth with your palm, no matter desperate he’d been making you feel, you were still in the hospital, and as far as you can remember, there were guards stationed outside his room. 

Zayne on the other hand, did not care at all.

He seemed to sense how close you were, how much you needed to come, how desperately you craved release. But still, he took his time, his pace never faltering. He sucked your clit into his mouth, his lips sealing tight around the tender bud as he flicked his tongue over it, again and again, the dual sensations pushing you closer to the edge.

His fingers picked up speed, plunging harder, deeper, as his tongue circled and flicked and lapped at your clit. He could feel your thighs starting to tremble, your hips rocking forward against his face, chasing your pleasure, your release. And still, he kept you teetering on the knife’s edge, his touch a maddening tease, a delicious torment.

Until finally, with a few more hard sucks and a thrust of his fingers deep inside you, he sent you careening over the edge, your vision going white as ecstasy exploded through you. Your body convulsed, your cunt clenching tight around his fingers as your orgasm crashed over you in waves, your juices gushing out to coat his chin, his cheeks, dripping down onto the sheets beneath you.

You gasped, “Oh-!” 

To hold your moan, you pressed your palm harder, muffling the sound of your voice. Zayne looked up, noticing your hand muffling your moans, his eyes flashing with a mix of frustration at the sigh, his brows furrowing. He didn’t want you to hold back, didn’t want to be denied the sound of his name falling from your lips, a desperate prayer and plea all in one. He wanted to hear you, to feel your cries of pleasure vibrating through your body, urging him on.

He surged forward and grabbed your wrist, yanking your hand away from your mouth. He pinned your arm above your head, his body covering yours, trapping you beneath him. His eyes flashed with something darker, more primal.

“Don’t you dare muffle yourself,” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “I want to hear every fucking sound, every moan, every scream. I want to hear what I do to you, what you feel because of me.”

“Zayne, there are people outside—”

“I don’t care.” he murmured as he levered himself up, his knees pushing your thighs apart, making room for him. 

He settled between your legs, the hard, thick line of his cock against his pants pressing against your thigh, hot and insistent. He rocked his hips forward, rubbing himself against you, the friction delicious and maddening all at once.

He dipped his head, his mouth finding your neck, biting down hard on the tender flesh. He sucked and licked, marking you, claiming you, as he rolled his hips in a steady rhythm. He was fucking your thigh, his desperate, aching cock seeking some kind of relief, some friction, no matter where he could find it.

One hand slid down your body, his fingers dipping between your bodies. He groaned as he found your cunt, slick and hot and ready, the proof of your desire and previous orgasm coating his fingers. He circled your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight, rough circles, making your hips jerk and twitch beneath him.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he panted against your neck, his fingers delving deeper, stroking along your slit, teasing your entrance. 

With a low growl, he hastily shoved his pants down his hips. His cock sprang free, hard and thick and leaking, the swollen head an angry red, begging for attention. He kicked his pants away impatiently, leaving him bare and naked, just like you.

He settled back between your thighs, his hands gripping your ass, kneading the soft flesh. He pulled you closer, spreading your legs wider, until your slick, dripping cunt was bared completely to his hungry gaze. He licked his lips at the sight, his eyes dark and wild with lust.

“Fuck, look at you…” he rasped, his thumb delving between your folds, stroking along your slit teasingly. 

He rubbed the thick head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your arousal. He groaned at the feeling, his hips jerking forward, the tip catching on your entrance. Then he was pulling back, only to rock forward again, rubbing his length along your folds, teasing your clit, your entrance, every sensitive spot he could reach.

He set a steady rhythm, fucking your thigh with his hard, aching cock, the thick shaft sliding against your skin, leaving it slick and wet in his wake. His balls slapped against your ass with each rough thrust, heavy and full and eager for release.

One hand slid up your body, palming your breast roughly, squeezing and kneading, as the other dipped between your legs, two fingers plunging knuckle-deep into your cunt. He pumped them in and out, his thumb rubbing tight circles over your clit, matching the desperate pace of his hips.

Unable to take it anymore, his fingers tangled with yours once again, pinning your hands above your head as he loomed over you, his hips still rocking against your thigh, his cock hard and hot and leaking. He leaned down, his breath hot and heavy against your ear.

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, his voice rough and gravelly with desire. “Please, tell me what you need…. come on.”

He punctuated his words with a particularly rough grind of his hips, his cockhead catching on your entrance, teasing you with the promise of being filled, stretched, fucked. His fingers curled around your wrists, squeezing, his grip tight and unyielding.

His other hand slid possessively over your curves, mapping out the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips. He gripped your hip, pulling you harder against him, the head of his cock nudging insistently at your dripping folds.

“I want to hear you say it,” he growled, his tongue flicking out to trace the shell of your ear.

He rolled his hips in a slow, deliberate circle, his cock sliding along your slit, catching on your clit, making your body jerk and spasm beneath him. He was teasing you, pushing you to the brink, wanting you desperate and aching and mad with the need to be fucked.

You gasped, your voice trembling, “Please, I want you, just you. Just you, Zayne.”

Zayne nodded his head, his gaze piercing through you. “That’s right, just me, not him, just me.”

He notched the swollen head of his cock at your entrance, the thick tip catching on your rim, before he thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful, relentless stroke.

“Fuck!” he moaned, his voice echoing off the walls, as your velvet walls clenched and fluttered around his invading length. He paused for just a moment, his hips flush against yours, his heavy balls pressed tight against your ass, before he started to move.

He pulled out slowly, until just the tip remained inside you, before slamming forward again, burying his cock deep. He set a brutal, punishing pace, the headboard slamming against the wall with each savage thrust. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the hospital room, mingling with his grunts and groans and your own wanton cries.

“Take it,” he snarled, his eyes wild and feral as he stared down at where your bodies were joined.

He angled his hips, changing the angle of his thrusts to hit that perfect spot inside you with each plunge. The head of his cock dragged against the deep spot inside of you that made your toes curl, sending sparks of electric pleasure shooting up your spine. Your cunt clenched down around him, the muscles fluttering and rippling along his length.

One hand released your wrists, sliding down your body to grasp your thigh. He hitched your leg up higher, opening you wider, letting him drive even deeper into your needy hole. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, no doubt leaving bruises in their wake, marks of his passion and desperation.

He leaned down, his teeth finding your nipple, biting down just shy of pain. He suckled greedily, his tongue swirling around the stiff peak, before moving to the other side, lavishing it with the same intense attention. All the while, he never stopped fucking into you, his hips slapping against yours, his heavy balls slamming into your ass, the obscene sound of skin on skin echoing through the room.

Suddenly, Zayne crashed his lips against yours in a bruising, desperate kiss, swallowing your moans and cries of pleasure. His tongue plunged into your mouth, tangling with yours, fucking your mouth in the same relentless rhythm as his cock fucked your cunt. He tasted of lust and desire, of pure, unadulterated need and longing, he fed it to you greedily, making you drunk on him.

“Mmmm…” he groaned against your lips, his hips never faltering, never slowing, driving into you with deep, powerful thrusts that rocked your entire body. “You taste so good, sound so fucking sweet…”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and wild, a sheen of sweat on his brow. He licked his lips, tasting your essence on them, before diving back in, kissing you with a hunger that stole your breath away. He kissed you like a starving man, like he was trying to taste your soul, to consume every part of you until there was nothing left.

Already sensitive from previously reaching your peak, your whole body shuddered, you gasped, “Zayne—I’m close!”

With the telltale signs of your impending orgasm, he doubled his efforts, fucking into you harder, faster, the bed creaking ominously beneath you. He was chasing your pleasure, determined to make you come undone on his cock, to feel you explode around him.

“That’s it, come for me,” he growled against your lips, his hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt inside your spasming cunt. “Come for me….”

His words pushed you over the edge, and you came with a scream, you no longer cared about being caught, your body convulsing beneath his, your cunt clamping down around him like a vice. He followed seconds later, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he spilled himself deep inside you, painting your walls white with his seed.

He collapse on top of you, his hips still twitching with the aftershocks of his release, his cock softening inside your messy, well-fucked cunt. He panted harshly, his sweat-slicked skin pressed against yours, his heart racing in tandem with your own.

“Fuck,” he breathed, pressing his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering open to meet your gaze. “You’re mine now.” He swallowed hard, his throat clicking, before leaning in to press a surprisingly gentle kiss to your lips, a soft contrast to the brutal love making moments before.

You nodded, too tired to think, you wrapped your arm around him and pulled him closer.

The room was warm—a contrast to the cold temperature when you had arrived earlier—the air heavy with the remnants of what had just transpired. You lay tangled in the sheets, your body pressed against his, still catching your breath. Zayne’s arm was draped over your waist, his grip possessive even in the aftermath, fingers idly tracing patterns against your bare skin. His breathing was uneven, warm against your temple, but he didn’t speak—just held you, as if grounding himself in your presence.

And then—the sound of the door clicking open.

You barely had time to register it before you turned your head, and there, standing frozen in the doorway, was Dr. Zayne.

His cheeks were flushed, his posture stiff—his gaze flickering from you to the man beside you, understanding dawning in an instant. His lips parted, but no words came out at first, as if he was forcing himself to process the reality of what he had just walked into.

Your Zayne, on the other hand, reacted immediately. His body tensed against yours, his arm tightening around you, and his gaze sharpened, ice-cold and unreadable as he locked eyes with his counterpart. The air in the room felt heavier, charged with something unspoken yet dangerous. The exhaustion from before was gone—he was alert, his instincts flaring with possessiveness, as if he saw Dr. Zayne as nothing but an intrusion.

Neither of them spoke.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of their gazes, the tension in the air thick enough to cut through. Slowly, you exhaled, already dreading what came next.

Yep. You don’t know how this will pan out.

likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3 if you want to check out more of my writings, head on to here — masterlist.

[bumblesimagines]

Grateful You're Mine

Request: Yes or No

Summary: Princess Helaena finally weds the man she's been engaged to since they were children. She finds married life to be more than she expected.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Typical GoT/HOTD warnings, arranged marriage trope, fluff, they match each other's freaks and social levels, canon divergent/au since the twins aren't Aegons, literally nothing else just short and sweet

Crazy we hardly got to see the pleasant and happy girl she was described as 😔 WFMF coming soon!! just thought i'd give some other characters attention for once

~~~

As consciousness seeped into her body, the sweet smell of flowers filled her nose, powerful yet not overwhelming enough to irritate her. It took her brain a few moments to catch up and remind her that she no longer resided within the dreary walls of the Red Keep, but instead in her new home in Highgarden. She rubbed at her eyes with her knuckles gently and pushed herself into a sitting position, her eyes sweeping around the room before settling on the empty spot in the bed beside her. 

"Good morrow, Princess Helaena," Her handmaiden, Maecy, greeted with a friendly smile as she set down a tray with food to break her fast and herbal tea to warm her body. 

"Good morrow," She responded sleepily, slipping her legs free from underneath the blankets and wriggling her feet into the slippers beside the bed. "Has Lord (Y/N) gone somewhere?" 

Her handmaiden smiled knowingly, her slender fingers picking up one of the brushes set on the vanity. "I cannot say, My Princess. I am afraid I have been sworn to secrecy for the time being." 

Helaena's head cocked to the side but she nonetheless nodded silently and stood up, shuffling across the room to retrieve a slice of honeyed bread. She sat down on the comfortable chair and began eating, savoring each bite and licking her fingers clean as Maecy began delicately brushing her hair, untangling knots and smoothing the frizz out with oils. Once finished with her breakfast, Helaena stood up and blinked owlishly at Maecy when the brunette remained rooted in her spot instead of gathering the clothes she'd be wearing for the day.

Before she could question her, the doors parted and Helaena turned around, a smile immediately gracing her features upon seeing her new husband enter. (Y/N) returned it and walked forward, a servant following with a box in her hands as the doors shut firmly behind them. Helaena eyed the box curiously, her brows furrowing questioningly at him. 

"Do you recall that drawing you really liked of the beetle?" He asked her, leaning down to pluck a leftover grape from her plate and plop it into his mouth. Helaena gave a slow nod and he brightened, peering over his shoulder to nod to the servant. "I had a gift made for you."

Helaena watched as Maecy and the servant worked together to take the lid off before she gaped at the sight of a pretty soft blue dress with white accents. They lifted it from the box to showcase its full beauty, and her heart leaped in her chest at the lovely white design of a stag beetle threaded into the bosom area of the dress with small white flowers around it. She pressed her fingers to her lips, her pale lilac eyes widening as she fully absorbed the beauty of the dress. 

(Y/N) watched her, fingers fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt. "Do you like it?" He questioned somewhat nervously only for the nerves to fade at the sound of Helaena's giddy giggle. She nodded and leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his lips that made his skin warm. 

Eagerly, Helaena allowed Maecy and the servant to help her dress, the two women giggling softly under their breaths at the way Lord (Y/N) turned around despite the two having wed the week prior. When they finished, Helaena studied her reflection in the mirror, her teeth clamping down on her bottom lip at the wave of excitement and giddy rushing through her veins. The compliments and coos from the women were swiftly overshadowed by the way her husband's eyes lit up at the sight of her. 

"It is truly lovely," Helaena spoke softly, clutching the skirt to walk better as she strode forward before releasing it to take his hands into hers. He smiled again, rubbing his thumbs over the back of her hands soothingly, just as he had done under the table during their wedding celebrations when the music and loud chatter had become overwhelming for her. "Thank you." 

"Mother thought the fabrics would have been better in green but I've always thought you looked lovelier in blue." (Y/N) told her and she felt her own skin warm, a breathy and shy laugh escaping past her lips. He released one of her hands to brush back one of her silver strands, his eyes softened and filled with genuine warmth. 

After witnessing the loveless marriage between her parents and the chaotic marriage between Aegon and his Lannister wife, Helaena grew to fear her own wedding would be a miserable one. Her marriage to (Y/N) had been arranged by her grandsire after her mother dismissed the idea of her marrying her own brother and rejected her older half-sister's proposal to wed her to one of her sons, although he remained a stranger for many years until the Tyrells expressed their desires to see their heir with children of his own. 

She'd been nervous that day, and her mother's own anxiety hardly helped her own, but when (Y/N) stood before her with a pink hydrangea in hand and his eyes averted to focus on the floor beneath them, she realized she had little to fear. When they'd been left to wander the garden with a handmaiden trailing behind them, the awkward air faded with ease once she began speaking of her beloved crickets and the small creatures she found most interesting and he told her of the flowers that attracted certain creatures. A spark had seemingly ignited, one fueled the night of their wedding day when he offered to lie to their parents when she'd grown too nervous to consummate the marriage. 

"Oh," (Y/N) brightened once more. "You must see the garden at this time of year, Helaena. There's butterflies in every corner." 

And so they took a stroll through the garden, taking in the floral scents in the air and the vibrant rows of flowers with butterflies, other winged insects, and even a few hummingbirds bouncing from flower to flower.

Her mother had been right when she told her a girl of her disposition would do well within the peaceful walls of Highgarden; everything about Highgarden felt calming. The Red Keep had a tense air to it with its gloomy weather and near-suffocating residents but those who resided in Highgarden appeared more carefree and happy. Helaena enjoyed it, enjoyed being in a place where she received smiles instead of judgemental glances. 

Unlike in the Keep where time passed agonizingly slowly with little to nothing new happening, Highgarden always seemed to be bursting with life and music. Helaena found herself passing time with her husband in the garden, her hands focused on beginning an embroidery of a pretty butterfly she spotted whilst (Y/N) drew a flower with his chalk on paper. Things were silent between them yet merely spending time beside him satisfied her, allowing her to work with a small smile on her face. 

When they finished with their respective pieces, they returned inside and ate lunch in the quiet of their bedchambers. Helaena watched the servants scoop up the plates and take them away, cleaning the table and curtsying before swiftly leaving the room and leaving her to turn to look at (Y/N). His head remained tilted toward the balcony overlooking the large maze, his eyes distant but expression content. 

"Husband," Helaena roused him, bringing him back to the present. She licked a crumb off the owner of her lips and straightened up in her seat, casting Maecy a glance. "What do you think of having children?" 

"Babes are loud and messy." (Y/N) responded, leaning back into his chair and swirling around the last of his tea before bringing it to his lips. "It would be... nice to have some, though. I think it would please Mother to have grandchildren and Father would surely dote on them." 

"I'd like to have some soon," Helaena revealed. She'd always been told she'd make a lovely mother. "A boy and two girls, I think, would be nice. Mother claims Hightowers oft' have many boys, though." 

"We can have as many as you desire."

Children, Helaena came to learn, were rather interesting little creatures that brought forth such wonder and intense feelings out of her. Helaena simply couldn't get enough of watching her newest little one sleep cradled in her arms, her rosy cheeks more apparent from the complexion she'd inherited from her mother. Daenys gave a small yawn and squeezed her eyes before parting them to reveal the violet beneath. 

"Someone has finally awoken," Helaena murmured, tilting her head to look at her husband. He held a book in his hands, one about different flowers documented across Westeros, with their sleepy twins nestled between his arms. She reached out to run her fingers through Jaehaerys (H/C) hair, unable to bite back the smile when he nuzzled further into his father's chest. 

Carefully, (Y/N) set the book aside and scooped Jaehaerys up to settle him at his mother's side before he took Daenys into his arms, eyes crinkling with joy when she cooed at the sight of him. "I hear your nieces and nephews may give Queen Alicent some gray hairs." He chuckled. "It is no wonder why she visits as often as she does." 

"Maelor and his siblings have inherited much from their parents, I suppose. A lioness in gold forced to live in the cold will always have her claws out... and Aegon's never been... easy." Helaena spoke, her arm sliding around her only boy and the future heir to Highgarden. The look (Y/N) sent her way made her chuckle, lightly shrugging her shoulders. "I am certain he is a good father even if he may not be.. an adequate husband."

"If you say so." (Y/N) murmured, leaning down to nuzzle his nose against Daenys just to hear her burst with giggles. Her dozing sister parted her eyes at the sound and eagerly moved closer, eyes wide with adoration as she took in her new sibling again. Her father sweetly stroked the back of her head, tilting his arm so she'd have a better look at Daenys. "Though, he is as good of an uncle as Prince Aemond. He has already sent the finest jewels for Daenys."

"It's not so bad being married to a Targaryen, then?" Helaena asked teasingly, leaning toward him to rest her chin upon his shoulder. 

(Y/N) huffed a small laugh and kissed the side of her head. "Yes, it's not so bad. It's lovely, if anything, dearest." 

[kooffeecup]

espresso and sketches ◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ

doe eyed boy steals your favorite café spot everyday!

genre : fluff, romance

pairing : barista jungkook x reader

word count : 750+

espresso & sketches :

The bell above the café door chimed as you hurried inside, shaking rainwater from your coat. Busan’s autumn storms were relentless, and the only thing worse than your soaked socks was the fact that your favorite corner booth was taken. Again. 

You glanced over, irritation fading as your eyes landed on him,the guy who’d claimed your spot for the third time this week. Dark hair fell over his forehead as he hunched over a sketchbook, long fingers smudging charcoal across the page. His black hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing a constellation of tattoos you’d spent too many coffee breaks trying to decipher. Jungkook, according to his nametag. Barista. Art student. Mysterious regular booth-thief. 

“Usual order?” a voice asked, snapping you back. You blinked up at Nari, the afternoon shift manager, who smirked knowingly. “Or do you need a minute to… decide?” 

You flushed. “Americano. And a croissant. Thanks.” 

As Nari rang you up, you stole another glance at Jungkook. He’d looked up now, staring out the rain-streaked window with a faint smile, as if the storm pleased him. A half-finished latte sat forgotten beside his sketches. You wondered what he drew landscapes? Portraits? Bunny doodles? You’d noticed the rabbit keychain on his backpack.

--- 

The next day, you "accidentally" arrived earlier. Your booth was free, but victory felt hollow when Jungkook wasn’t there. Until...

“Need a pen?” 

You jumped. He stood beside your table holding a tray of clean mugs, apron tied haphazardly over a band T-shirt. Up close, he was all soft edges round cheeks, doe eyes, a silver hoop glinting in one ear. 

“Uh,” you said intelligently, staring at the notebook where you’d been tapping a dry gel pen for five minutes. 

He set down the tray and pulled a Sharpie from his pocket. “Here. Less… sad-looking.” 

“Thanks.” You took it, fingers brushing. His hands were warm, ink-stained. “I’ll, um, give it back when you’re done with your shift?” 

He tilted his head. “Or you could keep it. I’ve got twelve more.” “I’m Jungkook.” 

“I know.” You gestured to his nametag, then winced. “I mean...I’ve seen you around. Drawing.” 

“Stalking, huh?” His lips quirked up, and your stomach flipped. “Don’t worry. I’ve noticed you too. Always scowling at me for stealing your seat.” 

--- 

It became a routine: you’d scribble essays in your booth; he’d slide you mismatched pastries (“They’re gonna toss them anyway”) and linger during his breaks. He loved indie films, hated celery, and could mimic any birdcall. You learned his sketches were of strangers in the café—the old man who did crossword puzzles, the girl with purple hair who wrote poetry but he’d never drawn you. 

“Too distracting,” he said when you asked, erasing furiously as you sat modeling for him one slow Tuesday. The paper tore. “*Yah*, stop laughing! Your nose does this weird crinkle thing....” 

“My nose is normal!” 

“Cute, though,” he muttered, refusing to meet your eyes. 

--- 

The turning point came on a Thursday, when you found a shivering white bunny abandoned in a cardboard box outside your apartment. You texted Jungkook a panicked photo: ???HELP???

He arrived in ten minutes, hair messy, carrying a bag of lettuce and a first-aid kit. “You named him already, didn’t you?” he sighed, kneeling beside you to check the bunny’s paw. 

“His name is Snowball.” 

“It’s July.” 

“Jungkook—” 

“Fine. But he’s staying at my place. Your building doesn’t allow pets.” He glanced up, suddenly serious. “You’ll visit him, right? Every day?” 

You nodded, hyper-aware of his arm pressed against yours. Snowball... relocated to Jungkook’s studio apartment became your excuse for movie nights, grocery runs, and late walks along the harbor. 

--- 

One rainy evening, as you huddled under his umbrella, Jungkook stopped mid-sentence about his sculpture project. 

“What?” you asked. 

He turned to you, droplets catching in his lashes. “I’m tired of pretending I adopted a rabbit for charitable reasons.” 

Your heart raced. “Oh?” 

“Yeah.” He stepped closer, umbrella tilting to shield your faces from the streetlamp glow. “Turns out I just wanted an excuse to see you smile every day.” 

When he kissed you, it tasted like espresso and the green apple gum he always chewed. Somewhere in his pocket, Snowball’s spare key pressed against your palm...a silent promise. 

--- 

Six months later, you finally appeared in his sketchbook,not scowling, but laughing, with Snowball nestled in your lap. Underneath, he’d written: *My favorite muse.* 

[emporium]

Coppy Youtooz Collectible Figure • $30.00

IN STOCK IN TUMBLR'S US BASED WAREHOUSE AND SHIPPING RIGHT AWAY. THIS IS NOT A PREORDER NOR A DROP SHIP.

Toner goes in the back! Here comes Coppy, everyone’s favourite office assistant in this official Tumblr x Youtooz collab!

Coppy’s rectangular grey body sits with trays sticking out on each side as arms. He has two green handles in the middle of each bottom drawer. Just below his mouth’s opening, you see a green button adjacent to a black panel with yellow buttons. Atop the lid is Coppys’ eyes and eyebrows. Coppy’s double-walled window box shows various pages floating down with a gradient dark blue background.

3.5 inches tall

Featuring matte, embossed, protective outer sleeve

Custom-sized plastic protector for maximum protection

About Coppy

Coppy was first introduced as an April fools’ joke, which took Tumblr by storm. He is an animated office assistant and copy machine. Coppy was created as a parody of another well know animated office assistant.

[naffeclipse]

Sparks and Oil

Mechanic!Reader x Mob Boss!Eclipse

Commission Info

I have the pleasure of writing @zayaayame's Crimes and Justice AU with a mob boss Eclipse visiting his favorite mechanic! Their dynamics are so fun together and of course, the boy is utterly endeared with the one fixing him up.

Content Warning for suggestive themes and robotic injury.

———

The animatronic, silver and gleaming, slips out the door with a cheerful wave of their newly restored digits on their left hand. You return the gesture with a gentle smile. When the door falls shut after their departure, you breathe a sigh. Exhaustion tugs at your seams; a day’s work worth. You step towards the open sign and flip it to close. Everyone has been taken care of. In terms of emergencies, your door is always open, of course, but as far as appointments go, you’re done.

Before your hand can find the deadbolt and slide it into place to lock up for the night, a shadow falls over you from outside. The lampposts lining the street already burn brightly, and the dusk is dying deeper into a fresh night. Slowly lifting your head, murmuring pleas to not be who you think it is, you find just the one you weren’t looking for.

Eclipse grins. A sharpness encases his brilliant red and black silicon and his sun rays jut out like red-hot pokers. Dressed sharply in a pink dress shirt, red vest, and black slacks, he reaches down with a hand from his lower set of arms to push the door open and step inside.

“Hello, spitfire,” his optics, burning orange, like the sun when it sets on a smoggy evening, go up and down your form. “Aren’t you looking like a dish tonight. And your prosthetics have never had more shine.”

“Eclipse.” You roll your eyes at his romantic attempts to appease you. You cross your arms, one of sleek metal and one of your natural, muscular flesh folding in your agitation.

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” he asks and saunters a little closer. His lower arms are spread wide in greeting but you are not the least bit impressed. His grin is rough and rugged. His upper set of arms hang steady by his side. 

You tilt your head in the slightest. His pink sleeves are strangely rolled down, covering the intimidating factor of his thick limbs, but you spy a spot of grease on the corner of his left shoulder. Wires poke at the fabric from underneath.

It is bad enough to have a mob boss darkening your door. It’s worse when he needs your service.

“What happened? Wait, no.” You turn around, stepping one prosthetic forward before swinging your natural one after it in a swift stride. “I don’t want to know.”

“Not even a little?” He follows after you, a towering animatronic with the strength to break whatever he’d like with his four arms—three arms, currently. “You don’t want to know how the other man fared?”

You already guess that he’s six feet under and the less you know of illegal goings-on while managing your mechanic shops, the better. 

Ushering into the back room where your private workshop resides, you point to a low table and move in muscle memory, gathering tools and acquiring the necessary components to fix an injured shoulder joint. Afton Robotics services all animatronic parts and pieces, but they are not fun to get on hand. Eclipse is at least considerate enough to make monthly donations to your mechanic shops for all the scouring you do for him.

“Take a seat,” you command instead. “Don’t you have your own mechanics?”

Eclipse purrs a low sound as he settles on the edge of the metal table. He is too tall and imposing even when you stand before him, preparing your tray of tools for the procedure.

“Of course, but they don’t have the same touch as you, spitfire.”

You whip a glare at him before resuming arranging the parts you will need.

“Watch your tongue—and roll up your sleeve.” You stop at his side, ready.

“If you insist,” he rolls deeply in his voice box. Immediately, you stand on edge.

Now what?

To your chagrin, the mob boss’s lower set of hands gladly gets to work unbuttoning his vest. A flame flickers within you. Eclipse grins as he takes his agonizing time to uncover his torso, his pink shirt husked in favor of giving you a free look at his rugged design and bright red colors of warning. Your eyes roam unwittingly before his grin turns sharp like a shark watching you bleed.

Your natural hand reaches over you to twist and adjust your prosthetic arm as you battle the maddening urge to toss him back onto the street. When he finishes setting aside his shirt and vest, you immediately zero in on the torn arm dangling off of his shoulder by a few, straining wires.

“Do you like what you see?” he asks, resting his hands on the legs of his black slacks. His optics flash. “I can show you more.”

“Are you injured anywhere else?” you reply clinically. 

Eclipse clicks his metaphorical tongue in disappointment.

You lift a hand to the damaged framework and the connector. It’s not as horrible as you feared, but it is a nasty wound. Oil drips freely now that you’ve exposed the sight of damage and wires spark with short bursts of burning light.

“Will you shut off power to your top left shoulder?” 

Eclipse tilts his head and the sparks stop spitting out from exposed copper wires. Now there’s no need to fear frying yourself on an open current. You gladly step closer and begin to salvage what pieces you can and mentally account for what you will need to replace as you remove bullet-chewed pieces.

“You know,” Eclipse rumbles amid your concentration, “I wouldn’t have to find you at the oddest hours if you were closer.”

His lower right hand snakes around your waist. You ignore how his large palm ghosts just over the clothes of your jumpsuit before lightly caressing your spinal implant. The metal vertebrae whirl in a myriad of flashing, wild colors. He hums a low sound.

Lowering his head to your shoulder, a kiss presses into your shoulder, touching the sweat and grime you’ve accumulated throughout the day. You almost jump but force yourself to focus on splicing two wires to repair the strain they endured. Then, once you finish, for good measure, you snap a glare in Eclipse’s direction.

“If you kiss me while I’m working on you, I might make a mistake, and you will pay for it.”

“Understood, spitfire.” He chuckles but his hands still roam over your body. 

Even as you stand and bend over his wound, his fingers trail over your muscled arms and touch the cords of strength along your back, trailing down your hips to your strong thighs. Scars bump underneath his smooth, metallic touch. He even stoops low to study a few marred knits of flesh along your arm where your prosthesis joins with your body. 

If you weren’t so focused on replacing the connector of his shoulder, you might have caught a glint of guilt in his optics. He instead rubs your arm softly.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he breathes an electric breath. “You should move closer to me, so I can keep you safe. It’s so dangerous out here.”

You scoff and don’t bother to lift your eyes from the task at hand. His model is familiar if not threatening. He was built to be a weapon and a weapon he has made himself.

“Oh, you wound me, spitfire,” he croons dramatically.

“Do I,” you give dryly. “I doubt I could wound you as much as whatever did this to you.”

The precision of your tools fit between metal slats and wires, restoring what was once blasted apart by a gunshot. No, you don’t think you could hurt him like this.

One of his hands falls over his chassis and he swoons while keeping still enough for you to work.

“So cruel, so heartless. And I only offer all of my parts to you,” he sighs. If only you could have taken his voice module and switched it off. 

“You’ll live,” you promise. Against your will, a tiny small slips over your lips when Eclipse straightens, his optics slipping over you in a low burn. “There. You’re all patched up.”

You turn away to reach for a rag to wipe your greasy fingers on but the hand you just restored takes you by the arm. Falling still, you feel one of his other hands move into the pocket of your jumpsuit, depositing what feels to be a thick wad of cash. Another crook of a finger captures your chin. Slowly, you rise to meet his eyes, caught in the bright orange light of his optics.

“Thank you, spitfire.”

Your lips part to ask how it feels if the current flows well and if his movement is hindered at all, but he silences you with a kiss. His metallic mouth presses over yours. He’s warm and strong but mostly, gentle. You make a soft sound, surprised and furious and flustered by his audacity. He pulls slowly away from you as if savoring every last drop.

“I’ll see you again soon.” His grin is harsh and handsome, and you boil. He can’t do that to you just because he can. But he leaves you speechless, left with oil-slick fingers and a buffering mind as he slips to the front of the shop and out the door, into the night.

You burn where you stand. Your hand moves to your lips and traces where his kiss still simmers in your skin, and you groan. 

If he doesn’t get killed, you’ll kill him one of these days.

[onlyhereforthestories]

Ours (Alessia Russo x Reader)

Day 20! My first Russo fic? This was another cheesy one to write, I think this time of the year gets me in my feels. Not long to go!

The glow of the Christmas tree lights filled the living room with a soft, warm ambiance as you placed a tray of paints and brushes onto the coffee table. The soft hum of holiday music played in the background, blending with the occasional crackle from the fireplace. Alessia, who had just returned from the kitchen with two mugs of hot chocolate, raised an eyebrow when she saw the collection of art supplies you’d gathered.

“What’s all this?” she asked, handing you a mug and taking a seat on the floor beside you.

You grinned, reaching for one of the plain, round ceramic ornaments from the box. “I thought we could make some decorations together. Something special for us to hang on the tree every year.”

Her lips curled into a soft smile, and she took one of the ornaments from the box, examining it thoughtfully as if planning what she could do with it. “You mean, something for us to laugh at in five years when we remember how bad we were at this?”

“Speak for yourself,” you teased, grabbing a brush and dipping it into the paint. “I’ve got big plans for mine.”

Alexia chuckled, leaning closer to inspect your work. “Oh? Big plans like what? Scribbling our initials on it?”

“Very funny,” you shot back, though you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you. “Watch and learn, Alessia Russo.” You said as you turned your back to her slightly.

You began painting in earnest, starting with a simple heart shape in bright red at the centre of your ornament. Alessia, meanwhile, selected her paints with a surprising level of focus from someone who laughed this idea off a second previously, furrowing her brows as she considered which colours to use.

“What are you going for?” you asked, glancing over at her.

She smirked, tilting the ornament in her hand to show you the start of her design. “A masterpiece, obviously.”

The “masterpiece” in question was a series of uneven lines and smudges of green and gold, but the pride in her expression made you smile.

“You’re so modest,” you quipped, nudging her shoulder playfully.

As the evening went on, the two of you fell into an easy rhythm, dipping brushes into paint and laughing over your attempts to create something meaningful and cute. Alessia’s focus wavered quickly; every time she made a mistake, she would throw her head back and laugh, claiming it added “character.” At one point, she accidentally dipped her sleeve in the paint, leaving a streak of gold across the table.

“Oops,” she said, holding up her arm with a sheepish grin.

You couldn’t help but laugh, grabbing a cloth to wipe up the spill. “At this rate, you’ll have more paint on yourselves than the ornaments you are making.”

She shrugged, grabbing a smaller brush and adding a blob of white to her design. “It’s abstract. I’m an artist. Don’t all artists get covered in their artwork.”

Your evening continued like this for the next 30 minutes, you and Alessia exchanging playful comments or sharing your attempts at art on the decorations you were making. All your ornaments slowly took shape, bright, cheerful designs, one for which featured the date of your first Christmas together and a little snowflake on the back as created by yourself. Alessia, on the other hand, had abandoned any pretence of a cohesive design. Her ornaments had become a chaos of colours and swirls, one was all green with a tiny football painted near the top.

“You’re going to hang that on the tree?” you teased, gesturing to her mess of a creation.

“Of course,” she replied, holding it up proudly. “It’s a reflection of my soul: messy, colourful, and full of love.”

You laughed, reaching over to add a little star to the edge of her ornament. “It’s perfect,” you admitted.

When both of you finished your next ornaments, you set them aside to dry and reached for the next blank ones. Alessia surprised you by grabbing your hand, stopping you mid-motion.

“Wait,” she said softly, her expression suddenly serious.

You raised an eyebrow, wondering what had shifted. “What is it?”

Alessia hesitated for a moment before taking one of the blank ornaments and handing it to you. “Let’s make one together,” she suggested.

“Together?”

“Yeah. Like you know, both of us working on one. Something that’s really ours.”

Your heart warmed at the suggestion, and you nodded, a smile spreading across your face. “I love that idea.”

You scooted closer to her, holding the ornament between you as you decided on the design together. It started with a big, bold heart in the centre, with your initials inside. Around the edges, you added tiny stars while Alessia painted little footballs and a small Christmas tree. Every few minutes, your hands would brush, sending sparks of warmth through you.

At one point, Alessia paused, holding up her brush with a mischievous grin. “Hold still,” she said.

“What? Why?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at her.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she swiped a quick streak of red paint across the tip of your nose.

“Alessia!” you exclaimed, laughing as you grabbed a brush of your own.

A quick, playful battle ensued, with streaks of paint finding their way onto your cheeks and Alessia’s chin. By the time you called a truce, both of you were a mess, your faces streaked with colour and your hands covered in smudges. You had placed your shared ornament down on the table before you retaliated so that it wasn’t part of the faux war.

“Okay, okay,” you said, still laughing as you leaned back. “I think the ornament’s supposed to get painted, not us.”

Alessia chuckled, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. “It’s a work of art either way.”

When the shared ornament was finally complete, the two of you held it up to admire your handiwork. It wasn’t perfect in its own way, the lines were a little uneven, and the colours had smudged in a few places, but it was undeniably yours.

“I love it,” Alessia said softly, her voice filled with genuine affection.

“Me too,” you agreed, setting it gently on the table to dry.

You spent the rest of the evening cleaning up the mess you’d made, trading kisses and light hearted jokes as you worked. When the ornaments were dry, you carefully hung them on the tree together, stepping back to admire how they looked amidst the twinkling lights.

Alessia slipped her arms around your waist from behind, resting her chin on your shoulder. “These are going to be my favourite decorations each year.” she murmured.

You leaned into her, your heart full. “Ours,” you corrected gently.

She smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Ours,” she agreed.

[peachiejeongin]

Crimson Christmas | Bang Chan

Day 8 of the 12 Days of Staymas!

Synopsis: It is time for the annual Stray Kids (plus one) gift exchange, and Bang Chan has an interesting gift up his sleeve for you.

Pairing: bf!Bang Chan x fem!gf!reader

Genre: Fluff, Crack, Suggestive

Warnings: Lingerie, allusions to sexual intercourse

Notice: Hello, darlings! Welcome to the eighth day of Staymas! This is the one and only truly "suggestive" fiction for this series, so....Merry Christmas, lol! Enjoy the reading, and check out the other stories if you would like to :)

The dorm was alive with festive energy, every corner glowing from the soft, golden twinkle of the Christmas lights. The scent of cinnamon candles mingled with the aroma of Christmas dinner. Blankets and pillows were strewn across the couches, a few draped haphazardly on the floor, where some of the Stray Kids members were already sprawled out.

You balanced a tray of steaming mugs, each topped with a creative swirl of whipped cream and crushed candy canes, carefully dodging an excited Han who was attempting to wrestle a pillow away from Seungmin.

"Felix, if we watch 'Home Alone' one more time, I'm going to scream," Seungmin grumbled grumpily, his tone as flat as ever. He narrowly avoided the pillow that Felix launched in retaliation.

"Leave him alone!" Hyunjin drawled from his self-designated throne of throw pillows near the fire place, his hair catching the flicker of the flames like a halo. "Let him live his festive truth!"

"Forget his festive truth," Minho reorted, reaching for a marshmallow from the tray you were precariously holding. "Let us live without the same movie on repeat each holiday season."

"Minho!" you scolded, twisting your body to save the tray from certain disaster. "If you don't let me put this down, you're all getting instant coffee instead of hot chocolate next year."

"Babe, you're doing amazing. Don't let them get to you." Chan, perched on the arm of the couch, chuckled softly at your exasperation.

Finally, you placed the tray on the coffee table, passing out the mugs one by one to a chorus of, "Thank you, y/n!" and exaggerated sighs of relief. Chan tugged you down beside him as soon as your hands were free, his arm slipping around your shoulders.

"You spoil them too much," he murmured, his lips barely brushing against your temple.

"That's what Christmas is for," you replied with a grin, gesturing towards the chaos as Felix launched into another impassioned defense of 'Home Alone.'

As the boys finally agreed on 'Elf', albeit, after much negotiation and a few suspicious rock-paper-scissors matches, you reached behind the couch and pulled out a stack of boxes. Each one was wrapped in crisp red paper with little silver ribbons tied in bows.

"Alright, children," you announced, setting the boxes down on the coffee table. "It's time for presents!"

They scrambled over the gifts like actual children, eagerly grabbing their boxes and tearing into them. Each box contained a matching pajama set, fluffy socks, and a small treat you had picked for each of them, such as a minature fox plush for Jeongin, a new sweets recipe notebook for Felix, and a scented candle for Changbin.

"Y/n, you're the best," Han declared, already pulling his socks on.

"This is so soft," Hyunjin announced, grinning as he held up his pajama top.

You basked in their delight, feeling the warm glow of satisfaction that came from making the people you love happy.

"Well, my love," Chan suddenly began. "We can't you go without a gift, now can we?" Chan reached behind the couch, pulling out his own gift box; this one was a chartreuse color, wrapped in a golden bow. Your name was scrawled on the tag in Chan's familiar handwriting.

"Let's see what the man of the house picked out for me," you teased, lifting the lid.

Inside was a pair of cozy flannel pajamas in a soft cream and emerald green pattern, folded neatly on top of a small bundle of tissue paper. You smiled, lifting the fabric to admire it, only to freeze as the tissue paper shifted, revealing something entirely unexpected.

Your breath caught as your fingers brushed against delicate lace, deep crimson and impossibly intricate. The lingerie set nestled beneath the pajamas was impossibly intimate, and your cheeks flamed the same color as realization hit.

You shot a wide-eyed glance at Chan, who was already watching you with a mischevious twinkle in his eyes. His lips quirked into a barely suppressed grin.

Before you could react, Seungmin, ever the curious one, leaned over to peek into the box.

"Wait, what is that-"

"Chan!" you exclaimed, slamming the lid shut with a sharp thud. "Not in front of the children!"

The room erupted into chaos. Han choked on a marshmallow, his laughter turning into wheezes as he rolled onto the floor. Changbin and Felix clutched their stomachs, their faces bright pink from laughing so hard.

"Chan!" Minho screeched, clutching his chest in mock scandal. "On Christmas Eve?! Really?!"

Hyunjin, the ever dramatic one, flopped onto the carpet with a hand over his heart.

"This is better than the movie," he declared, wiping a fake tear from his cheek.

Chan leaned closer to you, his face flushed but his grin shameless.

"What? It's festive."

"Festive is not the word I'd use," you muttered, glaring at him, though your lips betrayed you with a twitch of amusement.

The boys continued their exaggerated uproar, shouting over each other with increasingly dramatic reactions. Changbin gasped about being scarred while Jeongin muttered something about needing therapy.

Chan, unfazed by the chaos, pulled you closer, his lips ghosting over your ear as he whispered, "Merry Christmas, baby."

You could not help but laugh, shaking your head as you leaned into his warmth.

"You're unbelievable," you uttered quietly, a soft smile on your lips contrasting your stark words.

"Maybe I could make it up to you?" he questioned, his voice shushed to where only you could hear him. "I could always give you another present."

"Oh yeah?" you challenged. "Like what?"

"Well, I'd have to show you, but I will say you'll have to wear the present I got you in order to get it." Chan's eyes darkened slightly, yet the cheeky grin on his face was ever-present. You stared into his gaze, your face flushed but your lips twisted into a daring smirk.

"Deal," you agreed, eliciting an eyebrow raise and soft giggle from Chan as he pulled you closer into his embrace.

Despite the teasing, the laughter, and the absolute mayhem, you could not imagine a more perfect Christmas Eve.

[aventurineswife]

Hello, hello! How's your day going? Could I request Aventurine with a lover who loves making and gifting him jewelry and accessories?

Chained in Gold

Summary: Aventurine finds himself enamored with a lover who has a unique talent for crafting jewelry and accessories. As you gift him pieces that reflect his personality, Aventurine begins to realize that beneath the high-stakes games and carefully constructed charm, there’s something far more valuable at stake: his heart.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Fluff, Romantic Gestures, Jewelry-Making, Established Relationship, Vulnerable Aventurine, Banter, Tender Moments.

The sun filtered through the massive glass windows of the IPC headquarters, painting the dark wood and polished floors with golden light. Aventurine sat at his desk, lounging as if the towering pile of investment documents before him was no more stressful than a light breeze. His eyes scanned over a datapad, but his mind was elsewhere.

Specifically, it was on you.

You had shown up this morning in his office as you always did, bearing a little box wrapped in shimmering paper. Inside was a bracelet: delicate chains of gold intertwined with tiny gemstone chips that sparkled like stars. You had said it reminded you of him—his shine, his brilliance, his ability to make even chaos look beautiful.

And now that bracelet sat snugly on his wrist, hidden beneath the cuff of his blazer sleeve. No one would know it was there, but Aventurine could feel its weight.

The thought of you crafting it made his chest ache with an emotion he often buried under charm and strategy. It was vulnerability—a sensation far more dangerous than any bet he had ever placed.

That evening, you sat cross-legged in your little workspace, a tray of tools and half-finished designs spread out around you. Aventurine had slipped away from his work early and stood quietly in the doorway, watching as your fingers deftly threaded silver wire through a small emerald bead.

"Do you ever rest?" His smooth voice broke the silence, making you jump slightly.

You looked up, smiling as you placed the half-finished earring on the table. "Rest is overrated when inspiration strikes. Besides, I have a certain someone who keeps my creativity alive."

He chuckled, stepping into the room and inspecting the scattered pieces. The light glinted off the glasses perched on his nose, their rose-tinted lenses casting a faint glow over his cheekbones.

"You spoil me," he said, picking up a necklace draped with charms shaped like playing cards. "This one’s new, isn’t it? A touch of luck for your favorite gambler?"

"Luck and love," you teased, standing to face him. "But I don’t think you need the former when you’ve got the latter."

The words caught him off guard, his usual quick-witted responses faltering. You were one of the few who could do that—strip him of his carefully constructed layers and make him feel seen. He reached out, his gloved fingers brushing a stray hair from your face.

"You make me reckless," he murmured, his smile softer than usual. "And I think I like it."

A week later, Aventurine sat across from you at a bustling café. The world outside was cold and dreary, but here, the warmth from the drinks and the glow of your presence made it feel like summer.

You handed him another little box, your grin playful. "Go on, open it."

Inside was a set of cufflinks shaped like tiny roulette wheels. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the enamel shimmering in shades of black and red. He held one up, his lips quirking into a smile.

"Let me guess," he said, "you’re trying to rig my odds?"

"Only in your favor." you replied.

He leaned back, twirling one cufflink between his fingers. "You’re dangerous, you know. Giving me trinkets like this—it’s like you’re branding me as yours."

"Good." you shot back, sipping your drink with a wink.

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze steady and intense. Then he reached across the table, his gloved hand covering yours.

"I’ve lived my life on the edge of losing everything," he said quietly. "But you... you make me think there’s something worth keeping."

Your cheeks flushed at the rare sincerity in his voice. "Then hold onto me." you whispered.

He didn’t need to say anything more. The look in his eyes—the same daring, confident glint he wore in the heat of high-stakes deals—said it all. Aventurine wasn’t a man to gamble on something unless he believed he could win. And with you by his side, he felt invincible.

[pinksugarscrub]

Lunch Talks

MCU! Peter Parker x Silk! Reader

Scenario: Peter talks about you to his friends (inspired by @heihei.edits on tiktok)

word count: 791

warning(s): second hand embarassment

~

Now Ned isn’t a jealous person. He’s never been one, especially to Peter. Not when he found out his best friend was Spider-Man nor when it turned out he had indeed met Tony Stark. But this-? This takes the cake.

“What a minute you’ve met Silk. The Silk.”

“I still think it’s a stupid name,” MJ interjects. Flipping to the next page of her novel.

“Yeah,” Peter grins. Popping open a milk carton that’s certain to be half frozen. “She remembers you by the way and her name is- well, everyone at the tower calls her Moon.”

It isn’t verbal but clearly MJ is exasperated by Peter’s lack of logic. She wonders why it took so long for her to realize Peter and Spider-Man were one in the same when he talked so loosely about his life.

“She does?” Ned gapes.

Peter nods as he takes a bite out of his burrito which according to you, is a disgrace to Mexican culture. Honestly he wasn’t entirely convinced until you showed up for patrol with a bag that smelled heavenly.

You can’t blame him. All the good spots are in Brooklyn and you’ve done this whole vigilante thing much longer than he has.

“What did she say? How did she say it? Was-?”

“Woah, woah, slow down.”

“She saved almost two hundred dollars worth of legos. I deserve to know!” Ned answers while angrily biting into a carrot. “She’s my personal hero and you’re over here talking about her remembering me like it isn’t a big deal!”

Chuckling nervously Peter raises his hands. Eyeing MJ for assistance but obviously, he’s on his own. At least until she can’t resist the kicked puppy look he gives her and as much as she discredits hero names as being clever, Silk is also someone she greatly admires.

In a way, you and Peter are alike.

Not fighting for fame or money. Just looking out for the little guy and protecting them from large corporations. Yeah, she’s read the news. A lot of Stark’s contributions are encouraged by your involvement within the community.

She’s got to hand it to you, you know how to work the system that is Tony Stark.

“Silk is heavily involved and I’m sure in your case, having a civilian cry over a lego set is memorable.”

“Don’t kill my delusions,” Ned sulks. “And it was a gift for Peter.”

Peter smiles at the memory. Christmas with his two favorite people. Red wrapping paper and silky ribbons. Movies from the 90s which of course included Home Alone and…a small box on his dresser that he wasn’t going to open until he could call you at midnight.

Gulping down milk and stuffing his face would only do so much. Peter could feel his face getting warm and he could certainly feel his heart beating up to his fingertips.

Ah god.

“Hungry are you?”

Peter sputters, choking on the last drops of milk as he sets his tray back into place. “What?”

MJ isn’t a fool and she won’t be taken for one. It also isn’t like she doesn’t get a little enjoyment out of the way Peter fumbles over his words. At least now she knows what’s led him to drift off into dreamland recently.

“What?” Ned parrots. Confused. “It’s lunch?”

Peter wipes away what he spilled before hiding behind his sleeve.

“Sure,” MJ smiles. The smile that allows Peter to know he’s screwed. “When are you going to see her again?”

“Uh- patrol. We have patrol together.” Peter tugs on the collar of his button up.

“Dude?” Ned looks between his friends. A tennis match obviously ensuing.

“Today?”

“Yeah,” Peter squeaks.

“What time?”

“Afternoon.”

“So right after class?”

“Oh,” Ned drawls innocently. “Is that why we’re meeting at your house later tonight?”

Sweating bullets Peter can’t find himself to answer or tear his gaze away from MJ.

“Yeah Peter, is that why?” MJ bites back a laugh.

Peter bounces his leg underneath the table before finally caving. He’s learned from experience it’s easier that way. That doesn’t mean he’ll go quietly.

“I thought you were supposed to be my friend,” he groans. A borderline whine as he refrains from planting his face on any available hard surface.

“Ok, if someone doesn’t tell me what’s going on right now-”

“Betty!” Peter stands up abruptly. Clearing the lump in his throat. “Here- you can sit here.”

“Thanks, I guess.” Betty arches a brow. Her boyfriend’s friend has always been hospitable and a bit jumpy but this is too much. Even for him. When she sits beside Ned she leans over to whisper in his ear.

“What’s up with him?”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

A loud thump resounds in their little corner of the cafeteria.

[fandomobbsessedb]

Your Favorite Players Favorite Player.

Young-Il/ Frontman / In-Ho/ Player 001 x Gi-Hun's Sister Reader)

Chapter 3 : Childs Play

Warnings: Guns, Blood, Swearing, Violence, Some up close and personal moments.

Words that look like this are inner thoughts.

Opening the small container they gave us for lunch, I found an egg, rice, some kimchi, and other vegetables. It looked a lot like the lunches Gi-hun mom use to make for me. It didn’t look exactly the same but it was strikingly similar. After taking a bite I set it down to look at how others were fairing with their lunches. Gi-hun wasn’t eating, instead a whole bunch of O’s were surrounding him, and he had this desolate look on his face. With a sigh of annoyance I picked up my food and made my way towards them all. I came around the back and sat in the middle of the stairs so I was a comfortable distance from Gi-hun, but close enough that anything I said was still relevant.

“We had to pick out one of the four shapes.” He sort of half mumbled.

“So of those, which one was the easiest to do?” Jung-Bae spat, with a mouth full of food.

“Triangle” my brother answered.

“And the hardest?” He asked again.

“OH MY GOD don’t you people have better things to do, I’m trying to eat in peace over here. Everyone wants to fucking win so bad but they chose to stay-“ I mumbled at the end of my exclamation.

Turning around Gi-hun gazed at his sister, wondering how long she had been sitting there and trying to eat. He looked down at his half eaten egg and cup of rice and decided he couldn’t eat anymore, just thinking about his future inside the building and his sisters, and passed her the rest of his meal. She looked down at it before grabbing the box, nodding at his subtle gesture. A silent understanding seeming to have grown between them since their argument the previous day. She returned to her curled up position near the top of the stairs and continued to eat.

After finishing her tin, and the leftover of her brothers she finally tuned back into the conversation.

“You were in the marines?” Jung-Bae asked inspecting Dae-Ho’s sleeve.

Jung-Bae simply chuckled and called at ease. As the two of them slapped and yelled around you noticed your brother turning to look at you with a “wtf” face. You matched it shrugging and went back to tuning them out.

“What are you doing over here?” I asked, resting my head on one arm and looking at 001.

“I had some questions for 456 here.” He said slightly gesturing to Gi-hun as he went back to watching the two marines.

“What about you?” He turned to meet your gaze again. “I thought your bed was on the other side?” He questioned. Weird he knows where your bed is.

“I just came over because-“ you caught yourself mid sentence not really sure what to say, you didn’t want to out loud admit why, but you also didn’t have a good knack for lying. “I wanted to… wanted to see the commotion and shit.” Gi-hun listened in, you may be here to play games, but he’s not.

“Is that really why or did you need something jamae?” He said with a stern yet soft tone. You looked back at him from 001 and rolled your eyes.

“Ugh nothing, again why are you always in. My. Business.” You punctuated. Angrily slamming your trays down, and starting to walk away, when a fight on the other side, near your bed, caught your attention. Two guys beating up player 333. It captured your attention and paused your angry leave. As you were stuck watching you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder, lead you backwards to stand farther away from the danger. Shifting your gaze you saw 001 walking towards them.

“Hey, kids. What makes you think you can behave like that? Especially while people are eating. And in front of your elders and ladies too. It's bad manners, not to mention it's two against one. Shame on you guys.” He said loudly grabbing the rooms attention.

You sat and watched as the two started talking to him. They went to pounce when effortlessly, he grabbed Thanos by the neck. As the other one was coming up he simply shot his leg out kicking him down. You watched him turn Thanos onto the ground in anger.

Woah that… is really hot, whaaaaat the hell.

Just watching that I felt my heart beat pick up, my face feels kinda warm too. I applauded with the rest of the room but found him walking back making direct eye contact with me. When he got back the group started questioning him as I just sat and examined him like some scientist observing an animal, now that I noticed him closer I saw where his sweat suit clung tighter to his muscles, and I realized I could now see his face. His dark brown eyes holding a darkness behind them, like a dingy basement, and I wanna go down the stairs.

————

Lights out will begin in 10 minutes.

As I settled into my bed, I took my shoes and jacket off and set them next to my mattress, I heard footsteps coming my way and looking up I saw Gi-hun standing near my bed, just a step down.

“What do you want?” I tiredly mumbled.

“Come and sleep on my side of the room, it’s not safe to be alone at night.” He said with a more airy tone, like he asked it as a question but meant it as a statement.

“What would I need to be safe from?” I responded. He took a look around the room and at other of my bunk mates.

“Just, in case someone tries something, we’re in a room full of strangers, who knows what any of them could do.” He whispered now close to me. I look back at him like he was a crazy man.

“Gi-hun I’m fine, nobody has anything against me in here, the only girl who did is currently dead. I’ll be fine right here.” He looked around me and with a curled lip he nodded.

“Alright, I’m right across the room if you need anything.” He nodded and started walking back, with an exaggerated sigh I stopped him.

The lights had shut off and the only thing we had was a giant piggy bank for a nightlight, and the glowing symbols on the floor.

“Gi-hun.” I waited till he looked back at me, “goodnight.” I nodded, he nodded and wished me sweet dreams as well, as sweet as they could be in a place like this. He stopped once more before descending the rest of the stairs.

“I love you (y/n)” he finished walking the rest of the way down.

Under my breath I whispered my response hoping he heard enough of it.

“I love you too”

————

Gi-hun stood in the front of the triangle line, (Y/N) right behind him, and 001 behind her. He took his metal tin and turned, going to show his sister the shape first then the rest.

When he opened the tin, he was met with an insanely complex triangle with no lines, just corners. A wave of nervousness flushed over him.

“What is it?” (Y/N) said, tilting the tin for her to see the shape. “Gi-hun what the hell?” She said looking back at him, his eyes met hers worry sewn into his features. 001 gently took her shoulders and moved her behind him shielding her from his gaze, he looked at the cookie then peered at Gi-hun through his eyelids.

“Wait, wait, wait, what? What the hell kinda shape is that? Even an ex-Marine couldn't get that out!” Jung-bae exclaimed.

“Really? This one's the easiest to get out?”

“You said you won! You said you’ve done it!”

“What are you going to do, take responsibility for this?”

“Do something!”

“We’re all gonna die and it’s this guys fault.”

“It’s your fault!”

Taking a breath and feeling all the air come back to his lungs, Gi-hun woke with a start. Running a hand down his face he took another deep breath trying to control his breathing. He sat up and looked around the room until he spotted his sister, still laying sound asleep in her spot. Her blanket curled up to her chin and her eye brow twitching every now and again.

————

Attention, please. The second game will begin momentarily.Please follow the instructions from our staff.

Sitting up I stretched and began putting my shoes and jacket on. I looked down at Se-mi waking up as well.

“How can this game be right after we wake up?” She asked looking at me.

“I have no clue girl, better wake up though because I can’t see “sleepiness” boding well in the games.” Walking down the steps, I saw 001 reaching the ground at the same time I did. I felt my face start to warm at seeing his stiff body move around and wake up.

“Hi” I shyly said, feigning being extra tired. He smiled back. “Hello, how did you sleep?” He softly asked back. I shrugged and looked around us to see what other people were doing.

“I was a little cold I think, I woke up clutching my blanket like a new born.” I chuckled, I was about to ask how he slept when I saw Gi-hun coming down the stairs. I didn’t want him babysitting me in whatever game was next so I quickly excused myself and hid in the crowd.

————

In-ho, had a new understanding of Gi-hun and this other player’s relationship, decided it would be better to simply watch rather than try and include himself….. of course listening to his conscious didn’t get him where he was today. Listening to his conscious wouldn’t get him to Gi-hun. He knew… NOT listening to his conscious, would get him closer to her, and through her, Gi-Hun.

————

“Welcome to your second game.This game will be played in teams. Please divide into teams of five in the next ten minutes.”

I had entered the room before my brother did, I was pushed by the group way over to the wall. I saw player 120 walking around trying to join groups. I took a deep breath hoping she wouldn’t mind if we partner, and went to talk to her.

“Do you want to partner?” Se-mi cut me off, grabbing my arm and stopping my path. With a quick glance at 120 I saw her talking to someone, figuring she had joined someone I turned back.

“Sure” I smiled.

“Great” she smiled back, “now we just need three more pep-“

“Señorita’s excuse me.” Thanos spoke from behind me. I turned to see him and stood shoulder to shoulder with Se-mi. “Let’s play the game together.”

“Well, why should we?” Se-mi asked.

“Don’t you know who he is? He’s Thanos, the rapper. ‘I’m gonna kill half of humanity With my raps’”256 explained. With a sneer I looked to the other two taking the attention away from that one.

“Does that pickup actually work for you?” I asked sarcastically.

“Hang on, girls? We don’t know what the game is.” 124 interrupted.

“I, Thanos the great, will protect you.” Thanos explained.

“Right, Thanos. So have you got all the Infinity Stones?” Se-mi asked jokingly.

“Of course.” He responded flicking his hand out. “I’m going to destroy anyone who gets in my way! Just stick with me, and you’ll be safe. Okay?”

I looked to the right of me seeing this little guy sort of wandering around, I beckoned him over with my hand. I looked to the left of me and saw player 120 now paired up with three other people. That team looks way more stable than this one.

“What’s your name?” I asked the other player who walked up to me.

“I’m Park Min-su” he responded shakily.

“Cool, I’m Seong (y/n) wanna take my spot on this team?” I asked with a smile, he looked confused but before he could answer I stuck him where I was standing and just said “great.”

When Se-mi turned to ask me something I shoved him in my spot.

“Ladies this is Park Min-su, he is me now, I’m going somewhere else.” I rushed out to give them no time for questions. Se-mi looked at me weirdly. I just pat her shoulder and walked towards my desired team.

Approaching the team I noticed there was a much smaller girl, an older woman and a man.

“Excuse me.” I spoke up, causing them to turn to me. “Could I possibly join your guys team?” I asked looking at all of them, hoping my charm was enough for them to let me in. The old lady looked at the others before nodding her head.

“Yes, yes of course.” She smiled. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Dae-ho had followed me for a second.

“Excuse me Miss, would you join our team, we need one more?” He asked politely.

“Oh sorry I already have a team.” I replied taking a step back to be more in group with my team.

Time for team selection is up. The game you will be playing is SixLegged Pentathlon.

You will start with your legs tied together. Each member will take turns playing a minigame at every tenmeter mark, and if you win, the team can move on to the next one. Here are the minigames.

Number one, the Ddakji.

Number two, Flying Stone.

Number three, Gonggi.

Number four, Spinning Top.

Number five, Jegi.

Well none of those are dallgona…

Your goal is to win all the minigames and cross the finish line in five minutes. Please decide players for each minigame.

As my team decided it finally came to my turn to choose.

“I’ll do spinning top, I was pretty good when I was little.” I shrugged turning to the next person.

As we all sat and watched the teams go we occasionally started cheering as players passed, until their time ended.

Your time is up.

The ring of the gunshots so close shook me on the inside. They were right in front of us too. 5 minutes… the end of our lives is five minutes long… the whole group was begining to get shaky. Hyun-ju gave us a motivational speech and we felt a little better. I learned everyone’s names and decided that if I were to die today, these would be my new best friends, there where certainly worse people I could die with.

As I stood there getting my ankles locked up, and not in a way I’d like, I looked around the room, hoping to see my brother’s face once more before I possibly died, our eyes found eachother as I nervously exhaled. He looked back at me and mouthed you can do this. I nodded back facing forward again, but not before locking eyes with 001. Seeing his unrelenting look I felt my stomach settle in a bit more. Only to shake up again when I noticed how long he was looking at me.

As they shot the starting gun, Hyun-ju kept us walking with a basic pattern.

One, two, one, two, One, two, one, two, One, two, one, two.

We got through the first three games, it was kinda weird when Geum-ja pictured the gonggi like hair, remind me to never get on her bad side.

One, two, one, two, One, two, one, two, One, two, one, two.

In the moment, as I wrapped the top, I kept failing, even with all the cheering going on around us, I couldn’t focus. Some of my sweat fell onto the top, making it even harder to wrap. Hyun-ju grabbed the top, wipped it on her jacket, and handed it back to me.

“Don’t worry don’t look at the clock, you still have plenty of time.” She encouraged, lightly patting my back.

The tension was so thick you couldn’t even shoot through it with one of those guns the guards had, I had sweat dripping down my face, and my hands shaking like an earth quake. Tears were beginning to fall down my face the more times I failed at wrapping it. The crowd was trying to help encourage us along but the shaman lady was… man she was really distracting.

“Give up now! The gods have abandoned you, your fate is sealed here. It was as I said, decided when you were born. You will die here!” She shouted from standing right next to Hyun-ju. Hyun-ju turned away from me and grabbed that bitch’s shoulders.

Smack

Smack

I looked over to see the woman’s face beet red.

“Stop distracting her! It’s okay you can do it, just take a deep breath.” She guided me. I looked from her to the shaman whose nose was bleeding from how hard Hyun-ju smacked her, my gaze scanned the room, looking at everyone around us who was watching me.

Their all gonna watch me die

My eyes met 001’s. If I was gonna die I was gonna die looking at something attractive. He made a deep breath motion with his hands and his chest. Something about it snapped me out of it as I nodded my head back. I copied his actions and suddenly felt strength in my weakened hands. I took a breath and wound up the top. I threw my hands in front anxious to see if it would go. Watching the top spin in the bloody puddle in front of us I stared at the disgustingly poetic moment. My team started marching even though I wasn’t mentally there. All I could do was march along with them.

We got to Jegi and all stared at Hyun-ju waiting to watch her play. I held my breath waiting to hear the pass from the PA. You could hear a pin drop it became so quiet in the room. The shiny tassels of the Jegi swishing around, I counted under my breath the taps from Hyun-ju’s foot.

1…2…3…4…5…

When Hyun-jun cheered we turned back around to see the guard holding his arms up in an O, we all happily cheered and quickly stepped towards the finish line, as we crossed the finish line I couldn’t help but sink to my knees in relief. We were all so caught up in our victory we didn’t take notice of the opposite team.

Fail

I looked over to the other side of the room, they were still on the spinning top game and everything felt slow motion.

Your time is up

I looked as they pleaded for longer, to only be denied by bullet. The gunshots echoed the room as the bodies fell to the ground. I closed my eyes just in time, as I felt the blood splatter onto my face. Reaching my hands up I wiped my eyelids down, seeing the blood smear my hands. My group had mostly been hit in their clothes, but Geum-ja noticed my face.

“Oh, oh dear, come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” She said, helping my stand. I looked down and noticed our ankles had been unlocked, but I was still coming off the high from the top. My hearing felt fuzzy, I couldn’t focus on anything going on around me. I got tunnel vision, needing Hyun-ju to help me walk. As they escorted us out of the room, I looked over my shoulder to see the crowd going back to their business, only Gi-hun and 001 where watching me as I left. I kept staring at them before we turned the corner and left the room.

————

I remained quiet the rest of the game time. We were back in “our” room and I couldn’t help but distance myself. The rest of our group sat at the bottom of the stairs while I resided at the top. Watching more and more players come in, I hadn’t seen my brother or 001 come in yet. My stomach turned sickeningly. I bit at my fingers as my eyes darted around the room, checking and rechecking to make sure I hadn’t missed him.

“Hey, (Y/N) are you okay?” Young-mi asked, placing her hand on my shoulder. I simply nodded my head remaining silent. Geum-ja climbed the stairs to meet us near the top.

“Why don’t you come to the restroom with me, we’ll wipe that blood off your pretty face.” She said swiping at my cheek with her thumb. I simply nodded at her as I felt a tug on my elbow.

“Cmon, I’ve got you.” Hyun-ju mumbled, helping me to my feet.

————

I felt Geum-ja using a piece of toilet paper to wipe me off. The cold startled me out of my daze a little. She softly smiled at me and apologized for the temperature.

“No no it’s okay, it feels good.” I told her bringing the paper back up to my face. She wiped the dripping water off my chin and walked us out of the bathroom.

————

“If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have made the last kick.” Gi-hun said to 001, before seeing him turn to 222.

“Are you feeling alright?” He asked her, she nodded her head and went to reply when a running sound caught their attention. Gi-hun looked up to see his sister running at them like she had 10 seconds left in “Red Light Green Light.” He stood from his spot and met her at the bottom of the stairs. As soon as she got close enough she jumped into a hug. Mostly holding herself up but Gi-hun held her at her waist to help. A shaky breath left her chest as she clung tightly to her brother.

“I thought- I thought you, you didn’t make it past the- the game.” She sniffled, holding tightly to Gi-hun.

“It’s alright, I’m okay, we’re okay. Everyone on our team made it.” The small group was now watching the interaction with interest. Gi-hun wiped the few tears that had escaped her away and looked up to see Geum-ja and Young-sik watching them as well. When she sniffled he looked back down at her. “I’m ready to go home now Oppa.” Her lip wobbled. He nodded and looked back.

“I’ll be right back, I’m not going far.” He told her. Gently helping her sit on the step right below 001, as he left to speak with the mother son duo. The small group went back to talking about their win, but 001 place a light hand on her shoulder.

“Are you okay?” He asked slightly nudging her to look at him. With a swipe on her cheek, she replied, and took another shaky breath.

“That top game really got to you.” He said, lightly rubbing her back now, she nodded and nervously twisted her hands around. “I got stuck there too.” He admitted

Looking at him with wide eyes, (Y/N) blinked away the rest of her worry. “You did?” She asked. He nodded and sighed.

“I kept throwing it without enough force to get a spin going, I got really upset at myself but then I remembered how you threw it and just copied the way you did it.”

With confusion she asked him, “how I did it?” She repeated. He nodded and used his hands to copy what she had done. “You’re the one who helped me do that.” She softly smiled looking at him in disbelief. He let out an amused huff before looking down again. Gi-hun had come back from thanking the other two for their care of his sister, and sat down right next to her, taking her attention away from 001.

Gi-hun wrapped his arm around (Y/N) holding her close to him as she wrapped herself in her arms.

“Listen. Perhaps we should learn each other’s names. I still don’t know your names, gentlemen. Or yours, Misses.” Dae-Ho announced, looking at the group. “I’ll start. I’m Kang Daeho.“Dae” means “big,” “ho” means “tiger.””

“Wow. “Big tiger.” Cool name. My name is Park Jung-bae.” Righteous” and “twice.” My parents wanted me to be twice as righteous.” Jung-bae shared, lightly laughing to himself. The group turned their attention to the first female.

“My name is Kim Jun-hee.I don’t know what it means though.” She shrugged.

“Jun-hee, when you get out of here, go see a doctor right away. You’ve been under a lot of stress. You need to get yourself checked out.” In-ho suggested, causing the siblings to look at her and nod in agreement. She nodded back in affirmation.

“I’m Oh Young-il.” 001 shared, pointing to his number on his jacket.

“Young-il?” Jung-bae asked curiously.

“Yes. “Young-il” sounds like “zero one,” and that’s my number. Easy to remember.” He smiled. (Y/N) tentatively reached a hand up and felt his jacket number.

“Young-il, it suits you.” She smiled at him. “Your number 1.”

“Oh, that’s true! Your name is your number.” Dae-ho exclaimed, he turned to Gi-hun. “ Oh, Gihun. What’s your last name?”

“My name is Seong Gihun.” He said “This is my younger sister. Seong (Y/N).” The girl looked up from playing with her O patch, she nodded and went back to what she had been doing. The trill of the money filling the piggy bank drew her attention back to the room around them. As she watched the bank fill with the money of the now passed on players she couldn’t help her shaking hands.

One of those 100,000,000 could be me next, it could’ve been me.

She unconsciously grasped Gi-Huns arm tighter, not even realizing she held it in the first place. Gi-hun looked at his sister who now had tears shining in the corner of her eyes again. She softly cried, she clung tighter to him as they watched people become enraged.

In-ho looked at the girl from where he was, watching her sobs. They dripped down her face and shined like stars in the sky. The golden light from the piggy bank illuminated her face, making the salty wetness glimmer. He wasn’t sure what sort of feeling he was having, spite, anger, nay… jealousy? Didn’t matter. He was going to get to Gi-hun, and if he had to rip her apart with his bare hands and re build her in his own image, that’s what he would do…

————

“This time, the vote will begin with Player 001. Player 001, please cast your vote.” The guards spoke, you all watched as he walked down the aisle to press the big red X button. Looking back at your group he made a thumbs up and went to stand on the X. As more and more people voted you watched the sides slowly fill up, when more O’s started being pressed than X’s.

“Are you all out of your minds?You still want to keep going after watching all those people die? Who’s to say you won’t die in the next game? We have to stop. We’ll all die if we keep going! Come to your senses, and leave with that money.” Your attention hooked onto Young-il watching his brave statement. Someone from the O side shouted even louder.

“What do you think we can do with a mere 70 million?”

The old man spoke up. “I don’t know how much you owe, but for most people here, that doesn’t even cover 10% of their debt. If we play one more game, the prize will be at least 240 million!” With everyone shouting at once your currently very fragile mental state couldn’t take much more of it as you started letting small sobs out. Your own crying got interrupted by Young-mi who started begging to vote to leave, that she didn’t want to die in that awful place. You watched her from where you stood, unaware of another pair of eyes in turn watch you.

“These games aren’t actually hard, they’re just kids games, you’re iver thinking it.” Someone shouted, that did give you a bit of false hope, till you saw Young-mi crying again and snapped out of your own worry.

“Just kids games, not that hard? How about we bring in the bodies of the already two hundred plus dead players and you tell them that yourself, that they were simply failures at kids games?” You huffed, seeing Young-il nod at you from the corner of your eye. Around you people started cheering for one more game as if what you said didn’t even matter, that they weren’t thinking about the already dead players.

When your turn finally came around, people started chanting again, only to be met with the sound of a barrage of guns cocking. The square gaurd spoke.

“Let me repeat yesterday’s statement, we will not allow disruptive processes to the voting process.” You stared at them in confusion as they hadn’t stopped the rioting earlier, but now did? You took a deep breath and made your way down the walk, you didn’t even hesitate to press the X button, and ripped off your patch, knowing your vote wouldn’t make a difference in the almost twenty extra vote split. You walked over to the X side as you watched your brother take his vote.

“You cast your vote and that’s what matters.” Someone whispered in your ear. You jumped a little bit, startled. “sorry” Young-il whispered putting a hand on your back.

“Oh, yeah I guess so.” I shivered. I wasn’t chilly for long though, feeling Young-il’s hand on the lower of my back sent warm, electric chills up my spine. I turned to look at him hoping he would move his hand away at the motion but didn’t, he held strong. With a curled lip I faced him, “I’m… I’m really scared.” I confided, something about him just made me feel safe, warm, happy.

“It’ll be okay.” He whispered back, reaching around you to give you a gentle hug. You reciprocated it, feeling like a tiny doll, loved and cared for by a little girl held safely in someone’s arms. Of course, you where one once, but now your a woman with… other feelings. His hand on your back now felt like a red hot iron, heating you up, churning your liquid insides.

Even though you’d be there for about two or three days now, and none of you were in the least bit clean, he smelled divine. His natural man musk doing something to you. He was just embalmed with this smell like he hadn’t been running and sweating with the rest of you. You couldn’t name it but it filled you. Your legs itched to press yourself closer to him, feeling the rest of the world melt away. As though you were the only two in the whole room.

————

In-ho felt the mood of the hug shift… intentionally… he went from a simple hug to something much more. He moved his arm from your back slowly lower and lower. His hand resting just above your behind. Using the palm of his hand he pressed you closer to him still. His other hand up near your neck, gently brushed the hair away as he thumbed at the back of your neck.

The voting had ended as everyone dispersed, Young-il kept his hand in your lower back as you snapped out of it. With a shy smile, you looked away from him as he led you away.

Gi-hun, upset at the vote results, went to find you to comfort you, only to be met with the sight of you walking away from him… with Young-il.

————

You sat down, in front of your brother and Young-il. As everyone was eating the small amount of food they had been given you shouldn’t help but blush thinking about what happened. Jung-bae was trying to justify his earlier decision of choosing O, and scooted over to where you and Jun-hee sat.

“Jun-hee, (Y/N). I’ll make sure we survive the next game.” As you went to snip back at him Gi-hun did it for you.

“The next game”? In the next game, we might have to kill each other.” At his answer you got startled, your hands squeezed at your milk carton causing a bit to splash out.

“ Gihun, that’s a bit much. There’s nothing we can do now, so let’s try to stay positive.” Young-il said, leaning in front to hand you a handkerchief to wipe off with. “We should eat, pull ourselves together, and try our best again. Here, Y/N. You can have my milk. Hang in there until the next game.” Looking over your shoulder you were met with his soft face handing you a milk.

“Oh no it’s okay, I didn’t spill that much.” I said looking into my lap.

“Take it, I don’t drink plain milk, if you don’t I’ll just give it to Jun-hee.” He said nodding his head towards her. You shook your head again as you lifted up a second carton of milk.

“I’m already covered for seconds, thank you though.” You nodded in return. Passing the milk to Jun-hee she looked at your milk in curiosity.

“Gi-hun can’t have plain milk either, it gives him a tummy ache.” You said in a condescending voice, switching to baby voice at the end as you reached over to pat his stomach while he finished his piece of bread. With a huff he tried to push your hand away.

Jung- bae offered his bread to Jun-hee who happily accepted, right as Dae-ho asked if his milk was on the table too. You chuckled and finished the little bit you wanted from your brothers container, you passed it to him stating that you where full. You stood taking your trash to one container they had sitting in the middle of the room. You walked past you the group you played the six legged game with.

“Unnie your beautiful” you heard Young-mi say as you walked up.

“I don’t know if I could say “beautiful,” but I’ve spent some time with you now, and I think you look fine.” Geum-ja said in addition. Young-sik felt the need to add on, “You said she was unsightly?”

His mother flipped his cup up while she was laughing, you giggled from the stairs as you came up, Young-sik and Hyun-jun looked at you with ashamed looks.

“I’m not upset.” You admitted. They looked at you in confusion. “We all need money for things, it’s essential to living in todays world, I’m just sorry that you both are under so much stress from it that you feel you need to be in a life or death situation for things to be right again.” You started with Hyun-ju, leaning down to give her a hug. You wrapped her in your arms and tried to push your acceptance through your fingertips. Then you went to Young-sik who didn’t look like he wanted a hug, so you gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek. That got his lips wobbly. You said your goodnight and went on your way back to your beds.

————

Lights out in ten minutes. Please prepare for bedtime.

The lullaby that played gave you some comfort. You looked around the room to see some people already asleep, and some pretending to be. As you were mentally drifting off you lost attention to the world around you and screamed as you felt a pair of arms lift you up.

“AHHH OH MY GOD” from behind you Dae-ho chuckled and set you on your mattress. Young-il picked up the back end of the mattress as Dae-ho took the front.

“Allow us to escort you to safety milady.” Dae-ho joked, jostling the mattress around a bit. As you sat above they started rocking the mattress side to side. In between your laughs and little screams you managed to get out what you were saying.

“Don’t you- AH- don’t you dare drop me.” You laughed out the fake threat. As Dae-ho grabbed your pillow he started hitting you on the head with it.

“AH! AHHHH oh my gosh, stop I can’t see.” You giggled out, turning into a chortle kind of laughter. Of course your brother just had to ruin the light hearted mood.

“Once it’s lights out, we need to take turns keeping watch. I’ll take the first watch. You should decide the order for the rest.” He remarked, setting his pillow and blanket into place. Young-il look at you and you simply shrugged at his gaze. As you heard the countdown start you couldn’t help but become a bit nervous at the ominous sound.

About midway through the night, you heard Jun-hee shifting in the bed next to you, she slowly sat up causing the bed to creek, in turn waking you.

“Mr. Seong.I need to use the bathroom.” You heard her whisper.

“It’s too dangerous to go by yourself.” He hushed, he looked around to wake someone to help her when you hopped off your bed.

“I’ll go, now that she mentioned it I really have to pee.” You said quickly slipping on your shoes to go. He shook his head and looked for someone else, not trusting you two alone.

“We can go together!” Geum-ja whispered excitedly. You nodded at your brother who in turn gave you both the go ahead.

As the two of them pestered the triangle guard to let you go, you stepped up from the shadows to try your hand at negotiation. The guard shut the window again then re opened it asking for your player number.

“Uhh, I’m 432?” You replied confused, you looked at the other two who just shrugged. The window closed and the door opened almost instantaneously. “Maybe it’s some kinda number lottery?” You suggested walking through.

“Can I come too?” Hyun-ju popped up from behind you. You jumped in shock and grabbed the arm of the nearest gaurd, who let you steady yourself before escorting your group to the bathroom.

When you got in you didn’t even have time to register what the others were doing as you raced to the toilet. They let you go after games but that milk thought right now would be a great time to make a reprise. After you finished you walked out to see Geum-ja and Hyun-ju comforting Jun-hee.

“Uhh did I miss something?” You inquire. Jun-hee sniffled at you and told you she was okay. You smiled back as your group finished washing their hands and leaving.

————

Looking around you where quietly swearing at the predicament you where now in. Jung-bae was currently on watch. Gi-hun was asleep under the bed on the left, Young-il was asleep under the right, an empty bed space on the right sat wide open but the space between there and the two bodies resting around it would require you to wake someone up. To get into that corner. Deciding you would rather wake Young-il up over poor pregnant Jun-hee, you took your chance and started slowly crawling around him.

You were almost under the bed and in your spot when your foot slipped on a loose edge of his blanket. With a hiss down you went.

————

He didn’t know how he got to wake up to this… but he did…

(Y/N)’s chest directly in his face… or should I say ON his face. Her stomach pressed against his chest, in his hands he could feel the softness of her skin from under her shirt.

Again…

He doesn’t know HOW he woke up to that but…

He’s not complaining.

————

Feeling Young-il’s breath on my boobs made me want to curl in on myself in embarrassment. Especially now that he was awake, and… really really warm. His forehead resting on my clavicle felt like lava.

“Oh Jesus, sorry, lemme just-“ I whispered trying to get my way off him.

“here let me help you get unstuck.” He whispered trying to guide my hips over and down so I was on the floor and could easily roll.

“hold on if i can just.” I whisper shouted back, slipping on the blanket as I tried to regain my balance and my legs got entangled with his. Feeling my knee against a hard surface I pushed up trying to shove myself forward when Young-il grabbed my ribs, holding me impossibly still. I heard him quietly suck in a breath and pulled my torso down till he could tilt his head back and reach my ear.

“Do. Not. Move.” He groaned, he started with my legs, he grabbed my thighs with a vice grip, and lifted me over the left of his body. As he picked up my leg, I felt it meet with his inner thigh. Wait… was I pressing on the floor or on his-

He grabbed my hips, which, his thumbs somehow got under my shirt… and… I think I died a little inside. Effortlessly like I weighed nothing to him, he positioned my hips to the side of his body.

Do it again

He made a move for my ribs around my breast. With a much gentler touch he moved me down to the left side, gently pushing my shoulders down so that I now laid next to him.

With a stern look in his eye he addressed me.

“what where you doing?” He asked. His hands still resting on my shoulders.

“uhhm, sorry, I was trying to climb into the bed and I slipped on your blanket.” I admitted, bringing my hands up to try and hide my cheeks.

“no no, none of that.” He said gripping my wrists now, keeping my hands down. “ you’re going to answer me. my way. Why didn’t you just wake me up?” He asked. With a deep breath I felt like a bomb just went off in my chest.

“I, I didn’t want to… wake you…” it felt silly saying this as we were now in this position. He sighed out and let go of my wrists. He titled his head up then looked at me again.

“my turn to watch starts in a little bit, and trying to get back there looks really uncomfy. Why don’t you just stay here?” He asked moving over.

“oh I don’t want to take your spot, it’s okay really.” I insisted reaching up for my blanket, his arm beat me to it though and pulled it down.

“Please, I insist.” He repeated, handing me his pillow and settling me in. I abashedly accepted and sighed out feeling the sleepiness over come me.

“hmmmm, thanks young-il” I whispered, drifting off into sleep.

I quietly heard him reply but couldn’t make out what he said.

.

.

.

.

.

But Gi-Hun heard him…. He heard it all…

AN: AHHHHH RABBLE RABBLE sorry this took so long, this is the longest chapter I think. I’ve read and re-read this so many times to try and make it perfect for ya’ll. ENJOY!!! The mingle scene is next and it is…… actually pretty tame so far, but WORRY NOT, I SHALL DELIVER US TO A HIGHER PLACE, LIKE WHEREVER THANOS WAS THE WHOLE SHOW.

Yours truly

~FandomObbsessedB

Me when I spend three days on a chapter and finally post.

TAGLIST: @blacksnape123 @newtsniffles @missmollya @watasinekoru @justaproudslytherpuff @jamiewritesfanfiction-blog @tinylawyerbluebird @connorsandroids @foulbreadpaenut



[hidden-poet]

Commander Snow; 8

Commander Snow

Summary; Under the advice of Dr Gaul Coriolanus returns back to district 12 where without blinding light of lucy-grey he could see you.

Warnings; dead dove to do not eat, stalking, unrequited love, breeding kink, violence, possessive!Snow, unco/dubco, sexual content, she/her pronouns, explicit, violence, death.

Editor: @hotline-to-hell

chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

The door was fixed with great haste. Before you knew it, you were back in the apartment playing housewife again. Coriolanus’s distrust of you grew to a new level. He no longer trusted you to remain home by yourself. Edmund was still not found, and Coriolanus was certain he would reappear and take you away.

You now worked with him, slept with him, and ate every meal with him. The fence line seemed like an impossible goal with him being so suffocating. You were pretty sure the broken chain was not found. He would have said something, would have taunted you with how close your freedom was. It meant you had something up your sleeve against him.

But you had no way of getting to it. You had tried to disappear during his work hours, when he was most distracted, but the only time you seemed to be out of his sight was when you showered. If there had been a window in the bathroom, you were sure that he would have been in there too.

You tried your best to soften him with affection. When you had the chance, you baked him the oatmeal cookies he loves. He ate whole plates in one sitting.

But as his work increased, your work decreased. Long days spent at his office were hard to fill. He sat behind his desk and never seemed to stop working. Sometimes there was mending you could do, or shoes to shine but most of the day you sat on the couch reading what was on hand.

You had taken to organizing the books in alphabetical order, then grouped them according to color. You worked quietly and slowly. Careful not to make any noise to disturb Coriolanus from his work. You had taken them down again just moments ago to reorganize them by subject when Coriolanus' assistant came in carrying a tea tray and a large parcel. 

She drops the parcel down on the table in front of you, amongst the books. You look over it to see your name neatly scribbled on the recipient's information. 

The receptionist doesn’t look at you as she puts the tea tray in front of Coriolanus. 

He thanks her but her response is drowned out to your ears by the opening of the box. 

“Is it from Tigris?” 

You wait until the receptionist shuts the door behind her to respond. 

You confirmed it was, as you pulled a soft silk nightdress from the box. It was light pink which was uncommon for the districts. Dark pink lace trimming boarded along the bottom and top of the dress. You run your finger across it. It was the most expensive material you had ever felt. 

Another dress was folded in the box and you take it out. 

It was light blue with yellow birds flying across it, made of a soft cotton material that would fall around your ankles. 

“You like them?” he asks.

“They are beautiful,” you admit. 

You look in the box for more to see a small pouch filled with sweets from the Capitol. 

Tigris was too kind. If things had been different, you would have been a good friend to her. But as her cousin's captive, you were now sworn enemies. The box of treats didn’t change that. 

You return the items to the box and see parchment paper protecting soft material at the bottom. 

“There's a shirt for you.” It was a long white dress shirt with gold stitching running in horizontal lines down it. 

He comes from his desk to collect it. Taking it gently from your hands, he brings it up to his nose and inhales the scent. 

“You really miss home,” you comment, watching him breathe in the scent the shirt carried. 

“I do. More than anything.” He returns to his desk with it still in his hands. 

“You’ll be home soon.” 

“We’ll be home soon”. 

You smile thinly at him. “That’s what I said.” 

“You should see the Capitol. Clothing, culture. Actual buildings, not these pieces of tin. You’ll be able to breathe much better in the Capitol.” 

The scratching of his pen picked up where his sentence had been incomplete as he began his work again. The shirt lay across his lap. 

“I have the day off tomorrow,” he said without stopping his work, “I was thinking we could visit the waterfall again. It will probably be the last time before Ravinstill dies.” 

The thought made your stomach drop. If you don’t make it beyond the fence, it would in fact be the last time you ever saw your favorite place. The time was better spent within the compound waiting for an opportunity. He would never let you get too far in the district. 

“I’d prefer not to.” 

“Why?” he questions with a hard tone. He continued to write but the pen pressed firmly into the paper. 

“I am behind on my chores, and I haven’t made anything in a while. The food in the fridge will go bad if I don’t get to it soon.” 

“Let it. The Capitol is full of food.”

You realize now that Coriolanus had already made up his mind to do the activity. You wondered why he chose it. He hated the heat and the bugs. 

You walk over to the tray of hot tea and pour out a cup, making it to his liking and placing it down in front of him. 

“We’ll go if you want to.” 

“Why don’t you want to go?”

“Why do you want to? The walk up there will take us nearly the whole morning in the hot sun.” 

“I thought it might make you happy.” 

He was trying to win your approval before he ripped everything you had ever known from your finger tips. It was something to use against him. Coriolanus responded best when he was in a position to be a hero. He would do anything so long as he felt he was the only one who could do it for you. 

You lean down and wrap your arms around his shoulders, resting your face against his neck. 

“You know what would make me happy? Some vanilla extract so I can send Tigris some shortbread cookies back”.

He responds positively by wrapping his hands around your forearms. He liked you looking out for Tigris. 

“She’s been asking to meet you.” He says, his hand gently wrapping your arm around his shoulders. “I have a call with them next Friday afternoon. Maybe you’d like to come with.” 

You retract your hold now that he was in a better mood. 

There was only one answer you could give him when it came to his family. 

“I’d love to”. 

You had a deep hate for Capitol people but Tigris seems different. In any case, you were sure you could remain civil for an hour-long phone call. 

Pouring yourself a cup of tea, you return to your spot with it and Coriolanus returns to his work. 

———- 

 You stood out in the sun with Coriolanus as he discussed the new recruits' performance with another high-ranking officer. They were splitting them up into areas of work. The strong and fast became foot soldiers, the slow were put on kitchen duty, and the ones who showed a inclination to aggression were watchmen. He spared a couple to the infantry to learn basic medic care and help around the hospital. You couldn't work out what sent those recruits apart. It seemed random but you knew nothing Coriolanus did was without great care and strategy.

All the men seemed equally angry and you wondered if Coriolanus was the same when he was a Peacekeeper. 

The sun felt nice upon your skin after so long. It was late afternoon and it had just begun to set, leaving behind a nice cool breeze. 

You thought about your mother and Edmund. Were they enjoying the sun too? 

The sound of a vehicle approaching ruined the moment of reflection. Coriolanus took your hand in his as soon as the tires upon the gravel could be heard as if you were to be run over if he didn’t. 

It surprisingly stopped in front of where you stood. A transport car with no doors and a large trunk carried two men. A younger man wearing a District 12 peacekeeper uniform and an older man who wore a Commander uniform set apart by its light purplish color. 

“Commander.” The older man greets as he swings out of the car. 

“Vongurt.” Coriolanus uses his spare hand to offer a handshake which is strongly and fervently taken. 

Another Commander had come to see Coriolanus. You doubted he was any better than the last. 

“This is my wife, Y/N.” With his hand, he leads you in front of him to show you off to the Commander.

You were stiff with shock as the man's disapprovingly raked his eyes over you. He too felt jarred at the label of wife. District women weren’t wives. They were barely considered human.

But he smiles nonetheless, something you couldn’t return.

“Pleasure.” With a kiss placed upon your hand, the Commander's attention was turned back to Coriolanus.

 “Your compound is impressive, Commander Snow. It has to be the largest I’ve seen.” 

Coriolanus seemed unimpressed by the comment. He turns back to the Peacekeepers watching them as they leap, and fight. 

“A palace of scrap metal.” 

He waves over a tall man in a high-ranking uniform, who quickly makes his way over from across the field. 

“Your apartment is only slightly better. Sergeant AJ will take you there.” 

“I was hoping that we could talk. I’ve come all this way from District 2.”

“Later, Commander. The conference room at 7. You’ll have my undivided attention there.” 

The man nods back and follows his guide back into the car. 

Coriolanus makes a comment to his officer about a recruit and the man jotted down all of his thoughts. 

You wanted to get away. Break free from his hold and bolt to the fence line. His delusions had reached a new height, with him now openly telling lies to men with power. 

Your body moves to your thoughts. You hadn’t even realized you were twisting your hand away from him until he tightened his hold. 

He turns to you, asking if you are ok. 

“I need to go home” you respond. Home to my mother. Back home to normalcy. 

“Take whoever we missed today and regroup them tomorrow morning” he directs the man next to him. A whistle is blown and the recruits stop their training, instead they congregate in front of you. 

Coriolanus turns as his officer begins to dish out instructions, taking you back to the apartment. 

“The heat can get to you,” he says. 

You had lived in District 12 all your life if anyone was to know about the heat it was you. But you verbally agree and apologize for taking him away from his work. 

He hushes you and it ends the conversation for the walk home. 

He lets you go as you enter your prison, and you take off without him to the bedroom. 

You hear his voice wafting down the hallway telling you to lie down. You shove your boots off and get into bed. Every day your window closes. It won’t be long before either the broken fence is found or you are carted off on the train. 

But he had called you his wife. Not just to anyone but a Capitol Commander. Even if you got away, the idea that he would leave you here for the presidency is just a fantasy. 

How long would you need to live in hiding before he forgot you? Could you bear the costs of it for as long as needed? What work could you do in the mountains to support yourself and your mother? 

Wife. Why did he have to say wife? You weren’t that. You were his captive, a victim of his need to be cared for. 

Coriolanus enters the room with a wet, cold rag and runs it over your forehead. A victim of his need to pretend he was capable of caring for something. 

He sits on the bed beside you running the cloth over your forehead and into your hair. 

“Do you feel alright?” he asks as you take the cloth off him. 

“I am fine. Just a little lightheaded.” You throw the cloth on the bed stand and he takes it as a signal to get up. 

“I’ll get you some water.”

He disappears and you're thankful for the space to think. Could you tell him you just need a walk around the compound by yourself to think? No, he would take it as an insult. 

You had to get out. The fence was so close. 

You don’t notice him as he sits back down beside you. Only the glass to your lips made you see him. 

“I won’t go to the meeting with Vongurt if you are unwell.” 

You sit up straighter at his words, pushing the glass away from you. 

“No!” you say harshly, “No, you should go. I am fine.” 

“You don’t look well.” You were sure you looked terrible after you had the shock of your life. 

“But I feel fine. Just too much sun.” 

He looked annoyed that you were arguing with him so you switched tactics. 

“We need his support to get back to the Capitol. Maybe you could just leave the door open for some fresh air?” 

You had pushed too hard, and he got up

“If I am not here, the door is shut.”

“Of course,” you breathe with a soft smile at him, “I’ll be fine by the time you have to leave.”

Coriolanus hovered around you for the next hour and a half before he had to start getting ready for his meeting. He took a shower to wash the sweat off him from the day and changed into his official outfit. It fit snugly, his broad shoulders carried the uniform well. 

He attached the dressings of his uniform as you watched him from the bed. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t go tonight. What if you feel unwell while I am away?” His fingers were still on the badge he was trying to put on. 

“I am fine,” you assure him, “I feel fine.” 

“We should invite him here. That way if you need me, I am here.” 

You cringed at the thought of serving Commander Vongurt. 

“I won’t need you. Besides the conference room is much nicer.” You get up to help him put on his badge and send him on his way. 

“I haven’t felt unwell since dinner.” Coriolanus stood over you as you cooked, convinced that the heat in the kitchen would make you unwell again. With a knife in your hand, it was a dangerous time for Coriolanus to tell you what to do.

“You’re sure?” he pokes. 

You were tired of saying it so you just nodded your head. 

“Go to the bathroom then.” 

It was an odd request. 

“What?” you question. 

“Go to the bathroom and take a shower. Get changed into your night dress.”

He checks his watch once before motioning you forward. 

There was no other option for you then to follow his request. You thought maybe he just wanted to complete the bed time routine. He wanted to know you were washed and dressed for bed for his own comfort. You never knew what made him tick. 

You complete the tasks quickly and return to find he had placed a glass of water and a packet of dried mixed fruit.

You quiz him on it but he doesn’t answer. He takes your wrist in his hand and tugs you to the bed.

Taking out his handcuffs, he clips your wrist into the cuff, pulling it up to the headboard where he attached the other cuff. 

You tug against it in protest. “What are you doing?”

“Just in case, Edmund comes back.”

“He won’t! Please unlock me.” you beg. 

“I left your book there if you are not ready to sleep yet.” He stands tall and readjusts his uniform. 

“Coriolanus!” You say in a serious tone, “Get this off of me.”

You pull against it brutally and he captures your hand against the headboard. 

“I left you one hand so you can read. I don’t have to.” 

“Please, don’t leave me here like this!” He ignores you, bending down once more to flick on the lamp. 

“You’ve had a big day. Try and rest. I���ll be home soon.” 

“Coriolanus!” you call out watching him leave. He flicks off the main light as he goes. 

“Coriolanus!” you yell. 

You had never felt anger as you lay trapped in bed. He dictated when you worked, when you rested, when you ate. Nothing was yours anymore. Every breath you took was only because he allowed you to take it. 

There was nothing to tell the time on. It felt like years waiting for him to come back and release you. You didn’t read, only plotted. 

Could you feed him something to make him sick? Surely he would request you to come see him in the infirmary. You could break away when returning from your visit. What if he caught you trying to poison him though? 

Friday provided the perfect opportunity. While he was distracted with his family you could sneak away. The communication building was on the other side of the compound but at least you would be outside of the apartment. 

But how would you get away far enough to make a break for it? You thought about what was in the surrounding area of the communications building. Nothing would be a reasonable excuse to pardon yourself. 

Could you excuse yourself to the bathroom? Surely one of the surrounding offices would have one. Would he let you go alone? Sacrifice time with his family to take you. Would he even let you go or just expect you to make do until the phone call was over? 

You came up with twenty different scenarios of escape routes, each one ended with Coriolanus catching you. 

You wished you didn’t shoo Edmund away now. He could have got the door opened in time. It was only your fearfulness that stood in the way of your escape. You could be with him now, with your mother. Up in the mountains, safe and sound. 

God, you hoped they were safe and well-fed. 

You wished for nothing more than to tend to your mother, to ensure that she was alright. 

The care that was supposed to go to her was now unjustly turned towards Coriolanus, who was adamant to wring it from your hands. 

Edmund had always taken whatever care you gave him with great appreciation. 

Never demanded more, and then took it with force. 

He was kind and patient. Two things Coriolanus is not. 

And now you have dragged him into this mess where his life is at great risk. Still, he had never demanded any more from you. 

When his lips first met yours, they were placed almost in questioning. It was up to you to accept and beg for more. 

You wished you had seen his affection for you sooner. But he was your brother's best friend, and the main protector of you and your mother. If Coriolanus never entered the picture you doubt he ever would have acted on it. 

But he had, and you had returned the affection. It was the start of something new and beautiful or the end of years of friendship and familiarity. 

Once Coriolanus went back to the Capitol, your new life would begin. 

You hoped it would be alongside Edmund. You would pay him back for his bravery.

You would be a good girlfriend to him, then wife, and then mother of his children. You would never ask him for anything, and take great care of his family life. You would ensure his happiness, as he ensures your life now. 

You almost forget you were chained to the bed of the Commander as you daydream of brown-haired babies. But the sound of Coriolanus arriving home was a solemn reminder. His boots against the hardwood floor soften as they reach the bedroom door. 

You still had a great challenge before you got to nurse Edmund’s children. 

You had to get away from Coriolanus, and the only way you could do that is if he had no idea that you planned to. 

The door creaks open and you sit up straight to watch him enter. 

“I am sorry. Did I wake you?” He places his coat on the foot of the bed and crawls over to where you lay. 

“No. I was waiting for you.”

He smiles down at you as he unlocks the cuff from your wrist with the keys in his pocket.

“You seem happy,” you comment. You could smell the whiskey on his clothes as he leaned over you.

“I am. I have you. I have Commander Vongurt’s support behind me, and Ravinstill is not expected to last the winter. We’ll be home before you know it.”

Throwing the keys on his bedside table, he leans down to kiss you before resting his head on your collarbone.

“That’s not long,” you comment. 

“Three months at the most.”

You drowned in your anxiety quietly as he rested. 

Three months and your life was over. 

 He takes your silence as a quiet contemplation. 

“Are you thinking of your mother?” he runs a curled finger along your nose.

“Yeah. I’ll miss her”. You hope to never have to know the pain of missing her again. These past few weeks have been unbearable.

“You’ll write. I’ll organize a time she can come to the compound for video calls.”

You were sure he was going to let you write and call. For how long was another thing. You could see it already, your calls being cut short, your letters ‘lost’ in the mail.

“Yeah,” you respond again.

Your mind races with ideas of escape. You could fake a sickness and be sent to the medical camp. No, he wouldn’t send you there. He panicked today over a supposed case of heatstroke. 

He lowers his head down closer to you where you can smell the evening on him.

“You want to know what I was thinking?” he asks playfully.

You could start a fire during dinner time. He was sure to open the door to let you out before dealing with the flames.

“Yeah?” you entertain. Fire could go wrong for a number of reasons. Besides you would have to fight your way to the oven. Especially now that Commander Vongurt was here. Coriolanus would be too busy to wait for you to cook something.

“I was thinking I hope we have a boy first. Then two girls, then another boy.”

Your eyes shoot open as his hand reaches out across your stomach. His hand finds its way under your shirt and he lays a warm palm over your belly.

Then again, a big enough fire might kill him. Was it worth a shot?

“You called me your wife today. That’s not true.”

“What else should I have called you? We sleep together, eat together, wake together. We look after each other. The only thing missing is an official title but as soon as we get back to the Capitol, we’ll fix that.”

You turn away from him to your side. Now that the talk of the Capitol was becoming a more serious threat, you felt sick.

“Did I scare you with talk of babies? It wouldn’t be for a few more years yet.”

His rants did scare you. That would be your life if you didn’t figure out a way to the fence. Nursing Commander Snow’s babies in the Capitol. Away from your mother. Away from Edmund.

Still, you had to perform. You couldn’t let any more distrust between him and you grow. 

“You didn’t scare me. I am just tired. I’ve waited up all night for you.”

You feel a soft kiss press against your ear before the weight of the bed was shifted as he moved.

“Go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He leans over you once more to flick off the light. You hear him walk out to the bathroom to take a shower.

Could you force him to give you the keys? The chain was still dangling from the headboard. If you could somehow get his wrist caught, you could threaten him with a kitchen knife. You shake the thought from your head. You couldn’t hurt him with a knife. You were sure even one-handedly, he could take it off you if you tried.

You just needed a distraction, just two seconds when his attention wasn’t on you to escape.

Wet, salty tears rolled down your cheeks as you lay in the dark, but you made no sound.

You were still awake when he returned from his shower, dressed in his pajamas. Thinking you are asleep he is slow and quiet as he rejoins you in bed.

He curls up against your back and rests his hand on your stomach as if there is something already inside. He wasn’t going to wait a few more years. He said it purely for your comfort.

He dreamt of being a young President with a baby on the way. And another one close after that, and another, and another. He would undo history. He would have as many baby Coriolanus’s and Tigris’ as it took to heal the past.

Watching you nurture, feed, and play with his children would overtake his memories of fighting for his life when he should have been nursed by his mother.

He felt as if he was in the area but soon to be crowned Victor. President Ravinstill just had to die before he could have it all.

His destiny that had been interrupted when his father died but was now back on track. From birth, Coriolanus Snow was supposed to be the man who had it all. Not some impoverished boy, hanging on to his father’s legacy.

When he died, he would be remembered as his own man. Not as the shadow of his father.

Coriolanus Snow; Beloved President of Panem, star pupil of the Academy, Plinth Prize winner, devoted husband and father, and Victor of the games. Coriolanus would be remembered as the man who had it all.

You lay awake under him. The smell of alcohol mixed with the scent of his soap. It burnt your nose as you inhaled. 

 President Ravinstill could die tonight. There was no guarantee that he would even make it to winter. You had to get out. If you made it to the Capitol, you would never get back home. 

While he was intoxicated was your best chance. He seemed so still now, you could take the keys off the nightstand and go through everyone. You were sure he wouldn’t wake, not until it was too late. You remember when your father drank on special occasions, he would sleep for 14 hours at a time. Coriolanus was sure to sleep for at least half that. 

You wait until you can’t feel him twitch before you rise from bed. Very slowly, very carefully, you peel yourself from him, shoving a pillow in your place. He doesn’t move from your actions so you continue over to his nightstand where his key ring is laid. 

Rows and rows of keys looped together. They jingle as you pick them up. Panic runs like ice up your spin as you turn back to see Coriolanus; unmoved and unknowing. 

You wrap your hand around as many keys as you can to stop further noise and make your way to the door. Checking every few steps to ensure he wouldn’t turn up behind you. 

The floor creeks as you pass the hallways to the living room but no other sound follows as you cross the kitchen to the door. 

You start at the very first key. It slots in but refuses to turn. Moving on to the next, and the next in methodological order, bypassing the ones that were too big or small to be entertained. 

You try numerous times but the right key is buried among the many. 

Feeling as if it had been hours since the first key, you felt confident that it was coming up. 

You stuck a key in with no resistance. The hope that died in you reappeared as the lock turned with the key. 

But all too soon it died again, as you felt a hand snake into your hair. It yanks your head harshly back and you find yourself pressed against Coriolanus. 

“That key will get stuck in the door, and it’d be a great pain to get it out again.” 

His hand in your hair pulls you back. 

“I was just going to the kitchen to get some ingredients for a hangover cure. I was coming back.” His hand twists unforgivably in your hair as you make your plea. 

“Don’t lie to me,” he seethes. 

“I am not!” You protest, trying to break free from his grasp. 

“You think I am some type of fool?” 

 Reaching over you, he takes the keys out of the door and leads you back to the bedroom. 

“Coriolanus. Please just listen to me.” 

“If I had listened to you, I would have left the door opened. You spoiled, deceiving, little bitch.” 

He was still drunk. You could smell it from his breath. 

You thought it would make him complacent but it instead made him more violent. 

“I was getting you my father's hangover cure.” 

You stumble as he pushes you over the doorway. 

“You need to trust me, Coriolanus.” 

He shoves you until you are back to your side of the bed. 

“I don’t.”

He throws the keys hard across the room to free his hands. 

“I trust you.” You don’t fight him as he recuffs your chain, instead you willingly go along with it. 

For good measure, you place a kiss on his cheek which throws him off guard. 

“I don’t trust you.” he reiterated softly. 

“That’s ok,” you state, “One day you will. We’ll have a happy life together. You, me, and our children.” 

He looks perplexed at your words but makes no further comment as he lays down by your side, resting his head on you. 

“I’ve tried my best to take care of you. To make you happy.”

“You have.” you console. You were no longer worried about President Ravinstill lasting the night, but rather yourself. 

“Then why-”

“I wasn’t running. I was trying to take care of you.” 

His face turns into your skin. You bring your free hand up to his head and press it down. 

“Everything is ok. Just go to sleep. You’re drunk. You don’t mean it.” 

You run your fingertips up and down starting from behind his ear, down to the bottom of his neck, and up again. You do it until you feel his shallow breaths upon your skin, only then do you release the tears from your eyes.

When you wake the next morning, your wrist is free and Coriolanus is not in bed. 

You rise to find him in the kitchen, frying bacon. Maybe he was too intoxicated last night to remember his anger towards you.

“Good morning,” you offer. He doesn’t return the greeting. Maybe he did remember last night, and you were in a lot of trouble. 

“How are you feeling?” you try again. 

“What’s your father's hangover cure?”

“Two eggs, hot sauce, milk, salt, pepper, and honey”. Your father did not have a hangover cure and it did not include hot sauce or honey, both of which were considered luxury items in the District. 

He looks for the ingredients, slamming the cupboards he turns towards you. “All here.”

“Oh,” you comment, “That’s good. Did you want me to make you one?”

The bacon pops in the pan and you rush over to distract yourself with it. 

“Sit down. I’ll take over cooking”. The bacon was overcooked to the point where it would be barely edible. 

“So what did you need for the compound kitchen last night?”

“I didn’t know we had the items. It's been that long since I cooked, I just assumed we were out.” 

“You assumed you wouldn’t get caught.” 

You sigh. Coriolanus in a bad mood would only mean bad things for you. 

“I wasn’t running. I was trying to help. Are you always going to doubt me?”

“Yes.” he answers, pulling the pan back off you. 

He dumps the bacon onto a plate and takes it to the kitchen table. You begin to clean up after him as he sits and eats. 

The plate is still full by the time he is telling you to go get ready for the day. 

You put on the blue sun dress he likes which acts as a two-second buffer for his anger when he sees you. 

He had paused in the middle of throwing his bacon into the trash. Such a waste of food. You thought. 

But he was determined to stay in his mood. He slides the empty plate across the counter. 

“I am late for work,” he says. 

It was unusual for him not to hold your hand as you walked to his office. You would have to work hard today to please him. 

His tea was already sat upon his desk when you arrived and you rushed to pour him one.

He doesn’t drink it. It goes cold as he does his work. 

You try extra hard to be quiet.  There was sewing left from yesterday which you begin to complete. 

“We still haven’t found your mother,” he says out of the blue after a morning of not speaking or looking at you. 

His words filled you with confidence. If you could get to the mountains, at least you knew you were safe.

He doesn’t look up as he speaks. 

“Edmund hasn’t returned to his house but there was a rumor that he was swapping meat for medical supplies just yesterday.”

What would he need medical supplies for? You wondered. Was your mother okay? Was he okay?

You needed to see them to make sure.

“He’s probably hiding with your mother in what’s left of the forest. Don’t worry. We’ll find him and bring your mother home.”

It was a disguised threat. He was trying to get a rise out of you. 

“Good,” you comment. Keep searching the forest while they remain safe in the mountains.

“Good.” he repeats back.

A comfortable silence returns as you both go back to work, but it’s interrupted by his secretary bursting through the doors.

“Sir! Sir!” she gasps. Coriolanus shot up from his chair.

“Commander Vongurt is angry!”

You follow him without a word out of the office.

“The courtyard!” the secretary directs.

You fall behind his fast pace and reach for him blindly to keep from falling too far behind.

A crowd had formed by the time you reached the courtyard. You could hear the familiar sound of flogging and painful cries.

The crowd parts as Coriolanus approaches. In the middle of the bystanders was Commander Vongurt and a young boy curled on the dirt floor.

Coriolanus looks upon the same boy who failed to hit the target on the hot day.

Grabbing the baton from the Commander, he throws it to the ground.

“What are you doing?”

“Commander Snow,” Vongurt was out of breath from exerting himself in his beating, “This boy is a disgrace to your legacy. I caught him passing scraps to the prisoners through the bars.”

With the protection of Coriolanus, you felt safe enough to speak out, “He’s just a boy.”

“Take him to the jail. He can sleep there for a week if he likes their company so much.”

“Coriolanus!” you take his arm and tug it. He gives you a harsh look and you know you won’t be able to persuade him.

The boy cries out and begins to beg as he is carted away by two others.

“Coriolanus, please!” You tug his arm once more and he hits you harshly across the cheek.  

You stumble upon the impact. The men shuffle away from you as you try and regain your footing. 

Coriolanus takes your arm in a harsh grip, pulling you back in the right direction but he is turned to speak to Vonngurt.

“District 12 is my district. Next time you feel like taking discipline into your own hands, don’t.”

The older Commander nods his head, but you can see he is displeased to have been spoken to in such a manner.

“Let’s go.” He was now talking to you and shoving you forcefully in front of himself back to the office.

You tear yourself free as the door shuts behind you.

“You don’t dictate my decisions.”

Your nose is clogged from your tears. You couldn’t tell if you were crying out of pain or anger. Your brain was still trying to catch up.

“Calling my name,” he says astonished, “It doesn’t matter if you disagree with my decision. Your job is to support me.”

He catches you as you try to make your way from him and he tosses you to the couch, where he stands over you. 

“You embarrassed me. Vongurt already thinks I can’t control my Peacekeepers, now he thinks I can’t control my women as well.”

You cup your bruised cheek. This wasn’t about Vongurt. He was still hurting about your attempt last night. All day he was looking for a reason to lash out, Vongurt only provided the opportunity. 

You were put back on defense. With only at most a month before you were carted off to the Capitol, mistakes couldn’t be afforded.

“I am sorry.” you choke out.  

He squinted his eyes, bringing his hand up to his head before throwing it back again, “What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t!” you spit. There is no sincerity in your voice. 

“Look at me when I am talking to you.” He takes your chin into his hand and pulls it up to his eye level. “Ravinstill is expected to die shortly. This behavior of yours cannot be brought back to the Capitol.”

“It won’t be. I am sorry.” Your fists clench by your side.

He turns your chin to expect your cheek. 

“I did it too. That’s the only reason I spoke out. I would have been thrown in jail too.” you contend.  

He lets go of your chin and stands up to full height, “You think a Peacekeeper would get the same punishment as a District? No. You would have been hanged. Yet another reason to be loyal to me. I’ve saved you.”

“I am loyal to you. Grateful for you.” You get up and follow him as he makes his way to his desk. 

“Coriolanus, please don’t be mad at me. I was only ever trying to help.” 

You sob ugly causing him to spin around. Your cheek hurt, and you felt the weight of the world on your shoulders trying to get away within such a short time frame. You were overwhelmed with the whole scenario and the thought of dealing with Coriolanus as he looked for opportunities to lash out was too much to bear. 

He softens upon your unraveled composure, taking you into his arms. 

“Stop crying. It’s okay”. You feel him rest his head on top of yours. “I am just a little wound up trying to get everything in order. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I am sorry.” 

You smile slightly, he is back on defense. 

—------

Friday came quickly. The call wasn’t until the afternoon so you spent the whole day as a ball of anxiety. 

But at least you had a plan. On evening walks you took more notice of the building surrounding the communications tent, and saw a nurse carrying a load of blankets into a building of washing machines. 

There were few things Coriolanus let you do alone, washing was one of them.

The washing machine in the apartment would need to be dealt with. But the long hours spent in his office meant that the dirty clothes were piling up. He would demand a fresh uniform for work. If you left it close to his phone call with his family, he was sure to let you go. 

You push it out for as long as you can. He had wanted to leave ten minutes ago but you kept pressing him for one more minute. 

You had taken small rocks from the ground during your afternoon walk, telling Coriolanus you would like to take a part of home back to the Capitol with you. He had allowed you to collect a small jar, you picked the biggest rocks you could find. 

Big enough to jam the pipes of the washing machine. 

“Darling, please. We have to leave.” He bangs on the door of the washing room. 

You finish shoving the rocks as far as they would go down the pipe. It made an awful sound as the washing machine ate them up causing the water to rise. 

“Coriolanus,” you call. As soon as you open the door, he grabs your arm, ready to yank you out. 

“Coriolanus. The machine is broken. Look.”

He barely glaces at it, “ I’ll send someone to fix it. Let’s go.” 

“I need to do the washing,” you pick up the basket as he pulls you from the room, “Can I use the compound washing machines?”

“That’s fine. Just move, we are late.” 

You struggle to keep up with him as he rushes along the compound. He hated it if his phone call was cut short by even a second. Now he was two minutes late and he was almost running to make up time for it. 

You reach the building in record time. He lets go of you to pick up speed, leaving you by the door as he hurries.

He rushes to the small screen, not bothering to sit down on the wooden chair as he twisted the knobs. “Tigris, Tigris? Can you hear me?” 

He must have heard a voice on the other side as he broke out into a smile. It was a pretty, genuine smile that you had not seen before. 

“Hey,’’ he laughs.  You watch from where you stand by the door. He seemed almost unrecognizable. A young boy sent away to a summer camp instead of a ruthless and ambitious Commander. “I am sorry. The washing machine broke. How are you?”

His tone is light and happy as he talks to Tigris. You wonder if he had forgotten he even brought you. He didn’t glance at you as he spoke, giving her his full attention. 

You wonder if it is best to make your exit now but his words stop you.

“She’s here.” he waves you over. You drop the basket in coming to him. You wondered what Tigris would look like. What she would sound like. 

Coriolanus holds out the receiver for you. You peer at the screen to see a blonde girl in colorful clothing before you put the receiver to your ear. 

“Hello,” you greet. 

“Oh!” Tigris croons. She pulls the receiver away from her mouth to lessen her shout, “Grandma’am come see!”

She smiles as she turns her attention back to you, “Oh, Coryo has talked so much about you.”

“What is she saying?” Coriolanus places his hands on your hip and pulls down so you are sitting on his knee. 

“She’s said you’ve talked about me,” you answer. 

He smiles gently at you, turning the receiver in your hand out between you. 

An older woman comes too close into the frame and Tigris pulls her back. 

“Is that her?” the old woman asks Tigris who nods. 

“Girl-Girl.” she talks into the speaker. 

“Yes, Ma’am?” 

“You must be grateful he is sending you back to the Capitol. Don’t ruin it like the last one.” 

Coriolanus snatches the receiver away from your ear to soften her words but you heard them any way. 

“Grandma’am is unwell,” he tells you, “Pay her no mind.” 

Tigris takes back the receiver and positions it in a similar fashion to Coriolanus. 

“Did you get the dresses I sent?” 

“I did. Thank you. I was hoping to send you back some shortbread but Coriolanus has been busy with work.” 

“He was saying you cook. Grandma’am and I are so excited to meet you!” 

“Me too,” you lie. “I hear the Capitol is wonderful. I look forward to exploring it with you.” 

Tigris laughs. She was beautiful, you thought. Perhaps too popular to be showing you the capital. You felt foolish for even lying about it. 

“We’ll have a ball. I’ll show you all around.” 

“In time,” Coriolanus interjects. The chains around you would not loosen just because you were in the Capitol. “The Capitol is big. There’ll be time to see it all.” 

You let Coriolanus take over the talking. Only offering agreements or soft smiles as the Snow women talk. 

The family soon falls into a comfortable way of talking. You had said next to nothing for the last 10 minutes, and it had gone unnoticed. It was time to make your way. 

You slowly rise from Coriolanus who latches out on your arm. 

“I’ll just put the washing on. That way it will be done by the time we finish.” 

He tugs you back down causing you to fall into him. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Tigris almost cringe. 

“We’ll do it later,” he demands. 

“We’ll be washing well into the night if we leave it any longer. I’ll just pop it on. I’ll be five minutes.”

His face twisted with his words but you kissed him to stop them from leaving his mouth. It was the first time you had ever kissed him on the lips. You could tell by the way his mouth stilled that he was surprised. 

“Five minutes.” You kiss his bottom lip to quell any fight he has in him. Grabbing the phone in the meantime. 

“Tigris. Grandma. I’ll just be 5 Minutes to put the washing on”.

Tigris smiles at you, letting you know that it is fine. You could just barely hear Grandma’am make a comment about how the people in the Capitol don't do their own washing but it is cut off by you shoving the phone back in Coriolanus's hand. 

He cups your face to bring you down for another kiss. 

“Five minutes,” he repeats. 

You smile at him as you pull away. It was too easy, You had won. 

It felt like victory as you picked up the basket and placed it on your hip. You turn back halfway out the door to see he has gone back to talking to his family. 

You don’t make it to the tent. Five steps away from the door and you had dropped the basket and taken off at a fast pace. 

You walk to try not to draw attention to yourself. It worked for the most part. Hardly anyone gave you a glance. You could see the bins coming into sight. Your freedom is just behind them. 

“Hey!” you hear someone call out. You ignore them at first, not thinking they could mean you. But a harsh hold on your arm spun you towards a Peacekeeper. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

“What? Nothing”. Your freedom lay not ten feet away but was hindered by a zealous guard. 

“Where’s Commander Snow?” He held you too tight. It interfered with your clear thinking. 

“The communications tent.” 

“Is that where you should be?”

“No,” you try and tug your arm away from him but his nails dig in. “Let go of me. Let go!” 

“Let’s go ask Commander Snow what you should be doing.” The man starts to drag you along as you dig your feet into the dirt. 

“Let go!” you shout. He was sure to notice you gone soon if he hadn’t already. Time was running out. 

In frustration, you slap the Peacekeeper across the face. 

“How dare you touch me. I’ll tell Commander Snow about this. You’ve hurt me. 

You feel his grip loosen on you but he doesn’t let go completely. 

“No, I haven’t!” he says somewhat fearfully, 

“Commander Snow has asked me to get something for him, and not only have you stopped me from doing that but you hurt me in the process. How do you think he will react to that?” 

You manage to tear free from him and give yourself some distance. 

“I am going to do as he asked me, and you are going to do your duties like you should be doing. Otherwise, I’ll report you to the Commander." 

The Peacekeeper mulls over his course of action before raising his hands.

“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. Excuse me.” 

You turn your back on him and quicken your steps to your destination. Making sure the coast is clear, you crawl behind the large bins. You couldn’t see any broken fence behind it. 

Did they find it? Have you just made a fatal mistake?

You continue to crawl, placing your hand on the metal for any movement. 

The chain bends showing cut wire as they bend. Relief washing through you. 

It digs harshly into you as you pull yourself through. 

You could have kissed the dirt on the other side. Freedom. Edmund. 

The guard in the tower above you looks out across the field. You keep under his eyesight as you slide across the fence as quietly as you can. 

It runs out, leaving ten feet of open field before the safety of the forest. Ten feet and then you were free. There was no cover, meaning that the guard could easily spot you if he was looking. 

You say a silent prayer that the guard will keep his focus straight before you take the chance of discovery. 

You leap across the field, throwing yourself upon the first tree you touch. The bark smashed your bruised cheek as you waited for the sirens to sound. 

He mustn’t have seen you. You had got away. 

You take a second to laugh as quietly as you can. Run, a voice in your head told you. You regain your breath and do. You run as fast as you can, taking the backroads back to your home. 

Your lungs burn, willing you to stop but you keep going until your house is in view. You only slow down to stop drawing attention to yourself. 

People had started to return home from work. You could see them as you walked along the back of their houses. You're careful not to be seen. 

The back steps of your place come under your feet, and your caution disappears as you fling yourself into your home. 

Edmund was sitting at the kitchen table dressing a rabbit he caught. 

He stood up. Turning his knife towards you thinking you were an intruder. 

You knew he would never hurt you so you throw your arms around his shoulders despite the threat. 

The knife drops and he takes you into his arms. 

“I was so worried.” he breathed. 

“We have to go. We need to leave,” you state but make no attempt to pull away. 

He does pull away, throwing the rabbit into his hunting sack and picking up his knife. You take his bloody hand and he leads you back out the back door and into the forest. 

The walk to the mountains takes well into the night. You both do it silently. What was there to say? There was still a long road to safety. 

You stay as close as you could to him. Always holding his hand or latched onto his arm. 

The mountain trail is tough and you wonder how he made it up with your mother on his back. He knew the way well, having worked in the mines nearly all his life. He warned you of which boulders were loose, and when you tripped over he caught you as if he almost expected it. 

You were worn out by the time you reached the campsite. Rows and rows of small wooden houses for the miners. All were empty this time of year as it got too dark too early and not light enough too late for the hours they worked. 

You saw a freshly put-out fire and knew that your mother was close. 

“Your mothers in that one,” he pointed to the right cabin, “My family’s in the next one.” 

For the first time in the hour's walk, you tore free from him and ran into your mother's cabin. 

It was a relief to see her sleeping figure. You throw yourself on top of her and begin crying.  

She wakes in fright but knows the figure of her daughter well. She throws her arms around you and joins you in crying. 

You were home. You were safe. 

—---------

As soon as the door closed, Coriolanus felt as if he had made a mistake. He trusted you.

You were better now. Doing well. He could trust you. 

But Tigris’s words made no sense to him. You were coming back. 

He tried to focus on his family but he eyes the door expectantly. 

Dread fills him. How long did it take to put on washing? 

“Coriolanus?” he hears Tigris call.

He dashes out of his chair. He had made a very big mistake. 

“Coriolanus?” the receiver resounds. 

Upon opening the door he is met with his washing by his feet. He takes off running to his apartment. You were sick the other day, maybe you had fallen ill again and taken to bed.

He pushed past Peacekeepers as he ran to his steps. Taking them two at a time he reaches the top and pushes open the unlocked door. It was only ever locked to keep someone in, never someone out. He calls out for you but is met with silence. 

He opened every door along the way to the bedroom, hoping you were just hiding. 

He calls your name again and again until falling silent upon the empty bed. You weren’t here. Coriolanus had made a big mistake. 

Clicking the radio built into the collar of his shirt, he demands that the compound is shut down.

“Has anyone been through the gates?” Both leading officers of the two entryways confirm that no one has. The Peacekeepers are diverted into searching the compound for you.

Coriolanus joins too. He didn’t trust the ability of his Peacekeepers. He searched every nook and cranny of every office and building he could find. His temper flared the longer the search went on. 

You had to be in the compound. How could you have got out?

He returns to his apartment. Maybe you had returned upon hearing the sirens. 

A cat catches his attention as it sits meowing and eating bits of food from the ground that the birds had managed to pick out. 

He had never seen a cat in the compound before. Could it have got in the same way you got out? 

He walks over to search it for any clues it might have but it runs off as he comes closer. 

He chases it behind the bin where he watches it slip through the bent wire in the fence. 

You had got away. Now at large in the districts. 

He sighs deeply before taking his rage out on the back of the bins, bashing and kicking at it until he is forced to lean against it to catch his breath. 

A search party would be sent out, interrogations would be issued. Someone had to have seen you along the way. He would find you and he would bring you home to him. 

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