#fluorescent mistakes

[sixtysixproblems]

not having satine in the fic at all bc its codywan endgame < having satine appear and be chaotic as obi-wan's bestie-ex-thing bc you love her

her & cody get along far too well. obi-wan is rightfully scared.

obi-wan: hey my dears, can you two take care of your health. and sleep. for once in your lives satine & cody: no <3 obi-wan: bisexual, they said. jedi, they said. the fish pond is massive and you're not allowed to step foot in it. and you end up with this exact scenario TWICE

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

save me local historical attraction

local historical attraction save me

[major-majoranon]

Ily single pocket ibuprofen, doing more for public safety than any Garda

[moonstruckme]

Thawing Out

summary: You and Sirius are in dire need of a new coach just weeks before the Olympics. Remus is a former figure skating prodigy forced to retire after a career-ending injury. Though it's not smooth skating right away, those stiff Olympic village beds are dying to be broken in.

collab with @ellecdc

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12

cw: modern au, chronic pain

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

Remus still wakes before dark every morning. It’s automatic, an urgency and excitement that thrums through him like an old instinct, born from years of his alarm clock rousing him at this time. The rink is always at its best right now, when they’ve just finished resurfacing the ice and no one else is around. It was Remus’ favorite time to practice. 

Now, he has a new reason to get up. His hip clicks as he does it, so he starts his day with a couple of proactive painkillers. If he really wanted to be proactive he would stretch like he’s supposed to, but there’s no time and Remus doesn’t feel like it. He’ll pay his toll for the negligence later. 

The webpage of his Airbnb boasted a five-minute walk to the rink, but with his hip it takes Remus seven. It’s like an odd sort of muscle memory, an old routine from another life that feels as bitter as it does comfortable. He heads out early to give himself some cushion. The streets are empty but for bakers and baristas, the first hints of dawn tinging the sky a deep blue. When he turns a corner and the rink comes into view, the absence of his bag hanging from his shoulder is a phantom ache. 

The front doors are locked but the side one staff uses isn’t, the Zamboni driver already inside. Remus lets himself in, makes a cup of tea from the hot water dispenser they leave out when concessions are closed, plants himself on a bench, and waits. 

And waits. 

And waits. 

Remus has nearly nodded off when two pairs of shoes come bounding up to him. Well, one pair bounds. The other drags. 

“Hi, sorry we’re late.” You’re breathless and hauling a sullen-looking boy along behind you by the hand, but you manage a smile when Remus looks up at you. “I had to run over and get him out of bed. It’s good to meet you!”

You hold out your untethered hand. Remus might normally stand to take it, but he no longer feels like doing you the courtesy. Your grip is firm and warm. 

“You were supposed to be here at six,” he says. 

You wince. “I know. Sorry, Sirius is really not a morning person.” 

Remus thinks that he might put more stock into your apologies if you looked a tad more contrite. As it is, your countenance is almost cheery, a fizzy eagerness about you as you look between him and the ice like you can’t wait to get out on it. 

In stark contrast, the ill-tempered boy behind you seems not to have a clue where he is. He looks rumpled and disoriented, squinting in the rink’s fluorescent light. 

“Then why didn’t you pick another time?” Remus asks. 

He hadn’t realized he was still looking at Sirius, or that the other boy could talk, so it’s a surprise when he answers. “Wasn’t my bloody idea.” 

By the way you grin, Remus wonders if you’ve even heard the obvious bitterness in your partner’s tone, or whether it’s gone straight over your head. 

“I like the rink better early,” you explain. “No one else ever comes before the hockey practice starts at nine, and they’ll have just finished resurfacing the ice.” 

Begrudgingly, Remus nods. “I always preferred it about now, too.” 

He realizes immediately that his agreement was a mistake, because your smile grows into something far too brilliant for the early hour. Christ, what has he gotten himself into? There’s you, starry-eyed and effervescing all over the place, and your partner, who looks more inclined to fall asleep on your shoulder than put on his skates. 

And this is the pair skating duo Remus is supposed to take to the Olympics. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“Watch that back foot!” Remus shouts across the ice.

Sirius doesn’t look happy about it, but he corrects the placement of his skate, transitioning smoothly into the next synced turn. 

“Good,” Remus murmurs to himself. 

Once Sirius got out on the ice and woke up a bit, he was good. He skates with the technical proficiency of someone who’s been in the sport since before they started primary school, and the intuitive artistry of someone who loves it. You’re much the same, though your virtuosity and obvious competence are consistently undercut by hesitation, the grace of your movements interrupted when you second-guess yourself. But these—technical prowess paired with devotion—are the basics of what makes a good figure skater. You’ll have to be flawless if you want to do well at the Olympics. 

And Remus has found many flaws. 

“No, no—shit!” Remus stands as you fall out of your jump again, catching yourself on your forearms. “You’re still under-rotating! Come on!” 

Sirius snarls a quick “Hey!” over his shoulder before turning his back on Remus, going to help you up. He speaks to you quietly, checking you over as you stand. Remus seethes. 

He has no clue why he’s been called out here to coach a pair. Remus doesn’t know pairs, has never been a part of one. He was a solo skater. And frankly, it makes him wary that what’s supposed to be the best skating pair in Britain has asked him, a former solo skater who’s been isolated from the figure skating community in general for the past two years, to coach them. But Remus does know figure skating. And he knows when skaters are making stupid mistakes behind their skill level. 

“What aren’t you understanding?” asks Remus as you skate back to the edge of the rink. He really wants to know. “It’s simple. You can do this.” He knows he could have. As easy as breathing, and he would kill to have the chance again. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” 

Sirius’ glare is sharp as knives. He steps off the ice before you can, positioning himself between you and Remus. Your lips purse with a knowing sort of apprehension. 

“Sirius…” 

“No, you don’t talk to her like that,” Sirius spits. “It was a tiny mistake.” 

Remus raises his eyebrows, incredulous. “I’m trying to help her! It was a giant mistake, with a simple fix. You ought to be telling her the same, unless you’re okay with your partner snapping her ankle weeks out from competition.” 

“None of that means you get to fucking yell at her! Who do you think you are?” 

“Okay—” 

“I’m her coach,” says Remus, voice rising, “and—”

“Then coach her! Maybe if you’d give some actual fucking feedback instead of just nitpicking—” 

“Okay!” Your shout cuts through the space, echoing in the empty rink and silencing the other two. “That’s enough.” 

You haul Sirius back by his shoulder. Your grip doesn’t look severe enough to move him, but he goes, stepping back to your side. His eyes never leave Remus’. 

Your own gaze jumps between both boys, that same spark he’d seen in you earlier burning with a different light. 

“Let’s call it for today,” you say firmly. “Okay? We’ll try again tomorrow.” 

Neither boy speaks, though Remus nods. It seems to be taking all of Sirius’ willpower to bite his tongue. He gets the impression it isn’t something he succeeds at often, so Remus isn’t ashamed to say that it brings him a perverse sort of joy to see it now. His tiny bit of smugness fizzles out, though, when your eyes land on him. There’s something desolate in your expression that’s a salient deviation from how you’d looked at him before. Remus has the sinking feeling that he’s disappointed you. It’s more distressing than he can account for. 

“We’ll be here on time tomorrow,” you say in that same steady tone. “And my jump, I’ll work on it.” 

Remus nods again. You return it, and when you turn to leave, you drag Sirius after you by his shirtsleeve, picking up your bags along your way. Remus’ mouth feels dry. His lips are chapped, his fingertips hurt from the cold, and the sight of your skates sinking into the rubbery floor makes his hip ache terribly. 

It’s only once you’re nearly out of earshot that he manages to mumble, “Thank you.”

[mangostarjam]

terms of address — kaiju no. 8, fluff, "sweetheart" as a pet name, hoshina soshiro x female reader, 1.6k words — part two, part three

"What's wrong, my dear? You look kinda… stressed."

"Stressed? Stressed?" you repeat, turning your disbelieving gaze upon the Third Division's Vice Captain. Hoshina Soshiro is frowning slightly, a faint downward tick to his mouth that others probably wouldn't even notice, but you — you've been his operations manager for a few years now, and you've had plenty of time to learn his quirks.

"Yeesh, I was just askin'," Soshiro says, "what're you doin' up, anyway? Ain't it past your bedtime?"

"I could say the same to you," you point out. You watch as he slides his practice blades home, pretending not to notice the flex of his arms in his stupidly fitted training uniform. Sometimes you wonder if he got his clothes a size smaller with the way they seem molded to every ridge and curve of his muscles, and then you mentally smack yourself because you should not be paying attention to him like that. He's your Vice Captain and that's it. That has to be it.

"You just got discharged from the hospital. Rest is important!"

"I'm alright," Soshiro waves you off, but takes the towel you wordlessly hold out for him to wipe at the sweat dripping down his face. The training room is quiet except for the buzz of fluorescents above you and the heavy pounding of your heart in your chest. Your Vice Captain seems content to stand close as he wipes himself down, emanating heat as you try to shrink into your borrowed Defense Force jacket.

This was a mistake. You should've just walked past the door and ignored the light on underneath — but the distinct sound of blades slicing through air at high speeds made your ears perk up, and before you could tell yourself not to do something stupid — well, you're here now.

"I couldn't sleep."

Soshiro raises an eyebrow at your confession and hangs the towel around his neck. He's still standing way too close, but it's… comforting. Confusing. Another little piece of the mystery that is Hoshina Soshiro, who always has a grin on his face except for when he's taking down kaiju. Your Vice Captain, who's started standing closer to you than normal, and asking you about the books stacked in your dormitory, and brushing his hand along the back of your chair as you sit in it.

"Because of the stress?"

"Yeah," you frown, tilting your head up to look him in the eye. Sweat has dampened his purple hair into a darker shade, a deep pretty color that nearly seems black except for where the light glints off the strands. Man, you really must have it bad if you're starting to find his sweaty hair attractive. "So you should be good and quit stressing me out."

Soshiro grins abruptly, light and lopsided as he tilts his own head to look at you appraisingly. "You were stressin' about me?"

"Obviously," you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest and taking a subtle step back. He mirrors your step seemingly subconsciously, ducking his head to hide the pleased curl of his mouth before he arranges his features into something more familiar to you when he meets your eye again. "You're my Vice Captain, after all. And you know I hate when you land in the hospital. I hate… seeing you get hurt."

Too much — too close to a confession. But the night air is still and your little bubble feels warm and comfortable and secret.

"That's why I've gotta get stronger, my dear," Soshiro says pleasantly. You take another step backwards and your heel hits the wall a second before your back meets the cold metal. Soshiro leans forward, bracing a strong arm against the wall by your head. "Next time I'll wipe the damn floor with that kaiju."

"Of course you will," you flush in spite of yourself. He's standing really close, practically pinning you to the wall, and this is so not normal Vice-Captain-and-Operations-Manager behavior that your lightning fast brain feels like it's short circuiting.

He smells good. Like… cypress. Something woodsy and fresh. You take a deep breath.

The column of his throat works and you watch, mesmerized by the strong cut of his jaw and totally distracted.

"So didja want some help?"

"H-help? With what?" You risk a glance back up just in time to see his gaze drag down to your lips.

No. There's no way —

"I could tell ya bedtime stories."

The ends of his towel swing forward and rest against the zipper of your borrowed jacket and the swell of your chest. You can feel his breaths against your face, but he makes no move to get any closer. "I doubt you know any good ones."

Soshiro laughs. His forehead presses against your own for a moment as he chuckles, and when he pulls back a little the grin on his face makes you beam up at him, delight swooping through your stomach at making him laugh.

"I could tell you training stories, then," he suggests. "Like the time Okonogi thought —"

"Nothing with Okonogi," you interrupt, flushing again when he pauses to regard you. "I just — she —"

"What's the matter? I thought you two got along…?"

This is so embarrassing. You should've just kept your mouth shut, but now Soshiro is looking at you intently and you don't want to give him the wrong idea about your relationship with your superior but if you admit the truth… it's embarrassing.

"You…"

"Me?" Soshiro moves to pull away and you reach up to grip the end of his towel before he can get too far, dropping it immediately when he freezes in place. Fuck, you shouldn't have done that.

"Tell me," he says quietly. "What is it, my dear?"

Your heart clenches in your chest. "You call her that, too. Do you use that for all the female operations managers?"

His eyebrows draw together for a second in apparent confusion before his entire expression brightens and he laughs. "Just you two," he admits, reaching up with his free hand to grip the loose ends of your hair lightly. "Okonogi and I have worked together for a while. I respect her. And you. But… I can call you somethin' else, if you'd like. If I'm allowed."

Your face feels like it's on fire. You curl your fingers around the ends of your too-long sleeves. "You… you're the only one who's allowed. You know that."

Soshiro says your name. Watches your reaction with a focus usually reserved for fighting kaiju. Twirls the strands of your hair gently around his fingers. "Too soon? Let's get you to bed, then. It's gettin' late."

"B-bed? Hoshina-san, Vice Captain sir, that's not — we can't —"

"Aw, don't worry, ya dope. I'm just escortin' you. These halls ain't safe for a cutie like you this late at night," Soshiro says easily, finally moving away and taking all of his warmth with him. You squeak in surprise at his words and he tosses you a grin over his shoulder.

"Sir —"

"Play fair, sweetheart," Soshiro says. Cutie?? Sweetheart?? Those are new ones. You become suddenly aware of how your heart is beating rabbit-fast.

He grabs one of your hands and tugs you forward, his smile growing lopsided when you squeak again and stumble after him. "What're you gonna call me from now on, huh? Everyone calls me Vice Captain or sir. You'd better come up with somethin' special."

Your Vice Captain leads you out of the training room before your brain can catch up, his hand firm around yours. Rough callouses scratch at your skin, but you squeeze his hand the instant he starts to loosen his grip. Soshiro glances back at you with a smile that makes your heart do something concerning in your chest.

"Hoshina…kun," you test the honorific in your mouth, glancing up in time to catch the way his ears redden beneath his hair. "Can I call you Hoshina-kun?"

Soshiro clears his throat and keeps walking. "'Course, sweetheart. But maybe just when we're alone."

"Huh?"

"Can't have ya makin' me shy in front of the officers," Soshiro says, facing resolutely forward. "I'd lose all my authority."

Oh. Oh…?

"Okay… Hoshina-kun."

Soshiro makes a funny little coughing noise and stops abruptly, turning to rest his free hand on your head, forcing your gaze downward. "Alrighty, then, cutie, time to sleep! I'll see ya tomorrow mornin', hm?"

You nod, eyes closed, trying your best to memorize the weight of his palm. Soshiro drags his hand downward, cupping your face for a moment and sweeping his thumb along your cheekbone before dropping it entirely to tug at the collar of your jacket.

"Okie dokie, now get inside," Soshiro says lightly. You risk a glance up and valiantly try to suppress a shiver down your spine at the expression on his face. "It ain't fair to look so good wearin' my jacket, y'know."

"I — it was on the back of my chair and I was… cold…"

Soshiro grins. "I figured you were. That's why I left it for ya."

"Thanks, Vice Cap— Hoshina-kun," you murmur, reaching for the door to your dormitory. Warmth is settling deep in your chest. You really shouldn't be doing this — letting him hold your hand, shifting your relationship in another direction, following the beats of your heart as his smile softens and you take a tiny step closer to him. This is inappropriate and dangerous, but… it's Soshiro.

"You're going to sleep now too, right?" you ask. The hallway lights flicker and buzz as he leans forward, tugging you close by the collar of your (his) jacket until he can press his forehead against yours. Your eyelashes flutter shut as his breaths puff across your lips, but he simply takes a deep breath before pulling away. His hand is warm around yours.

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

[vitaminkyeom]

telephone || k.mg

“NOW IT'S TIME FOR ME TO RETURN THE FAVOUR”

PAIRING || Mingyu x Female Reader

GENRES || Horror, 911 Operator!Mingyu, Romance

SUMMARY ||  Working the night shift as a 911 operator was hard as it is and the last thing Mingyu needed was those calls from his ex-girlfriend. Whom he had not seen in years. For obvious reasons of her being dead.

Or, in which, Mingyu kept getting calls from his ex girlfriend claiming that she had murdered him.

SERIES MASTERLIST || till death do us part

WARNINGS || inaccurate 911 stuff, description of murdered body, horror, mention of murder and ghost

WORD COUNT || 3k

A/N || If you recognise this story, no you don't. but anyways this was one of my most favourite works even though i'm not that great at writing horror so i'm really glad i'm starting off with this story for the series. i've tried my best to make it as scary as i could (sorry but im a pussy) so yeah any feedback would be really helpful!

TAGLIST || @monamipencil @nonuify @black-swan-blog27 @hipsdofangirl @wonuilu @kibs-and-bits @unlikelysublimekryptonite @gyuguys @hanicore @alyssng @hyneyedfiz @weebotakuboy @aaniag @thepoopdokyeomtouched @caramyisabitchforsvtandbts @sea-moon-star @hrts4hanniehae @athanasiasakura @doubleshoticedshakenespresso @asasilentreader @isabellah29 @mrswonwooo @nonononranghaee @hoichi02 @cheolsboo @dinossaurz @variety-is-the-joy-of-life @tinkerbell460 @bluewbwerry @hoeforcheol @kawennote09 @iamawkwardandshy @winterbeartaehyungbestboy ​ @jjeongddol @k-drama-adict @mnstxmnbb @stervahaha @escoupseu @wonvsmile @mansaaay [if you want to be added to my taglist please fill in this form!]

“911, please state your emergency.”

Static. He waited for a minute more but there still wasn’t any sound coming from the other side.

Mingyu sighed exasperatedly, sure that this was another prank call. Halloween night was looming close which also meant teenagers found it funny to call the operators up at night to scare them.

But he was used to this. Which was funny because Mingyu was the biggest scaredy cat in his group and could not even watch Scooby Doo without whimpering at least once. But he took his responsibilities very seriously and there was no way he was going to let his fear come in the middle of his work.

He was about to hang up the call when he heard a sound. Immediately he jerked back the phone to his ear and strained them to hear anything, but all he could hear was a buzzing sound.

“Hello? How can I help-”

“Help.”

He inhaled sharply, the woman’s raspy voice very clear in the empty office. Mingyu was the only one serving night shift in his floor currently, and the only thing accompanying him was the soft beeping on the seven screens in front of him and the buzzing of the fluorescent tube lights above him.

“Ma'am, are you in a position to tell me what is happening?”

His fingers flew across the keyboard, noting down the number first and then quickly texting the other department to find out the location of the call.

“Pl-please help. Make him stop.” The woman whispered,  her ragged breath harsh against his ears.

“Make whom stop? Can you tell me who is near to you, ma’am?”

Mingyu felt an unnatural calmness settle into his bones, one that always came whenever he forced himself to calm down in such situations.

A message dinged on one of his screens indicating that they had traced the nearest cell tower of the cell phone.

“Officer Lee.” He said, already on the other line, talking to the nearest official he could see. “We have a 911 emergency of abuse.”

“Roger that. Address?”

“It's…” Mingyu’s voice trailed off on seeing the address. 

No way- How was that possible? There had to be some mistake right?

Because the address was of his house.

He cleared his throat, sure that the address was wrong since they tracked the nearest cell tower, and that could be kilometres away from the destination.

“Uh, the address shows my house. I… I think you need to be on the lookout for areas near my house.”

There was a pause, as though Seokmin seemed to be trying to process this information. Seokmin had been good friends with him, so Mingyu knew that even he found it odd, especially when his neighbourhood was a safe and nice one.

“On my way.”

“Ma’am,” Mingyu said, back to line one, “if you could tell me your name or your address, or even what is happening to you, I could help you out better.”

His eyes were trained to look at all the monitors at once, one monitoring the small dot that represented Seokmin heading towards the destination, another with a blank form about the caller and another one where he was rapidly typing what he was hearing, ready to call in other emergencies in case he heard something important.

“Help! Why don’t you help me? Please help!”

“Ma’am help is on the way, please calm down-”

He was interrupted by a loud pop as all the lights went out, the only source of light now being the soft glow of his computer screens. The room was now lit up eerily and he felt the hair on the nape of his neck rise up. Mingyu wasn’t very scared of the dark ever, but the growing sounds of gurgling and growling in the telephone line was causing shivers to travel down his spine.

“Mingyu…” The woman rasped, this time sounding like she had gargled razors, her screeching voice turning his blood to ice.

How did she know his name?

Goosebumps rose all over his skin as his breathing came out in sudden pants, feeling an icy invisible hand wrap around his neck. He sucked in a breath harshly and with a jolt, he realised how lonely he was, not a single soul on his floor whilst he was plunged in darkness.

Then the call cut off abruptly, and at the same time, the power surged back to life. 

Yet, the cold feeling hadn’t left Mingyu as though he could still hear the woman gargling in his ear.

“Mingyu?”

He jerked as the second line suddenly came to life, Seokmin’s voice clear through the landline.

“H-Hey. Did you find anything?” He tried his level best not to sound shaken, but it was hard because the more he tried to ignore wherever had just happened, the more the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach grew.

“Nothing. We will be needing to get a more specific address. Your entire apartment seems safe to me. Is she still on the line?”

Mingyu exhaled harshly, rubbing his chest with his hand to calm down his heart that was beating too fast. He then realised how dry his throat had become, and quickly took a sip of water before continuing.

“No. She cut the call. I- uh, I don’t think she needs help anymore. She sounded alright at the end.” He said, wincing having to lie. He still couldn’t shake off the feeling of horror he had felt when he saw his own address flash on to the screen.

“Are you sure? Shouldn’t we follow the protocol still-”

“She told me so herself.” Mingyu snapped, and Seokmin shut up, not saying anything more.

He sighed, rubbing his template, trying to forget what he had just heard. But it was like the noise had been ingrained into his brain. He could hear it even now, even though there were many other small sounds beside him.

But being a 911 operator, there was bound to be such horrors, right? He had heard some similar stories of ghost calls from his superiors. Maybe this was one of them?

“Well then…I suppose that’s it huh?” Seokmin cut the silence, causing Mingyu to flinch as he jumped out of his thoughts. “Are you calling it a night?”

Mingyu felt his heart leap to his throat.

Calling it a night? On any other day, he would have loved to crash on to his bed but all of a sudden going back to his house, the place where this lady claimed to be at, seemed like a distant nightmare, something which was waiting for him to tear him apart.

“Uh, n-no. I’ll continue my shift I think. Besides, Seungcheol won’t wake up if I call him now.”

“Hey, are you okay?” Seokmin asked, concern lacing his voice. “You sound…scared.”

“I’m fine.” Mingyu swallowed thickly, feeling a patch of sweat that had formed on his forehead as he tried rubbing his temples.

“We’ve dealt with these before, right?” Seokmin asked again, trying to sound bolder for his sake.

“Y-yeah. Yeah. We have. I’ll… hang up now.”

As soon as the phone went down, Mingyu buried his face in his hands, trying to forget the horrible sounds he had heard on the phone.

But the more he tried to forget them, the more he was convinced that they were no more voices in his head, but were coming from the room. It was almost like he could hear the noise coming from behind the door.

I’m probably just hearing things.

He got up and decided to get some fresh air. He walked to the door and paused, the sound still ringing in his ears. Clutching the door knob, he took in a deep breath and with his eyes screwed shut he turned it open, bracing himself for whatever lay ahead of his.

Silence greeted him as he slowly peeled his eyes open, looking around tentatively for anything that might jump on him out of the dark. 

Ding!

The sound of the elevator’s beep caused his heart to nearly stop, the sudden sound cutting through silent night that was almost engulfing him. He felt his entire body freeze as all he could do was watch the numbers on the screen of the lift increase until it reached his floor, limbs paralysed with fear. 

With another soft ding! the lift door began sliding open, and Mingyu found himself almost begging that he shouldn’t be greeted by someone, or something, once the lift door opened.

The dim blue light of the lift spilt out as Mingyu watched in terror, but to his relief only emptiness greeted him back. He looked at his own reflection in the mirror of the elevator. 

Mingyu looked deathly pale, his eyes tired and haggard like he had just seen a ghost. His cheeks were hollow and he felt his stomach lurch when his reflection wobbled, indicating that that the lift was about to close.

And then the lift shut close, leaving him alone with a pin drop silence that almost felt suffocating.

Weren’t there others who had night duty? Because there was no way he was all alone in the building, right?

The thought was enough to cause his stomach to lurch, and he swallowed thickly wondering if he should call someone to take his place.

But his house! Mingyu could feel goosebumps rising on his skin the second he thought of his house.

What if she- that thing was still lurking around his house? Or worse, was actually in his house.

The ringing of the telephone cut through the silence like a blade, causing him to jump a mile. His reflexes kicked in though, and clutching his painfully beating heart, Mingyu ran towards his computers to pick the emergency phone call.

“911. Please state your emergency-”

“Help.”

Mingyu froze, the familiar voice draining out all the blood from his cheeks again.

No way.

He wanted to cut the call, wanted to block out whatever this woman was about to beg for because her voice was like icy daggers to his skin, rekindling his fear like never before. Mingyu had never felt so terrified in his life before. 

“Please help… Mingyu.”

It was like her whispering his name had opened Pandora's box, and lots of emotions hit him at once. He couldn’t even question how she knew his name because that wasn’t what terrified him the most.

But it was the familiarity of the voice of the woman. A voice he used to hear almost every day before it was snuffed out of his life suddenly.

“Y/N.” He whispered, fear clutching his stomach as he felt his heart hammer in his chest.

In the empty office he could only hear his own ragged breathing and the slight buzzing sound coming from the phone.

But how was this possible?

Because you had died six months ago.

Or rather, you had been killed in his apartment. Murdered in cold blood even though it didn’t make sense because you were the sweetest and most caring person he had met in the world. 

At first, he had been charged with murder. Those two months of investigation had nearly driven him mad. It was hard as it is dealing with your death but constant poking of the police made it even worse.

Finally he was set free due to the lack of evidence. 

Even thinking about you made his head throb. 

“Help please.” You rasped again. “Help me-”

“Where are you?” He whispered urgently, not sure why he was even asking questions. Because this had to be some sort of sick joke, right? Or maybe- maybe he was hallucinating after all. Hallucinating that you had come back to life to get some sort of closure.

“In our apartment! Why aren’t you helping?” You sobbed on the other end of the line.

He felt his head spin. Whom was he even talking to? With each word your voice turned more and more raspy and he could feel the familiar fear returning.

“If you don’t help me he’ll-”

Mingyu heard you gasp, followed by a whimpering as he heard someone slap you.

“Y-Y/N?” He asked, though he truly didn’t want to know what had happened to you. Was the person you kept mentioning your real killer? Then… was this your ghost he was talking to?

“Stay away.” A male voice spoke into the telephone suddenly, causing him to nearly fall off his seat. The hair on his arms and necks stood up at the familiarity of the voice.

“Stay away." He repeated.

He could hear his own voice on the other side of the telephone line asking him to stay away and Mingyu felt his head spin at the thought.

The telephone nearly slipped from his sweaty hand as he tried taking in a deep breath to calm himself down.

"And- and who’s this-”

“Just stay away from us.” He heard his own voice command him, before the line disconnected finally.

“Who was that?”

Mingyu jumped from his seat, hands flying to his mouth to prevent himself from screaming, until his eyes landed on Seokmin.

“You- you scared me!” He hissed, rubbing his sweaty forehead while trying to calm his shaking body down. What had just happened?

No way he had been talking to himself, right? How was that even possible?

Seokmin raised an eyebrow, walking towards him and sitting down on a chair opposite to him?

“Did I scare you? Or that call did?”

Mingyu looked away.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to check on you.”

“I’m fine.” He snapped, wiping his sweaty face with a tissue. The last thing he needed was Seokmin asking too many questions before he started questioning his own sanity.

“You’re not. You asked the caller whether she was Y/N.”

Mingyu shivered involuntarily at the memory, giving away his fear.

“It sounded like her.” He lied, not wanting to remember what had just happened. Maybe if he was nonchalant about it Seokmin would leave him alone.

“Are you sure? That call before was unusual, coming from your house.” Seokmin said, still concerned. “It's okay to be shaken up by this, you know.”

He exhaled out, trying to calm down his nerves as much as he could.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t worry. Pretty sure it was a prank. I mean,” He forced out a laugh, which sounded odd against the silence surrounding the two of them, “How can it even be Y/N? That makes no sense. I probably miss her a lot. That’s why I can hear her everywhere.”

“You should go home.” Seokmin cut him, patting him on the shoulder. “I think you need to rest a bit if you’re that stressed out. Sometimes, stress causes us to see and hear things that are not real. ”

Mingyu opened his mouth to protest, feeling dread fill the pit of his stomach at the thought of going home, but with the way Seokmin was staring he knew he didn’t have an option. Or else he would need to explain how he heard his own voice speak to him and ask him to stay away.

Stay away.

Was that a warning, then? Was it a big mistake going back to his house?

But with the way Seokmin was staring at him, Mingyu had no other option but to get up slowly and pack up his things. His hands wobbled, causing him to nearly break his favourite mug, but he managed to force a smile and walk to the elevator, knees threatening to give out any second. 

Once inside the elevator, Mingyu chose to stare at his reflection’s nose, unable to meet its eyes. Something told him that seeing his reflection eye to eye would not be a good idea.

Please hurry up. Please open the door fast-

His heart jumped again as his phone rang suddenly, cutting the heavy cold silence which was accompanied by the occasional soft dings.

"Hello?” He whispered, wondering who was calling so late at night. It couldn’t have been Seokmin since he had his number saved, right?

“Why did you kill me?”

Mingyu froze, unable to breathe anymore. How did you-

“Y/N? How did you- Kill you- What are you talking about?” He panted, stumbling back to support his wobbly legs with the help of the wall of the lift.

All of a sudden the air felt cooler, and his clammy hands seemed to be unable to grip the hand bar of the lift. His eyes darted to the equally petrified reflection and a yelp escaped him, phone dropping to the ground.

Because standing right beside his reflection was you. You, looking just like how you had the day you were murdered. Except there was blood all over your dress and multiple stab marks on your chest and stomach.

You smiled at him sweetly. 

“Don’t you know? You killed me. Well, not exactly you. It was Mingyu. But he is you, you are him, right?”

His legs finally gave away as he pushed his back into the walls of the elevator, terror filling every single of his senses.

Helphelpelphelp-

He heard the lift ding as it reached the ground floor. Crawling to the buttons of the lift, he frantically pressed the open button, eyes not leaving your face as you grinned at him, baring your bloody and broken teeth.

Finally the door opened and Mingyu darted to crawl out but froze almost immediately, feeling his heart stop for real this time.

“No.” He sobbed, as he watched the real you walk towards him. Edging back, he felt his heart hammer painfully hard in his chest, every bit of rational thoughts leaving him as you stepped into the elevator.

You leaned towards him much to his terror, and Mingyu screwed his eyes shut as he finally accepted his fate. His breathing eased a bit but he could still feel how tense his entire body was, adrenaline rushing coursing throughout his body.

I don’t want to go.

“Now it’s time for me to return the favour.”

A/N: Please do tell me what you think about this story!! I worked really hard on it and I would love to know everyone’s thoughts on it~ Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

© 𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐄𝐘𝐎𝐌 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒

[unstable-samurai]

First Light

Shuhua x Male Reader

Word Count: 16k

one-shot

You're in the lifeguard tower, a cubicle that smells of sunscreen and snacks, arguing with your supervisor about carburetors. He's talking about his Chevelle, and you pretend to understand, but all you can think about is the roar of the engine and how much you'd rather be on the road than here, where the warm breeze seems to glue your skin to the fabric of the chair.

"I’ve got some paperwork to deal with," he says, patting his pocket as if that would make the paperwork more real. "You got this?"

Of course, you’ve got this.

Nothing much is happening right now. The day will repeat itself quietly, like the previous ones—maybe someone will step on a jellyfish, but that’s about it.

For now, just sun-kissed bodies scattered like shells and the sound of the waves repeating the same eternal monologue.

Minutes pass.

Maybe five.

Maybe fifteen.

You see something at the edge of the beach. A crowd. People running to the same spot, like ants in a panic. You grab the binoculars, focus on the scene. Screams. Hands waving desperately.

Okay, maybe things would deviate from normal today.

You know what's happening before you even see the guy's head bobbing up and down, like a miniature castaway.

Your heart speeds up in a "it’s now or never" way. Adrenaline starts to boil in your blood. Without thinking, you grab the jetski and go. Each wave is a slap in the face, the sun a fluorescent lamp frying your neck.

You barely hear the voices around you. Everything is muffled, as if you’ve dived underwater. But you keep moving, your body acting on reflex, instincts forged in drills repeated to exhaustion. The jetski cuts through the water like a blade, spraying droplets that glisten in the morning sun. In the distance, the crowd huddles on the sand, small silhouettes blurred by distance and heat.

The man is floating, face up, but the waves keep pulling him down, away from where he should be. His body moves awkwardly, arms flailing in the water with the desperation of someone who knows time is running out. And you? You’re just an extension of the jetski, muscles and nerves automated, your mind cold as ice.

There’s no time to think. Only to act.

You slow down and approach from behind, tossing the buoy towards the man, who tries to grab it, but his movements are uncoordinated, sluggish. The current is stronger than it looked from afar. You need to be quick. One mistake, and he goes under. Without hesitation, you dive into the water, the cold impact enveloping you, but your mind stays sharp, focused. You feel the resistance of the sea against your body as you swim towards him.

"Grab the lifebuoy!" you shout, your voice lost in the wind and waves, but he finally manages to hold onto it, his fingers white from gripping so hard. You feel the weight of his body as you start pulling him towards the jetski. He doesn’t struggle, but he’s heavy, as if the water itself is trying to keep him.

You lift him just enough so he can lean against the side of the jetski. He’s gasping for air, coughing up water, his eyes wide with fear, but still, conscious. You climb back onto the jetski, keeping a firm hand on him as you steer the vehicle back to the shore. The return trip feels longer, the waves seeming to conspire to pull you both further away, but you don’t slow down.

On the sand, the crowd parts, creating a narrow path to where you’ll land. They’re silent, the kind of heavy silence as if they’re waiting to see if this will have a happy ending. You steer the jetski onto the shore, jumping onto the sand before anyone can react. With the help of a pair of arms you barely see, the man is pulled out of the water, his feet dragging in the sand as he tries to catch his breath.

The supervisor, the great major of this beach, is already there. From somewhere, he appeared, arms crossed, a smile on his face barely containing his pride.

"First rescue, huh, son?" He claps you on the shoulder as if you were a war hero. "Kid, you did a good job. One day you’re going to be better than me."

But the words don’t penetrate the layer of indifference you’ve built around yourself. You just shrug, looking at the man now sitting on the sand, supported by other lifeguards, his breathing finally returning to normal. People start clapping, soon becoming more intense. People taking pictures, a commotion to remember later, something to tell over dinner or post on social media.

Curious eyes, pointing fingers.

They say: "Hero," "Savior," "Blessed."

But you barely hear it, it feels distant, like background noise, like a TV in another room. All you can think is that this is your job. There’s nothing extraordinary about it. You did it because you had to, because it was either that or let a man drown.

Your father's hand is still on your shoulder.

"That’s my boy!" he says. You just nod, pretending to accept everything that’s happening.

But you look at the sand. Look at the sea. The sky. Anything but the faces, anything but the eyes of the people watching you. Because deep down, you know there’s no heroism in this. Just the inevitability of duty.

The man on the sand looks at you with eyes full of gratitude, but you just turn away, not wanting to feel the connection, the responsibility he seems to place on you with that look. Your father says something else, but you barely hear it, already starting to move away from the scene, feeling the weight of what you just did dissolve amidst the unwanted attention.

And then you walk away. The noise of the beach, the applause, all of it fading as you head toward the tower, trying to leave it all behind, but knowing that, somehow, the weight of it is still there, even if you pretend it’s not.

—

You're sitting on the steps of the lifeguard tower, and the sunset is the kind of show that nobody pays to see, but everyone stops to watch. Seagulls circle above you like little white demons, the waves crash against the sand with a rhythmic, almost hypnotic sound, and you feel the salty breeze cooling the skin that’s been under the sun all day. The air carries the scent of salt, of the sea, of a day that's dying.

You hear footsteps in the sand. Slow, as if each grain were an obstacle. And then you see her. The long dress floats around her legs, the wind playing with the fabric. The Polaroid camera hangs on her shoulder, as if it’s part of her. Something about her seems out of place, as if she’s stepped out of a different time and is now trying to fit into the present.

She stops a few steps away from you, her eyes scanning the horizon before they land on your face.

"Could you take a picture of me?" Her voice is soft but firm, like someone who’s used to getting what she wants without needing to ask twice.

You stand up, somewhat embarrassed that you didn’t realize you were sitting until now.

"Sure." You take the camera, and she positions herself so the lens can capture her alongside the vastness of the sea. She doesn't smile for the photo. It’s as if she's lost in some thought that the sun is trying to steal from her.

The flash pops, and the photo starts to materialize, the outlines emerging slowly as if painted by hand. She takes the image, studying it for a moment before smiling slightly, satisfied.

"Thank you," she says.

You can’t help but think of how beautiful she is. Not the plastic, symmetrical beauty of a magazine, but something rawer, more real. Her face has that shape you only see in classic paintings. Large, dark eyes, as if they want to see more of the world than it’s willing to show. Porcelain skin, long dark hair that catches the golden light of the setting sun.

"You're a tourist, aren't you?" you ask, more to fill the silence than out of curiosity.

"I am," she replies, without taking her eyes off the photo. "Just passing through. I leave on Monday."

It's Friday by the way.

"Ah, that's a shame," you say, and realize you sounded sadder than you intended. "Is it your first time here?"

She finally looks at you, and her gaze is something you didn’t expect. Like she's studying you, trying to understand something even you don’t grasp.

"Yes," she says after a pause. "And you? Do you spend your days here, saving lives?"

You shrug.

"More or less. It's my job."

She tilts her head slightly, her hair falling over one shoulder.

"You didn’t seem too happy when you saved that man today."

"I was just doing my job," you repeat, as if that could end the conversation.

But she doesn’t let it go.

"Is that all? I’d imagine saving someone would be something worth celebrating."

You hesitate, your eyes searching for something to focus on that isn’t her.

"It’s not like that. My dad runs everything here. He kind of pushed me into it."

She’s silent for a moment, as if processing what you said. Then, with a slight smile, she asks:

"And why don’t you want to be a lifeguard? Any guy would love to have a dad who's, like, ripped and cool, making a living on the beach, being treated like a hero."

You let out a small laugh, but it comes out more bitter than you intended.

"It's not just that. I wanted to play football instead of being a lifeguard."

She takes a step closer, curiosity growing in her eyes.

"Football? What do you mean? You wanted to be a professional player?"

"That was the plan," you admit. "But life happened. And here I am."

She nods, as if she understands perfectly.

"It’s funny how things don’t always go the way we plan, right?"

You agree. The sun is almost completely gone, and the colors in the sky fade, as if they’re tired of shining so brightly.

"Do you always travel alone?" you ask, trying to steer the conversation to something less personal.

She smiles, but this time it’s more challenging.

"And why not? I like discovering the world on my own. With no one to get in the way. Can’t a woman do that?"

"I think it’s admirable," you say, and you mean it. Something about the way she talks, like she’s always two steps ahead, makes you want to know more.

"I study philosophy," she reveals. "I’m on vacation, trying to see as much as I can before reality pulls me back."

Philosophy. Of course. You should have guessed.

"That explains a lot," you say, smiling for the first time in a while—long enough that you didn’t even realize you hadn’t been smiling.

She smiles back, and for the first time, it feels like she’s really here, in the present, with you.

"And you? Are you going to tell me more about yourself, or leave me to imagine?"

"Maybe I’ll tell you more if you come with me later. I’m going for a walk along the boardwalk. If you want company, we can meet near the broken statue at seven."

She pretends to think for a moment, but the smile on her face already gives the answer.

"Maybe I will. Who knows?"

You both fall silent for a moment, listening to the waves, the seagulls, the sound of the world turning. And then, with one last glance, she walks away, leaving you with a sunset that’s already turned to night.

A night that promises to bring something more than just stars.

—

You're sitting on the bench, waiting. People walk along the boardwalk, laughing, chatting, living their lives as if you weren't there, alone. Every passing minute, every step you hear that isn't hers, feels like the whisper of a tiny little devil saying that maybe you got it all wrong.

Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she remembered something more important. Maybe you're not as interesting as you think. You start calculating how long it's acceptable to wait before getting up and leaving without seeming desperate.

Then you feel the touch. It's light, almost as if a breeze had turned solid for a second. You turn your head, and there she is. Shuhua. As if she had been materialized by your thoughts. Her dress, now shorter, clings to her body with the same ease that night clings to the sky. Her dark hair shines under the streetlights, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.

"You look beautiful," you say, because nothing else makes sense in that moment.

She smiles, as if she already knew, but still likes to hear it.

"Thank you."

You begin to walk side by side, the sound of the waves in the distance sometimes pulling you back to the moment of the rescue again, though you don't show it.

"What's it like studying philosophy?" you ask, because the silence between you seems fuller than any conversation. And because you want to know more about what makes her who she is.

She looks around for a second, as if someone passing by might hand her the answer.

"It's like trying to understand life as it happens. Like you're a spectator in your own movie."

"Then say something philosophical," you ask, half-joking, but half-hoping she'll reveal something that will change the way you see the world.

She stops for a second, and you think maybe you've asked too much. But then she smiles, a smile that doesn't quite light up her whole face, but brings a small light to the night.

"All we know is that we know nothing."

"That's Socrates, right?"

"That's right."

"Oh, come on. You can do better than that."

"So, what do you want to know, Mr. Deep?"

You keep walking along the boardwalk, your steps slow, almost synchronized.

"Do you believe we're really free to do whatever we want?" The question comes out of you before you have time to filter it.

"Nietzsche said that desire is what drives us. It's not just a choice; it's what we are, what makes us act. But the problem is that desire is never simple, never pure. It always comes with a shadow. And that shadow is guilt."

She turns her face to you, a slight smile on her lips, but it's a smile that doesn't reach her eyes, and she continues:

"We can do whatever we want, yes. But do we really want to? Or does desire just push us toward what's inevitable, toward what we try to resist but deep down know we'll end up giving in to?"

You try to process what she's saying, but it's like trying to catch smoke with your hands. It feels like her words carry more weight than the moment.

"So, desire always comes with guilt?" you ask, trying to sound more curious than worried.

"It's not guilt that accompanies desire," she says, her eyes returning to the path ahead. "It's that desire makes us go against what we should be, what we've been told we should be. And then guilt arises, not because we've done something wrong, but because we desire what we've been taught to reject." She lets out a small laugh, but it's a dry sound, without joy. "Deep down, desire is a rebellion against morality. And every time we give in to it, we're challenging the world, the rules, what's right and wrong. But no one comes out of a challenge unscathed. There are always consequences."

"And you? Do you feel guilty about anything?" you ask before you wonder if maybe it's too much, but you don't regret it. You want to know who she is, to understand what's going on behind that face that seems so impenetrable.

She's silent again, and for a moment, you think she won't answer. But then she looks directly at you, her eyes dark and deep like the sea at night.

"Guilt? Of course. But guilt... guilt is proof that we're still alive. That it still matters, that we're still human." She smiles, but it's a sad smile. "I feel guilty because I desire what I shouldn't. Because deep down, I know I'm going against something bigger than myself. And it destroys me a little more each day."

And you realize, at that moment, that Shuhua is talking more about herself than any philosophy. That what she's saying isn't just theory, as real as the ground beneath your feet.

When you pass by a street artist, he observes you for a second, the pencil twirling between his fingers as if looking for his next masterpiece.

"You make a beautiful couple," he says, his tone casual, as if he already knew he was right. "How about a drawing of you two?"

You open your mouth to correct him, to say that no, you aren't a couple, but Shuhua is already agreeing.

"Sure," she says, pulling you to sit next to her on the bench.

The artist smiles, as if he knew the battle was won before it even began. He starts drawing, the pencil moving with the precision that only excessive practice can provide. You try to stay still, but you can't stop looking at Shuhua. The way she's relaxed, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Her scent, a soft perfume, mixes with the breeze entering your lungs, and it's an addictive sensation.

Time passes, but you don't notice. Only the sound of the pencil scratching the paper, the distant waves, and her scent.

Finally, the artist stops, gives the drawing a final touch, and turns it to show you both. The paper reveals the two of you sitting together, but there's something more there. Something the artist captured, something you hadn't noticed until now. He drew you looking at Shuhua with an expression you didn't know you were making. Admiration. Fascination. As if she were something more than just a girl.

As if she were a muse, and you, an artist trapped in her beauty.

"You, my friend, look at her like you're trying to decipher a mystery," the artist says, handing you the paper.

Shuhua takes the drawing, and you pay the artist, still feeling that strange weight in your chest, as if something important had been revealed without your permission. You both stand up, thank him, and continue walking.

She looks at the drawing again, a subtle smile on her lips.

"I like it," she says, and you realize she's not just talking about the drawing.

The sound of the sea never stops, not for a second. It's always there, in the background, a constant reminder that you're close to something bigger, vaster than anything you can do or feel. The waves break, one after another, like the sound of a clock ticking in a time that no one can control.

The kiosk appears ahead, with its yellow lights that seem to blend with the color of the night sky. The tables are scattered around, some already occupied by couples and small groups chatting in low tones, laughing about something only they know. You choose an empty table, away from the others.

The waiter approaches, young and cheerful, wearing a casual floral shirt. He hands you the menu and disappears, leaving you alone. Shuhua flips through the menu as if she's looking for something she already knows she wants, but still enjoys seeing the options. You choose something simple, a random drink that won't make you seem out of your element.

"Do you always hit on tourist girls?" The question comes from her naturally. But there's something more there, a curiosity she's trying to hide, but you notice immediately.

You smile, one of those smiles that's hard to decipher.

"No."

She raises an eyebrow, as if not entirely convinced.

"Then why did you call me? The beach is full of girls much hotter than me, with tanned bodies and everything."

The waiter returns with the drinks, placing them on the table skillfully. Shuhua takes hers and sips, her eyes still fixed on you, waiting for an answer that makes sense in the world she knows.

"Because I don't care about that," you finally say. The drink is cold in your hand, and the taste is strong, but you don't look away. "It's been a while since I went out with any girl. The thing is, you're different, Shuhua, you caught my attention."

She pauses, the glass halfway between the table and her lips, as if waiting for you to say something more. But you don't. Because there's nothing more to say. And, for some reason, that seems to be enough for her.

Shuhua puts the glass back on the table but doesn't drink. She tilts her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as if she's trying to see something beyond what's in front of her.

"You know," she says, "that almost sounds true."

You shrug, as if it wasn't a big deal, but you feel like something has changed in the air between you. As if the conversation had entered another territory, something deeper, closer to what really matters.

"Think what you want," you say, pretending not to care.

"Are you messing with me?" she asks, but now her tone is different. Lighter, almost playful.

"No," you reply, sincerely. And that's enough for her to believe you, at least for now.

You continue talking, about trivial things, about life, about what it’s like to study philosophy and what it means to work in something that isn’t your passion. But with every word, with every exchange of glances, you feel like you’re diving deeper, sinking into something more than just a night by the sea.

And her? She seems to relax, seems to accept what you’re offering, even though she’s still not sure exactly what that is. But there’s a sparkle in her eyes, a spark of interest that wasn’t there before. And that’s enough for you to keep going.

The waiter comes back to see if you two need anything else, but you don’t. Everything you want is there, on the table between you, in the air circulating around, in the words being spoken and those yet to come.

—

The boardwalk stretches out casually, Shuhua always by your side, her steps in sync with yours, as if you’ve done this many times before. But it’s the first time, and you’re still trying to figure out exactly what it means. The streets around are relatively quiet for a Friday night, with the distant murmur of other conversations floating in the air, but none of that matters much because, at this moment, it’s just the two of you.

“There’s a nice restaurant nearby, what do you think?” you ask her.

“I think that’s a great idea,” Shuhua replies. “Tell me the truth, were you nervous when you had to save that man?” she suddenly asks, curious to uncover what’s behind the tough lifeguard façade.

You glance at her sideways, a small smile on your lips as you respond.

“Actually, I was waiting for it. Patiently.”

She seems surprised by the answer, as if she expected something more heroic, something more dramatic. But the truth is much simpler.

“Since I completed training, I’ve never allowed myself to relax. I knew that, sooner or later, something like that would happen. It was just a matter of time.”

Shuhua lets out a small laugh, a soft, light sound, and shakes her head.

“That explains why you always seem so tense. I can see the tension in your shoulders.”

You raise an eyebrow, and there’s a playful note in your voice when you reply.

“Maybe if you gave me a massage, I’d feel better.”

“Maybe I will,” she says, and you know that part of her is really considering the idea.

The boardwalk unfolds ahead, a paved path that leads to anywhere you both decide to go. But before you can reach the restaurant you mentioned, something different catches your attention. A soft melody floats through the air, a mix of guitar, saxophone, and that unmistakable bossa nova beat. The kind of sound that makes you stop and listen, that reminds you there’s beauty in the world, even in the simplest things.

“Did you hear that?” you ask, but you don’t wait for an answer. Instead, you follow the sound, taking Shuhua with you until you find the source: a small band set up in the middle of the boardwalk, with simple instruments and an energy that doesn’t need a big audience to thrive.

And that’s when you do something that maybe even you didn’t expect. Pulling Shuhua by the hand, you lead her to the center of a small clearing among the people, a space that seems tailor-made for what you’re about to do next.

“You said I seemed tense,” you say, looking directly at her, a spark of challenge in your eyes. “Let’s see if I’m really that tense.”

And then you start dancing.

It’s nothing elaborate, nothing you need to think too much about. Just you, Shuhua, and the music. Your bodies move together as if there’s an invisible choreography that you both know but have never practiced. The rhythm of the bossa nova is smooth, easy to follow.

Shuhua watches you, her eyes shining with a mix of surprise and admiration.

“You dance well,” she says, and there’s a tone of genuine amazement in her voice.

“I did theater in school,” you reply, spinning her gently, as if proving there’s still more for her to discover about you. “I was in a few musicals. Nothing major.”

She laughs, her head tilted back, her hair falling like a black cascade that seems to absorb the light around. “I didn’t expect that from you.”

“I’m a guy full of surprises,” you say, and you know it’s a little true.

The music continues, and you keep dancing, lost in this moment that belongs only to you two. Every move, every step seems to free her a little more.

When the music finally ends, you and Shuhua stop, a bit out of breath but with smiles on your faces that don’t need any explanation. The small crowd around you applauds softly, and the band moves on to another song, but for the two of you, this moment has passed, it has fulfilled its purpose.

“Shall we go to the restaurant?” you ask, and she agrees, still smiling.

—

The restaurant is a hidden gem, the kind of place you only find if you know exactly what you’re looking for. It's near the boardwalk, just a few steps from the beach, where the sound of the waves mixed with live music creates an atmosphere that makes everything feel lighter, simpler. The tables are made of worn wood, coated with a thin layer of varnish that doesn’t hide the years of use but instead gives each one a kind of rustic charm. The chairs match, creaking slightly every time someone sits down, but no one seems to mind. Everyone is here for the same reason: good food, a fresh breeze, and a night that doesn’t seem in any hurry to end.

The outdoor tables are filled with couples, friends, and tourists who stumbled upon this place by chance. The lights strung between the posts sway gently, bathing everything in a golden glow that makes people’s skin look warmer, more alive. In the center of the restaurant, there's an outdoor grill, where the chef, a robust man with agile hands, flips fish and seafood over the flames with enviable skill.

You and Shuhua choose a table in the corner, close enough to the grill to feel the warmth but far enough that the smell of smoke doesn’t overwhelm anyone. She looks around, taking it all in as if she's absorbing the details to store them in her memory, and you realize that she does this with everything—every moment, every detail is important to her, which only heightens the sense that she’s just passing through.

The waiter, a middle-aged man with an easy smile, brings the menu, and you order without much ceremony: grilled fish, shrimp seasoned with garlic and herbs, and a white wine to go with it. The conversation flows naturally, filled with laughter and glances that last a second longer than necessary. The food is good, simple, and flavorful—the kind of meal that satisfies without pretense.

As dinner progresses, you can’t help but notice how completely comfortable Shuhua seems in her own skin, how she has a keen awareness of who she is and what she wants. She talks about her philosophy studies with a passion that makes even the most abstract concepts feel tangible, real. And as you listen to her, a part of you feels increasingly drawn not just to her obvious beauty but to the depth she reveals with every sentence, every gesture.

At one point, between a sip of wine and a bite of fish, you lean in a little closer, taking advantage of the intimate atmosphere to ask what’s been on your mind since the beginning of the night.

“When you go back home... can we keep in touch? I mean, you could give me your Instagram or something. You’re a cool, interesting girl. I’d like to get to know you better.”

There’s a second of silence, an almost imperceptible pause before Shuhua responds. She carefully places her fork on the plate, and when she looks at you, there’s a softness in her eyes that wasn’t there before. But there’s also something else, something you didn’t expect.

“You’re sweet,” she says, her voice almost too gentle—the kind of voice you use when you’re about to let someone down. “And you seem like the type who does everything for the girl you like. But... I don’t want you to get any feelings, whatever we are right now. This is casual, you know? I just want to make that clear so you don’t get hurt later.”

Her words fall on you like an unexpected weight, crushing the small hope that had been growing inside you since the moment she asked you to take her picture on the beach. You remain silent for a moment, trying to process what she said, trying to mask the disappointment that inevitably begins to set in.

“I understand,” you finally say, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, a hollow smile that you hope isn’t as transparent as it feels to you. “Of course. No problem.”

The conversation continues, but there’s a subtle shift in tone, a new layer of distance. You make a conscious effort to keep things light, to not let on that her words affected you more than you’d like to admit. Shuhua, for her part, seems relieved to have laid everything out in the open, and she returns to being the same bright, spontaneous girl she was before, as if what she just said didn’t matter in the slightest.

Apparently.

Dinner finally ends, and as you wait for the bill, Shuhua mentions that she’s staying at a nearby inn. You consider her words for a moment, knowing this is a fork in the road, that whatever you decide next will determine the course of the night.

“My place isn’t far from here,” you say, trying to keep your tone casual. “If you want, you can stay over.”

She looks at you, her eyes shining under the restaurant's soft lights, and for a moment, you think she’s going to refuse. But then she smiles, a small, pleasant smile that seems like it might vanish at any moment.

“Sure,” she replies. “Let’s go.”

And with that, the night’s fate is sealed. You pay the bill, leave a generous tip, and together, you walk out of the restaurant, back to the boardwalk, which now feels even more deserted, more silent. It’s getting late, and the streets are emptying out, except for a few passersby who are in no hurry to get anywhere, and the sea breeze feels a bit cooler, carrying with it the scent of salt and something else, something indefinable that mingles with the excitement and nervousness growing inside you.

The walk to your place is short, and as you walk side by side, not saying much, you can’t help but wonder what exactly will happen when you finally get there. But at the same time, you know that’s a question that can only be answered when the door closes behind you, when words are no longer necessary.

—

Your home is modest but cozy—the kind of place that reflects the lifestyle of someone who spends more time outdoors than within four walls. Shuhua places the drawing of the two of you on the counter, says it’s all yours, and casually begins to observe the surroundings. The walls are a soft beige, and the floor is covered with a simple carpet. The living room is dominated by a comfortable sofa, a TV that seems barely used, and a similarly untouched video game console. There isn’t much in terms of decoration, but there’s a certain order to the chaos, as if everything has its place. A guitar resting in a corner and some posters of classic bands hint at personal tastes that go beyond the lifeguard job.

You offer her wine, a bottle of red that you’d been saving for a special occasion.

You pour the drink, trying to appear calm, but your movements are deliberately slow, as if prolonging something that shouldn’t be prolonged. Shuhua sits on the sofa, her legs gracefully crossed, the dress revealing a bit more of her pale thighs as she adjusts herself. She accepts the glass of wine, but her gaze is firm, determined.

She’s not here for the details of your decor, to watch that new Netflix series, or to talk about the idiotic lives of celebrities; she’s here for you.

"If we're going to do this, let’s do it now," she says after taking a sip of the wine, placing the glass on the coffee table. Her voice is almost a whisper, but it carries a calculated firmness. "Let's not prolong the formalities."

The sound of her voice resonates within you, making your heart race.

"I wasn’t sure you wanted the same thing as me..."

You approach her, setting your glass aside as well, your hands trembling slightly, but it’s desire that guides every movement.

Shuhua doesn’t wait. She leans forward, capturing your lips with hers, a kiss that starts soft but quickly intensifies. Her lips are soft, but there’s an urgency in the way she moves her tongue, exploring every corner of your mouth. Her small, delicate hands slide to the buttons of your shirt, undoing them with impressive dexterity.

She climbs onto your lap, your bodies touching only through the thin fabric of your clothes. The heat that emanates is good, it’s alive, but you want more. Your hands trace the outline of her hips, sliding down to her thighs, pulling her closer. Her response is immediate: a sigh, a small moan that escapes her lips as she presses her body against yours.

Shuhua pulls back slightly, just enough to remove your shirt and toss it aside. Her eyes travel over your body, admiring what she sees.

"You’re really hot," she murmurs. Her fingers trace invisible lines on your skin, exploring every muscle. "I’ve never fucked a lifeguard before."

“Well, I’ve never fucked a philosophy student,” you say. Your hands slide down her back to her waist, where you hold her firmly, pulling her even closer. The fabric of her dress is an obstacle you want to remove, but there’s something about prolonging this moment, savoring every touch.

The kisses continue for a while longer, until, without warning, she slides off your lap and kneels on the floor in front of you, her hands reaching for your pants, fingers swiftly unbuttoning the zipper with a speed that catches you off guard. She pulls your pants and underwear down, freeing your hard cock. You somehow feel vulnerable as Shuhua wraps her hand around the base of your cock, her eyes never leaving yours, a gaze that’s both intimidating and full of desire. With a decisive move, she leans in, taking your cock into her mouth.

The warmth and wetness are familiar, but there’s a newness to it—you’ve never felt a mouth so small, lips so soft, and a tongue so skilled sucking you off before. She turns a simple blowjob into something divine. You moan, your head falling back, fingers tangling in her hair as she continues to work you. Every movement of her tongue is calculated, teasing. She uses slow and fast sucks to give you pleasure. The pressure in your body builds, pleasure taking over your mind.

You want to fuck her.

But Shuhua doesn’t stop. She quickens her pace, the moans escaping her throat as she dedicates herself to the task with a commitment that nearly destroys you. When you feel like you’re on the verge of losing control, you pull her up, panting, and place her back on the sofa. She smiles, satisfied, as if she had been expecting this exact reaction.

Now it’s your turn to worship her with your tongue. You remove your shoes and fully take off the pants that were hanging below your knees. You pull up her dress slightly, and that’s when you realize she wasn’t wearing any panties. The shock of this revelation only intensifies your desire. She’s completely exposed to you, her skin smooth and warm under your hands. You kiss her again, with more hunger, your fingers exploring the wetness between her legs. Shuhua writhes under your touch, small moans escaping her lips as you stimulate her.

"I'm getting so wet," she whispers, her voice trembling with pleasure. There’s a mischievous glint in your eyes; you’re not willing to stop. You make her kneel on the sofa, turning her back to you. Shuhua pulls her dress up to her waist to reveal her perfectly round, juicy ass, practically begging for you to eat her pussy. You position yourself behind her, lowering your body, your mouth now replacing your fingers, exploring her with even more curiosity. Your tongue slides along her pussy.

Shuhua's moans grow louder, more intense, as her hands grip the back of the sofa tightly. When you sense she’s on the verge of exploding, you pull back, watching her with a desire to make her feel even more pleasure.

Then, without warning, she stands up, pulling the dress over her head and tossing it to the floor. She’s completely naked before you, and the desire burns even stronger in your chest. You sit on the sofa, and she climbs onto your lap, guiding your cock inside her with an ease that makes you sigh.

Her warmth envelops you completely. She lets out a small moan, closing her eyes for a moment, absorbing every inch as she settles. Her hands rest on your shoulders, nails lightly digging into your skin as she begins to move.

She starts at a slow pace, almost as if savoring the sensation, but soon she picks up speed, her body moving with a determination that leaves you breathless. Her tits sway gently with each movement, and you can’t resist the temptation to wrap one of her nipples in your mouth, sucking intensely. Shuhua lets out a louder moan, tilting her head back.

"You like this, don’t you? You like it when I ride your cock," she murmurs, her voice melting with the pleasure she feels. She smiles provocatively, her eyes locked on yours as she continues to move at a rhythm that drives you crazier by the second.

"Yeah, a lot," you respond through gritted teeth, your hands gripping her hips tightly, helping her maintain the rhythm. The feeling of being inside her, warm and wet, makes you crave more, much more.

Shuhua leans forward, her lips almost touching yours, her breath hot and quick against your mouth.

"Then fuck me harder," she whispers, the provocation in her voice as clear as day.

The urgency in her words awakens something wild inside you. Your fingers tangle in her hair, pulling her into a fierce kiss. In response, she rides you faster, moaning against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you as you increase the pace. Your hands move to her ass, squeezing and urging Shuhua to ride with even more intensity.

The pleasure makes your head spin, the room around you seeming to disappear, leaving only the sound of your bodies colliding, her moans growing louder and more desperate.

"Just like that," she moans. "Fuck me hard! Don’t stop, don’t stop."

The pleasure is overwhelming, guiding you to a speed that makes every touch feel more intense than it should. Shuhua writhes on top of you, sweat dripping down her skin as she gives in completely to the sensation. Her face is flushed, her eyes half-closed, and she bites her lower lip, trying to stifle the moans that escape her lips, but failing at the task.

"You’re going to make me come," she whispers, the words broken up by moans. Her gaze is a mix of lust and vulnerability, as if she’s at the mercy of the pleasure you’re giving her.

"Then cum for me," you respond, your voice low and laden with desire. Your hands grip her hips firmly. "Cum on my cock, babe!"

Shuhua responds to the command, her movements becoming erratic as the climax nears. She lets out a scream, her whole body trembling as pleasure overtakes her, and you feel the contractions around you, each pulse intensifying the pleasure already consuming you.

"Oh, God..." She gasps, her nails scratching your shoulders as her body writhes on yours. She’s completely lost in the moment, her face a mask of ecstasy as she continues to move, prolonging the pleasure as much as she can.

When it finally seems like she can’t take any more, Shuhua stops, panting, her eyes shining with satisfaction as she gazes at you.

"You made me cum so hard," she murmurs, a lascivious smile playing on her lips.

You smile back and reply:

"But I’m not done with you yet."

Before she has a chance to fully recover, you firmly grab her by the hips and lift her into the air, your bodies still connected.

Shuhua lets out a surprised gasp, her arms wrapping around your neck as you lift her. Her legs tighten around your waist, her fingers digging into your back as she feels you moving inside her again. The sensation is deeper in this position, each thrust pushing you further inside, making her moan loudly in your ear. Your bodies are pressed together, your sweat mingling as you fuck her in the air, your movements decisive and full of desire.

"Oh, yes... like that!" she moans, her voice trembling with pleasure. You can feel how intense the sensation is for her, the way her body clenches around yours, responding to every thrust. "Fuck, you're so hot!"

Each movement is stronger than the last, the sound of your bodies colliding echoing through the room, mingling with Shuhua's moans and sighs.

You keep her in the air, her legs around your waist, as you quicken the pace, your thrusts becoming more urgent, more desperate. Each movement intensifies the sensation in your body. Shuhua is completely lost in the moment, her face buried in your neck, her moans muffled but impossible to contain. She bites lightly into your shoulder, a mix of pain and pleasure that makes you gasp heavily, feeling her tremble as she cums again, her contractions increasing the pressure around you.

But you don't stop. Even when you feel her body trembling, her breath hot against your skin, you carry her to the table, driven by desire. With a firm movement, you set her down on the ground, still holding her by the hips as she leans against the table. Shuhua arches her back, and without much delay, you start fucking her again, the new position making her let out a deep moan, pleasure once again taking over her.

"I'm not stopping until you cum again," you murmur in her ear, your voice deep and filled with desire.

"Yes! Make me cum again! Mmm, so good," she responds, her voice completely surrendered, almost pleading. Shuhua places her hands on the table, her body leaning forward as you take her from behind. The sight of her in this position, completely exposed and vulnerable, makes your desire explode.

Shuhua moans loudly, her head falling forward as you fuck her hard, the table creaking under the intensity. Each thrust is powerful. She holds onto the table tightly, her moans turning into screams as the pleasure builds.

When you feel she's about to cum again, you turn her to face you. Shuhua smiles, panting, her eyes shining. She climbs onto the table, lying on her back, her legs spreading for you in a sight that almost makes you want to eat her pussy again.

She exposes herself completely, offering herself to you.

"Come on, fuck me until I can't take it anymore!" she says, her voice low and dripping with lust.

You position yourself between her legs, feeling the heat and wetness of her pussy already dripping down her thighs, then you start penetrating her again. Shuhua cries out, her moans reverberating through the room as you fuck her hard. The table shakes under your combined weight, the intense sounds of pleasure filling the air.

You fuck her with everything you've got, each thrust more intense than the last, the pleasure building to a point of no return. The rhythm between you becomes more frantic, desperate, until you bring her to another orgasm. Shuhua is completely lost in the sensation, her eyes closed, her mouth open in a cry of pleasure. The heat of her body, the feeling of her sweaty skin against yours, the sound of her moans—it all drives you wild.

Your hand slides down to Shuhua's belly, feeling her tense muscles, and you realize you're on the brink of exploding.

"I'm gonna cum," you warn, your voice cut off by the effort to stay in control. But Shuhua doesn't want you to hold back.

"Then cum," she responds. "Cum in me, I want to feel you."

Those words are what make you lose control. You let out a deep moan, your whole body trembling as you finally give in to the climax. With one last deep thrust, you bury yourself inside her, and then, with a quick motion, you pull out, jerking off as the pleasure overtakes you.

The first spurt of cum covers Shuhua's belly, hot and thick, spreading across her pale skin. She lets out a low moan at the feeling of the warmth on her skin, her eyes closed as she absorbs the sensation. You continue, each pulse sending more cum onto her, covering her abdomen, the base of her tits, until there's nothing left to give.

When the last spasm passes, you hold the base of your cock, feeling it pulse lightly, still sensitive. Shuhua opens her eyes, watching you with a provocative smile.

"Is there still more in there?" she asks, her voice soft but full of mischief.

You smile, tired but not done.

"Maybe a little more," you reply, leaning down to rub the head of your cock on her thigh, spreading the remaining cum on her soft skin. The sensation is electric, a mix of pleasure and sensitivity that makes you shiver.

Shuhua watches every movement, biting her lip as you spread the cum on her thigh, mingling with the sweat that glistens under the soft light of the room.

"Yes, paint me all over," she whispers, her voice low and filled with desire. "It's so delicious to feel you like this, hot, still turned on by me."

She reaches out, her fingers gently caressing the head of your cock, still sensitive, and you feel a shiver run down your spine.

"I could do this all day," she murmurs, her tone a blend of sweetness and malice. "I love seeing how you react to my touch, how you moan helplessly with every caress."

You can't help but close your eyes and sigh as she presses gently, her thumb grazing the frenulum as you continue to rub the head of your cock on her skin.

"Don't stop," you plead, your voice hoarse, almost desperate. Her touch is both torturous and pleasurable, a mix that makes you crave more, even after you've been spent.

Shuhua smiles, satisfied with your reaction, and continues, teasing you until every part of your body is trembling with the intensity of the moment. Finally, she stops, her fingers still sliding softly across your skin, and she looks at you with a gaze that weakens you before her.

"It's been a long time since I fucked someone with this much passion," she comments, her voice soft and filled with complicity. "You really wanted me, didn't you?"

—

You wake up to the barely perceptible sound of her footsteps on the wooden floor, the sun seeping through the half-closed curtains, filling the room with a soft, golden light. The warmth of her body still lingers in the bed, her presence imprinted on the rumpled sheets and on the pillow where her scent has mixed with yours. You’re not sure exactly what woke you—maybe it was the sound of her breathing, or the slow movement of her bare feet, trying to avoid the spots where the floor creaks. Maybe it was the absence of her body’s weight beside you.

She’s there, at the edge of the bed, wearing one of your shirts thrown over her body, long enough to cover halfway down her thighs. She’s not really trying to escape, not truly. But there’s a carefulness in her every movement, a hesitation that screams of an attempt to slip away without making a sound. She’s leaving, and you feel a pang of fear, something you didn’t want to feel, something you didn’t expect.

You watch her for a moment, her loose hair falling in waves undone by nights of sleep, the curve of her back outlined beneath the soft fabric of your shirt. She’s facing away from you, and you realize she hasn’t even noticed that you’re awake.

With minimal effort, you slide out of bed, your feet touching the cold floor as you quietly approach her from behind. And then, before she can react, before she can think of really fleeing, you wrap your arms around her, pulling her close, closer than you should, as if proximity could make her stay, as if your touch could be enough to anchor her there.

“Stay a little longer,” you murmur against her neck, your lips brushing the warm, soft skin as your hands glide over her waist, holding her with a need that doesn’t make sense to you. “Just a little longer.”

She flinches for a second, her body tense against yours, but then she relaxes, sighing as if exhaling all the resistance she had stored within herself. “I can’t,” she whispers, but her voice lacks conviction, as if she’s only saying it because it’s what she thinks she should say.

“Of course you can,” you insist, moving your hands to her shoulders, massaging gently, while your lips continue to explore her neck, the curve of her jaw, the spot where her skin is most sensitive. “Just a little longer, and then I’ll make breakfast. Like a good host.”

She lets out a soft chuckle as she leans back, surrendering to the warmth, to the moment, even if only for a fleeting instant.

“You know this isn’t right,” she murmurs, but her hands find yours, and she intertwines her fingers with yours, pulling you back to the bed.

“Maybe,” you admit, as you lie down together, her body curled up in your arms, her breath mingling with yours. “But who cares?”

She sighs again, as if giving up on fighting, and you stay there, lying together, exchanging gentle caresses, stolen kisses, and embraces that should mean less than they actually do. Her body fits perfectly against yours, and for a moment, everything feels right, everything feels exactly as it should be. But then she pulls away, just a little, enough to look you in the eyes, and there’s a seriousness in her gaze that you hadn’t noticed before.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she says, her voice firmer, more determined. “I don’t want you to get hurt, okay?”

You look at her, trying to understand what she’s saying, trying to decipher what’s behind those words.

“I won’t get hurt,” you respond, even though you know it’s not entirely true. “I just want you to stay.”

“And that’s what worries me,” she whispers, before getting out of bed again, the shirt still loosely draped over her body. “Come on, get up. I want coffee.”

You obey, even though part of you wants to drag her back to bed, keep her there, where everything seems simpler. But you get up, wearing only the sweatpants that were tossed beside the bed, and head to the kitchen to make breakfast. The smell of fresh coffee and toast fills the air as you fry some eggs and prepare slices of bread with butter and jam.

When you set the table, she’s already dressed in the dress from the night before, sitting at the table, watching you with a look that’s both curious and cautious. As if she’s trying to decide what to do with you, with what you two are—or aren’t.

“So,” you begin, as you sit down next to her, passing her a mug of coffee. “Tell me more about yourself. What do you do besides studying philosophy? Seriously, where are you from, anyway?”

She smiles, but it’s a fleeting smile, almost as if she’s trying to protect herself.

“It doesn’t matter where I’m from. And I don’t do much,” she responds, shrugging. “I travel when I can. I like to read. Sometimes I write.”

“Write?” you ask, intrigued. “What do you write?”

“Poetry, mostly,” she replies, but her tone is vague, as if she doesn’t want to delve into the subject.

You realize you won’t get much more out of her, so you change the topic, talking about light things, things of no importance. But you can’t shake the feeling that she’s keeping her distance, hiding something, and that only makes you want to know more.

“I want to see you later,” you say, almost without thinking, as you bring the coffee cup to your lips. “What do you think?”

She smiles again, but this time her smile is a bit more genuine.

“I’ll be the one to see you,” she responds, a sparkle in her eyes. “When I have time.”

That’s not what you wanted to hear, but before you can respond, she stands up, grabbing her bag and getting ready to leave. You follow her to the door, your heart racing, knowing you need to say something, anything.

“Shuhua,” you begin, hesitant. “I like you.”

She pauses, her hand on the doorknob, and turns to you, her eyes filled with a mix of tenderness and something you can’t quite identify. She shakes her head slightly, a small smile on her lips.

“I know,” she says softly. “But you’d better stop.”

And with that, she opens the door and leaves, leaving you alone in what’s left of a morning that should have been more than just another fleeting moment. And as you watch her walk away, a part of you knows she’s right, that maybe it’s better to stop. But another part, the part that still smells her on your sheets, that still tastes her on your lips, knows that you won’t be able to.

—

You’re sitting outside the lifeguard tower, on a wooden stool that always creaks a little, with the sun beating down on the sea and the beer cans stacked in a corner. Fourth? Fifth? Who’s really counting? The salt in the air, the heat. You’re relaxed, or at least you try to be. The sea foam dissolves into small waves, seagulls crying out as usual, and you almost forget everything. Almost. Until the sound of footsteps on the sand makes you open your eyes, and you see, like a ray of sun directly in your eyes, your father, arriving all beaming, that smile plastered on his face that you know well, almost a mask. But you know it’s real.

“Son, how many times do I have to tell you not to drink on the job?” he says, still smiling, but with a tone that can’t be ignored.

“I’m fine, I’m not drunk.” You respond, taking the can from your mouth and looking at him, defiant. You see the shadow of that smile fade a little, but he still keeps the sparkle in his eyes.

“If you have to do a rescue now, there’d be two drowned instead of one. That’s not what you were trained for, that’s not what your mother...”

He stops before finishing the sentence, as if the words dry up in his mouth. You look at him and feel that familiar discomfort. The pain that comes like an undertow, silent, but it pulls you down, without warning.

“I don’t care about drowning, honestly. Lifeguards are also at risk of drowning, you know. It’s just part of the job, I guess.” The words come out easier than you expected, but they hang in the air like cigarette smoke, hard to dissipate.

Your father looks at you, and the smile vanishes completely. He comes closer, crouching down to your eye level.

“What’s happening with you?”

You shake your head, trying to escape, but he keeps looking, with that piercing gaze. And then you give in, just a little.

“How do you do it? How do you stay like this, cheerful, even after she… left?”

He understands immediately, his expression softens, a little sad, but still firm.

“Because one day I’ll see her again.”

You look at him, unable to believe how easily he talks about it.

“And until then? How do you cope?”

“Until then, I look forward to that day.” He puts his hand on your shoulder and pulls you out of the cabin, the sun burning even more outside. He points to the pier, where the waves break gently, the sea calm, almost as if it’s waiting for something. “Your mother took me there one night, when we were young. She told me that if our souls were ever separated, we could meet again there, when the moon was full. Its light would make a silver bridge over the sea, and no matter where we were, we could reunite on that night.”

You stay silent, digesting every word, feeling the truth, heavy and luminous like the sun. That piece of history you never knew, a connection that was always there, but only now you can see. He looks at you again, a small smile at the corner of his lips.

“She never told me that.”

“There are many things we don’t know until we’re ready to know.” He gives your shoulder a light pat, something he’s always done to show he’s there, that he understands you.

And for the first time in a long while, you feel better. Just a little. But it’s enough to face the rest of the day.

—

You're walking along the boardwalk, with that killer sun reflecting off every piece of glass, metal, and tanned skin around. Your sunglasses cover more than just your eyes; they cover any trace of expression you don’t want to show. You pretend you’re just like everyone else, but every step, every movement is rehearsed, calculated to appear as relaxed as possible. The sea breeze carries the smell of salt and fried food, but you barely notice. Your vision is the only sense consciously operating, searching for one thing, or rather, one person.

And then, like a mirage in the desert, you see her. Shuhua, the girl of your thoughts. The wide-brimmed beach hat casting a shadow that draws half her face, her hair falling like a veil underneath. She’s smiling, waving, a vision amidst the chaos of half-naked bodies and hysterical laughter. You raise your hand to wave back, but then, right in the middle of it, the unexpected happens. A group of girls—bronzed bodies, bikinis too small, laughter too loud—bumps into you. They smile, toss their hair back, one of them even does that rehearsed laugh, like she’s in a summer commercial.

They start to circle you, flirting, their eyes lingering and hungry, their fingers almost touching your arms, your shoulders, inviting you to show them the beach in a way only you could.

“Hey, lifeguard, how about showing us where the best spot on the beach is?” one of them says, her voice full of insinuation.

You feel the heat rise, but it’s not the sun. It’s not the attraction you’d normally feel at another time. It’s not desire. It’s discomfort, the urgency to get away, to remove this obstacle. You look at Shuhua, see that she’s stopped, and for a second, just for a second, you think she’s going to turn around and leave. And that scares you more than the thought of having to redo lifeguard training.

“Sorry, girls, but I’m busy.” You spit the phrase out like you’re spitting sand from your mouth. A quick smile and you practically flee from the group, who giggle and make comments around you, but you no longer care.

You hurry toward Shuhua, and when you finally get close enough, she lets out a soft, almost imperceptible laugh.

“You seem to have a lot of fans around here,” she says, teasing, but with a tone that hides a hint of curiosity.

“They’re nothing, less than nothing,” you reply quickly, maybe too quickly. “I was looking for you.” And it’s not a lie. Not at all.

She smiles, her eyes narrowing under the hat, and for a moment, you think she really believes you.

“So, you found me. I was heading for lunch. Want to join me?”

As if she needed to ask.

“Sure,” you respond, with an enthusiasm even you don’t recognize.

As you walk to the restaurant, the tension in your shoulders that you always carry seems to dissolve a bit. Maybe it’s the sun, or the way she laughs at something you don’t even know. Maybe it’s just the fact that she’s here, beside you, and doesn’t seem to want to be anywhere else.

In the restaurant, the menu is simple, but who cares? Her eyes are on you, and you realize, for the first time, that she’s a bit smitten. In a way that makes your chest swell a bit because you know, without needing words, that she’s finding you interesting. Maybe more than she should.

“Do you have plans for later?” you ask, trying to sound casual as the food is placed on the table.

She looks up, that look that seems to pierce through you, but in a good way.

“Depends. What do you have in mind?”

You release the smile you’ve been holding back, the one you rarely use but know works.

“How about an ATV ride? At night. The beach is beautiful at night.”

She tilts her head, the hat almost falling, but it stays in place.

“Is that allowed?” she asks, but there’s a hint of mischief in her voice that says she knows the answer.

“No one needs to know.” Your answer is as quick as the beats of your heart.

She pretends to think, her eyes gleaming with a playful amusement you could almost touch.

“I think I can take the risk. Where and when?”

You already have the whole plan in your head. The meeting point, the path you’ll take. Everything is already planned.

“At nine, at the lifeguard station near the pier. I promise it’ll be worth it.”

She smiles, that smile that makes everything lighter, and you feel… complete.

“Then it’s a date.”

And just like that, with this simple nod from fate, you have the night planned. Something that calms the anxiety churning in your gut. Because this girl, this girl named Shuhua, she’s more than just a summer fling. Even if she never knows it. Even if you never say it. She’s the now, and for you, the now is all that matters.

—

Nine o'clock. The night breeze licks the beach, carrying the scent of salt, and the sound of the waves is the only thing grounding you to reality. The ATV is already waiting, and so are you. Adrenaline courses through your veins, mixed with a dose of anxiety. You wonder if she’ll show up. If tonight will be as good as you imagined a thousand times during the day.

And then, as if on cue, Shuhua appears on the horizon. The beach hat is left somewhere far away, her hair loose, blowing in the wind. She smiles in that way that illuminates even the darkest corners of your mind. She approaches with a confidence that makes the ground under your feet feel more solid, and you realize the wait was worth it.

“I hope this ATV is as fun as you promised,” she jokes, eyeing the sturdy machine like it’s a new toy.

“I promise you won’t regret it,” you say, helping her onto the ATV. She settles in behind you, her hands sliding around your waist until they find a comfortable position.

And then, without much thought, you accelerate.

The ATV surges forward across the sand, the wheels kicking up fine clouds that dissipate into the air. The engine roars, cutting through the night’s silence, and you feel Shuhua press against your back, an automatic reflex that makes your heart beat faster.

As the ATV picks up speed, the wind starts to whip across your faces, and Shuhua, without any warning, lets out a scream of pure joy. A sound that bursts into the night, echoing on the beach, and makes you smile uncontrollably. “Faster!” she shouts, her voice blending with the noise of the engine and the waves.

You obey, because, damn, how could you not? You push the throttle, feeling the ATV almost lift off the sand. The wind cuts across your face, almost painful, but it’s a pain you want to prolong. Shuhua keeps shouting, laughing with a freedom you can’t quite understand but desperately want to feel. And it’s as if, for a few minutes, the two of you are the only living beings in that slice of the world. Just you, the night, and the sea.

Eventually, you slow down because even freedom has its limits. Then you find a spot where the sand seems finer, almost white under the moonlight. You turn off the engine, and for a moment, everything returns to absolute silence. But it’s a good silence, for now, it’s good.

Shuhua climbs off the ATV, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She takes a few steps on the sand, looking around the beach. “Look,” she says, pointing to something on the ground. You move closer and see that they’re crabs, dozens of them, emerging from the sand and scattering across the beach like a small horde of creatures escaping from a nightmare. But there’s nothing threatening about it. Just nature in motion.

You both watch in silence for a while, each lost in your own thoughts, until you decide to break the silence.

“What did you do during the day?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

She hesitates, as if searching for the right answer.

“I went to the aquarium… and to a museum,” she finally responds, but something in the way she says it tells you there’s more she’s not revealing.

“Oh, cool,” you say, pretending not to notice. “There’s an institution nearby where kids learn to play instruments and make crafts. I thought about taking you there tomorrow. It’s amazing what they can do.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says, but without the certainty you expected.

“We're talking about the last day,” you reply, and the sincerity in your voice makes her waver. You can see she’s considering it, weighing the options in her head.

She sighs, maybe accepting the inevitable.

“Okay, but only because it’s the last day,” she agrees, and you feel a small victory inside.

But before you can savor the moment, she changes the subject.

“I’m hungry. Take me somewhere that doesn’t serve seafood, please.”

You chuckle because, of course. Just because you’re at the beach doesn’t mean you have to eat seafood until you’re sick of it.

“How about pizza? There’s a pizzeria close by.”

“Hmm, great choice.”

And then, without further words, you help her back onto the ATV, and you head toward the city. The engine rumbles, the waves keep crashing on the beach, and you realize that, for a brief moment, everything feels right.

—

The pizzeria is one of those places that seems to have been founded alongside the city. The kind of place where the floor tiles have decades of history from people coming and going, dragging their feet without caring about what they leave behind. The walls are covered with black-and-white photos from old times, local landmarks, and some faded images of retired football players. Soft yellow lights, encased in rusty metal lamps, cast a tired glow over the wooden tables, where checkered tablecloths are worn from use.

The smell is a mix of melted cheese, tomato sauce, and something you can only describe as nostalgia. An old jukebox in the corner plays a melody no one is really listening to, but that somehow completes the scene. Shuhua chooses a table near the window, maybe to look outside, maybe to avoid having to look directly into your eyes. You're not sure. But it doesn’t matter either.

You order a pepperoni pizza because it’s the safest choice, and she agrees. While you wait, the waiter, who’s probably been there since the place opened, brings two beers without even asking. He must know it’s the only thing worth drinking here.

Shuhua fiddles with the rim of the bottle, her long, slender fingers sliding over the cold glass surface. There’s a nervousness in her movements, but you’re not sure if it’s because of you or because she’s with you.

You decide to break the tension… and ask what's been on your mind since morning.

“So, how long have you two been together?” Your voice sounds more normal than you expected.

She looks at you, confused.

“What do you mean?”

You take a sip of the beer, trying to appear relaxed.

“You and your boyfriend. How long have you been together?”

She hesitates, her eyes flickering from side to side as if searching for an invisible escape. Then, something changes. She gives up the lie she was about to tell.

“How did you find out?”

You lean forward, feeling the weight of the moment.

“I’m not stupid, Shuhua. It’s the only explanation for the way you’re acting. When we’re together, sometimes you look around as if you’re expecting someone to see you. That’s not paranoia. It’s guilt.”

Shuhua smiles, but it’s a humorless smile, something forced.

“Besides being a hot lifeguard, you’re also perceptive.”

You don’t care about the compliment.

“How long have you been together?”

She sighs, as if tired of hiding something that shouldn’t even be hidden.

“Since high school.”

Her words fall heavy between you, like a revealed secret that should never have been shared. You feel a pang of something, maybe jealousy, maybe anger, but you don’t let it show.

“Do you love him?” The question comes out before you can think.

She looks directly into your eyes, defiant.

“What difference does it make?”

You don’t look away.

“Answer honestly.”

A bitter laugh escapes her, laced with irony.

“It doesn’t matter what I answer. You still want to fuck me tonight, don’t you?”

Her bluntness stings, but you stand your ground.

“Why isn’t he traveling with you?”

She looks out the window, maybe trying to remember something good about the boyfriend she left behind.

“He’s taking care of his mother. Post-surgery. She had a mastectomy. It’s not serious, she’s fine, but she needs assistance. He didn’t want me to cancel the trip just because of him.”

You nod, not really knowing what to say. Then, you take a chance on another question.

“Why are you doing this?”

She hesitates, as if struggling with something inside her, and doesn’t answer.

“When did you figure it out?”

You shrug.

“This morning, when you left my place. I spent the whole morning thinking about you, about the night and the conversation we had, and eventually, I realized.”

Shuhua seems to absorb this information, and then she asks you something you didn’t expect.

“What does that make me?” You don’t have a ready answer. But she continues. “Are you still as interested as before?”

You lean forward, your eyes fixed on hers.

“At this moment, nothing else matters. I’m yours.”

She lowers her gaze to the table, the tips of her fingers sliding along the wood.

“Am I bad for doing this? You must think I’m a dirty person.”

You take her hand.

“I don’t care. I just.. don’t care. Shuhua, I like you so much, and if you like me too, that’s enough.”

Silence falls between you. This time it’s heavy, full of things that corrode, but somehow relieved by at least being shared.

Shuhua looks at you, her eyes softening a little.

“Take me to your place.”

You nod, saying nothing more. The waiter brings the pizza, but the hunger has been replaced by something greater. The bill is paid, the exit is quick, and the night air of the beach greets you like a cold embrace.

You realize that what’s happening is something you’ll never fully understand. But for now, you let yourself believe that maybe tomorrow you’ll understand a little better. Because believing is better than nothing.

—

You both enter the house in a burst of desire, your bodies colliding as if drawn together by an irresistible force. The kisses are urgent, hungry, a battle of tongues and teeth that almost makes you forget to close the door. Hands slide everywhere, eliciting moans and gasps of pleasure as they desperately try to rid you of the remaining barriers of fabric between you. Her breath is hot against your face, and her scent—a mix of soft perfume and pure excitement—invades your senses, making your heart pound in your chest.

Wasting no time, you gently push her down to the floor, your lips still locked on hers but soon trailing off to explore her neck, jawline, every inch of exposed skin you can reach. The salty taste of her skin, mixed with the heat radiating from her body, only heightens your desire. You feel her squirm beneath you, her nails scratching your back through your shirt in a desperate gesture.

There’s a brief moment where you both separate just enough to remove the remaining clothes. The sound of fabric being torn off, the muffled moans as eager hands explore each other's bodies, all blend into a cacophony of desire. When you’re finally both naked, the sight of Shuhua lying there, breathless, her eyes half-closed with pleasure and anticipation, is enough to drive you wild.

She lies back again, spreading her legs, offering herself to you without hesitation. The sight of her pussy, wet and throbbing, makes your cock throb with anticipation. Without wasting time, you lower yourself, your hot breath against her sensitive skin, before sliding your tongue slowly between her pussy lips, savoring every drop of pleasure. The taste is intoxicating, something that makes you want more, much more.

Shuhua arches her back, pushing her pelvis against your mouth as her hands tangle in your hair, pulling hard, urging you to go deeper.

“This feels so good,” she moans, her voice thick with need, encouraging you to plunge your tongue even deeper, exploring every corner, every curve, alternating with kisses on the insides of her thighs where the skin is thin and sensitive. Shuhua's moans grow in intensity, her hips moving in a rhythm that tries to guide yours.

“Fuck me,” she begs, her voice interrupted by moans. “Now, please, fuck me.”

You kneel, your hands gripping her ankles firmly as you lift her, opening her completely for you. With a deep thrust, you enter her, and the moan of pleasure that escapes her lips echoes through the room. Shuhua’s warmth envelops you, every internal muscle contracting around you, pulling you deeper, harder. You don’t stop, each thrust more intense than the last, the sound of your bodies colliding filling the space.

“Let me ride you,” she pleads, her eyes shining with a mix of lust and determination. Without hesitation, you lie down on the floor, the carpet almost cold compared to the heat emanating from Shuhua as she straddles you.

Her movements are slow at first, sensual, almost torturous. She moves like a goddess, each undulation of her body perfectly choreographed to maximize pleasure. Shuhua's moans intensify, her hands gripping yours as a point of support.

The sensation of her pussy, incredibly wet and slippery around you, makes you close your eyes. You feel every pulse, every contraction, and listen to every moan with attention. The pleasure is an electric current that runs through both of you, feeding off each other in an endless cycle of desire.

She leans over you, her small tits pressed against your chest, her face buried in your neck as you start pounding into her with force, each movement drawing loud moans from Shuhua. The sounds she makes—a mix of pleasure and agony—only increase the intensity of what you feel.

“Fuck me harder,” she whispers in your ear, the tone almost desperate. “I want to feel you deeper, I want to be completely yours.”

Her words are like gasoline on the fire of your desire. You increase the pace, each thrust deeper, more brutal, as if trying to merge with her, to become one. Shuhua's moans turn into screams, her body writhing beneath you as she surrenders completely to the pleasure.

Then, with a moan filled with pleasure and vulnerability, she whispers in your ear, “I want you to fuck my ass. It'll be my first time, so do it carefully.”

Her request is both shocking and exciting. You watch her as she turns over, getting on all fours, offering herself to you in a way that is both submissive and powerful. The sight of her small, tight ass makes your cock throb with renewed strength. You lower yourself, gently licking around the opening, exploring the texture and taste of her, feeling her tremble beneath you.

Every moan that Shuhua lets out as you lick her, preparing her, is an encouragement to go further. You wet your tongue thoroughly, rubbing it against the sensitive skin until she is completely lubricated. Then, slowly, you begin to insert a finger, feeling the initial resistance and hearing her moan, a mix of pain and pleasure.

“It hurts,” she admits, her voice broken, “but keep going… I like it.”

You move carefully, adding more lubrication with your tongue before introducing a second finger. Her ass gradually adjusts, the moans turning into deeper sighs of pleasure. With each movement, you feel her resistance decrease, her body adapting, opening up to you.

“Put your cock in,” she finally asks, her voice almost pleading. “I want to feel you all inside me.”

You position the head of your cock against the tight entrance, pressing slowly as you watch her every reaction. Her ass is incredibly tight, and you feel every inch slowly being swallowed by the warm, pulsing flesh.

“You're so tight,” you say, your voice thick with desire, as you push deeper, slowly allowing her to adjust.

“More,” she moans, her entire body trembling as you finally bury yourself completely inside her. The sensation is overwhelming, the heat and pressure around you intensifying every nerve, every fiber of your being.

You start to move, slowly at first, but soon Shuhua starts asking for more.

“Faster,” she begs, her tone urgent. “Fuck me faster, please.”

You comply with her request, increasing the pace, occasionally pulling out to lubricate in her pussy a bit before putting it back in her ass, which clenches tightly around you. Each movement brings a new explosion of pleasure. Her moans turn into screams, her voice hoarse as she nears climax.

“I’m almost there,” she warns, her fingers digging into the carpet as she holds on against the pleasure consuming her.

When she finally announces she’s going to cum, you don’t stop, continuing to pound into her with all the strength you can muster. She screams as the orgasm hits her, her whole body trembling violently as pleasure overtakes her, and you feel every pulse, every contraction around your cock.

Soon after, you feel your own climax approaching.

“I’m gonna cum,” you warn, your voice tense with anticipation.

“Cum inside me,” she begs, her voice full of desire. “Fill my ass with your cum, babe.”

Her words are enough to push you over the edge. You feel an overwhelming wave of pleasure as you finally explode inside her, filling her with everything you have. She feels every pulse of your cock, every hot jet filling her deeply. The pleasure is so intense that your vision blurs, the sound of your heart pounding in your ears as you continue to move, prolonging the moment as long as you can.

As you’re still catching your breath, she slowly leans forward, spreading her cheeks with her hands. Your cum begins to drip out, a thick white line trailing down towards her pussy.

Shuhua looks back at you, smiling.

“Mmm, you came so much inside me,” she says, her voice soft and full of contentment, as you watch your cum drip from her. “I didn’t know this would feel so good… Fuck, I loved it.”

—

You’re floating between sleep and wakefulness, remembering what it felt like to hold Shuhua, her body pressed against yours as if she were an extension of you. The morning light is starting to filter into the room, but you don’t want to fully wake up. You’d rather linger in the haze of dreams, reliving the sensation of her skin on yours, her dark hair splayed across your chest, her scent, her sleepy voice—everything that made up that intimate moment.

You recall how she whispered, almost shyly, “I’m scared to go home.” Her voice was fragile, as if it might break. You didn’t say anything, just ran your hand through her hair, trying to brush away her fear with a simple touch. In that moment, everything seemed possible. Maybe she would stay. Maybe you’d have more time.

But now, on the threshold between dream and reality, you feel the emptiness beside you. You turn your head and open your eyes. She’s moving quietly around the room, putting on the clothes scattered on the floor, just as she did yesterday. And once again, you’re not willing to let her leave like this, as if she’d never been in your home, in your clothes, in your bed.

“Hey,” you murmur, your voice still hoarse from sleep. She stops, her shirt halfway on, and looks at you, her expression a mix of surprise and something like guilt. Before she can react, you get up, slip out of bed, and reach her. Your arms wrap around her waist, pulling her back into the warmth of the bed. She lets out a sigh, caught between discomfort and desire. “Stay a little longer,” you whisper against her neck, your lips finding a soft spot that makes her shiver. “At least until breakfast.”

She closes her eyes, as if trying to find the strength to resist.

“I can’t,” she replies, her voice wavering.

“Of course you can.” You turn her to face you, her eyes meeting yours, looking darker than they did yesterday. “Just a little longer.”

She shakes her head, pulling away, creating a distance that irritates you.

“I’ll eat somewhere else,” she says, her voice firmer now.

You feel the tension rising. Something’s different.

“What happened, Shuhua? Why are you acting like this?”

She turns her face away, avoiding your gaze.

“It’s none of your business.”

Then you remember that, at some point during the night, when you were asleep, a phone rang in the living room, the sound so faint that you almost thought you were dreaming. But it was real. Terribly real.

“Of course it is. We had something here… I know you feel the same.” Your voice rises, you can’t help it. “When will I see you again?”

“Maybe later,” she replies, almost automatically, as if saying what she thinks you want to hear.

You feel nauseous.

“Later, where? What time?”

She moves toward the door, her hands trembling slightly as she tries to grab her bag.

“Anywhere. Anytime.”

“That’s not an answer,” you say, following her, frustration starting to replace what was once concern. “I thought we had something.”

She stops at the door, her hand already on the handle. She looks at you, her expression a mix of sadness and determination.

“We did. But I can’t… I can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what? Being happy?” you snap, knowing the words will hurt her, but unable to stop yourself.

She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath before opening the door.

“You don’t understand. And I can’t explain it to you.”

She leaves, and you stand there, in the living room, staring at the door as it closes, listening to the sound of her footsteps fading away on the street. The feeling of emptiness is like a black hole, sucking all the light and warmth out of the morning.

—

You're back at work, with sand sticking to your feet as you guide a group of tourists, all sunburnt and wearing ridiculous souvenir caps.

“What kind of creature is that, anyway?” one of them asks, curious, pointing at the dead animal on the sand.

“Look, folks,” you begin, trying to sound more authoritative than annoyed, “This is a jellyfish. Under no circumstances should you touch it. We're in jellyfish season, so they’re everywhere, and they’re not exactly friendly. Be careful if you’re going into the water.”

The tourists murmur among themselves, some raising worried eyebrows, others continuing to snap photos of the creature. You shake your head, a little weary of the routine, and turn to head back to the lifeguard station. As you walk, the waves break gently on the shore, a sound you usually find relaxing, but today it’s just another background noise amplifying your anxiety.

You push open the door to the cabin and barely step inside when a voice explodes beside you. “Boo!”

Your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. You spin around sharply, only to find your dad laughing like a kid who just pulled off a prank. He’s standing there, hands on his hips, wearing that smile that, somehow, never seems to age.

“Geez, Dad!” you mutter, trying not to show how much he really scared you. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack or what?”

Your dad just laughs louder, the kind of laugh that always fills the room with energy.

“Oh, come on, kid. If I can’t prank my own son, who else am I gonna do it to?”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the small smile that creeps onto your face. That’s your dad, always full of life, always trying to make you laugh, even when all you want to do is dive into the sea and swim until you disappear from sight.

He pulls a flyer out of his pocket and hands it to you, still smiling, like he’s giving you a great gift.

“Look what I found out there!”

You take the paper, giving it a quick glance.

“What the hell is this?” you ask, but you already know the answer before you finish the sentence.

“Tonight’s luau! You remember the luau, don’t you? That town tradition, everyone gathering on the beach, dancing, eating...”

“Of course I remember,” you cut him off, tossing the flyer back onto the counter. “But honestly, Dad, I couldn’t care less about the damm luau.”

Your dad pauses, his smile fading for a second, like you just threw cold water on his enthusiasm.

“What? What do you mean, couldn’t care less? You used to love it.”

“That was when I was 15, Dad. Things have changed.”

He looks at you with an expression of disbelief.

“Changed how?”

You shrug, trying to seem indifferent, but Shuhua’s name is stuck on the tip of your tongue, almost slipping out.

“They just… changed. It’s not the same anymore. I’m not the same anymore.”

Your dad crosses his arms, clearly not ready to give up so easily.

“So what? Doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun. There’ll be a bunch of tourists there, hot girls who love a lifeguard. And let’s face it, you need to blow off some steam, son.”

You sigh, your thoughts still stuck on Shuhua. The idea of seeing other girls, forcing a smile, pretending to be interested, feels unbearable right now.

“I’m not in the mood, Dad. Not today.”

Your dad watches you for a moment, trying to read what you’re not saying. He’s seen this look before, back when you were a teenager trying to hide some secret.

“Does this have to do with that girl I saw with you yesterday?”

You shift uncomfortably, the tension growing.

“Let it go, Dad. It’s nothing.”

But he’s not fooled.

“Listen, whatever it is, you don’t have to be stuck in it. Things are what they are, but you can’t let that stop you from living your life.”

“I know, Dad. But this is different.”

“Everything feels different when you’re in it up to your neck,” he says, placing a hand on your shoulder. “But trust me, kid. Go to the luau, relax a little. You might find some answers while you’re there.”

You nod, but your thoughts are still far away.

“I’ll think about it,” you say, just to end the conversation.

Your dad smiles, as if that’s good enough. “That’s all I ask. Now, keep an eye on the tourists. I’m gonna check on the rest of the beach,” and before leaving the cabin, he adds, “Oh, and no taking the ATV out for joyrides, young man.”

“Sorry, won’t happen again.”

He smiles, and you watch him leave, still with that air of unbeatable optimism, like the world is a place where everything always works out in the end. You wish you could feel that too, but all you can think about is Shuhua. Whether she’ll show up at the luau, or if that was the last time you’ll ever see her.

—

Night has already fallen when you finally decide to go to the luau. It’s not so much a conscious decision as it is an automatic reaction. As if your body is pushing you toward where your heart wants to be, even though your mind is telling you to give up. You spent the day searching in various places, trying to find Shuhua, but she seemed to have vanished. And now, with the darkness settling in, the luau is your last option.

You arrive at the beach where the party is already in full swing. The atmosphere is a blend of colors and sounds, like a vibrant painting brought to life. The flames of the bonfires rise against the night sky, casting dancing shadows over the people around them. Groups gather around the fires, some playing guitar, others just laughing and drinking, all immersed in a carefree sense of freedom. The music plays, a tropical beat mixed with the sound of the ocean.

But you don’t belong here. While everyone around you seems light and carefree, you feel heavy, out of place, like a parasite in a foreign body. The laughter and smiles around you hit like acid rain, burning instead of refreshing.

And then you see your father. He’s on the other side of the bonfire, laughing loudly and holding a drink, surrounded by a circle of friends. He spots you and his face lights up with that simple, contagious joy he always seems to carry.

“Hey, look who decided to show up!” he shouts, waving you over to join them.

You force a smile and walk over, but your father already sees the hesitation on your face.

“I’ll stay just a bit,” you say, trying to sound casual. “Unless... something shows up.”

Your father raises an eyebrow, catching your true meaning.

“Something or someone?” he asks, with a look that says he already knows the answer.

You just shake your head, looking down.

“Whatever.”

He doesn’t give up.

“Listen, son, I know you’re going through something. But... wearing that funeral face isn’t going to help. Look,” he says, nodding toward a group of girls by another bonfire, “that one over there, with the short hair, has been eyeing you since you arrived.”

You don’t even bother to look.

“I don’t care. I didn’t come here for the girls.”

“Really?” Your father tilts his head, as if trying to solve a riddle. “Then why did you come?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, more frustrated with yourself than with him. But then he points his chin toward someone.

You finally look in the direction he’s indicating, and your heart stops for a moment. It’s Shuhua. She’s there, as beautiful and carefree as ever, but there’s something different about her. She seems radiant, brighter than you’ve ever seen her. When your eyes meet, she smiles and walks over, her long, graceful legs moving with a confidence that wasn’t there in the morning.

She wraps you in a hug and kisses you, and everything feels strange. Not the kiss itself, but the way she acts, so joyful, so carefree. It’s as if the Shuhua from the morning, the one who was scared and confused, has been replaced by this sunny version, perfect for the luau.

“Hey,” she says, still smiling.

You force a smile in return.

“Hey. You... seem different.”

“Me? No, I’m just enjoying the night. What else should I be doing?”

You spend the next hour at the luau, doing exactly that. Enjoying. You dance to the live music, join a group playing guitar, singing an improvised version of some Jack Johnson song. Shuhua is light, fluid, as if the world was meant to be enjoyed just like this. She grabs two glasses of some sweet, strong drink, toasting with you before downing it in one go. You laugh, drink, dance more. For a moment, you allow yourself to forget the dark cloud hanging over you. For a moment, everything is simple.

But eventually, the fatigue begins to set in. The bonfires start to die down, and the laughter around you grows softer. That’s when you look at Shuhua, and she’s there, leaning against you, still smiling, but with something in her eyes.

“Let’s get out of here,” you say, taking her hand. “I want to show you a special place.”

She looks at you, curious.

“Where?”

“It’s a surprise. But trust me.”

She smiles, nodding, and you both leave the luau behind. The walk to the pier is quiet, just the sound of waves and footsteps on the sand. The pier is old, wooden, stretching out into the sea like a tongue reaching toward the unknown. At night, the place is deserted, lit only by the silver moonlight reflecting on the water below.

You walk to the end of the pier, where the world seems to stop. The sound of the waves is more intense here, crashing against the wooden pillars with a hypnotic rhythm.

Shuhua takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment.

“This place is beautiful,” she says, her voice soft. “I like the darkness... Here, we’re just shadows.”

You watch her, trying to understand what’s going on inside her.

“Shadows,” you repeat, as if the word carries a weight you’re only now beginning to grasp. “Is that what we are? Shadows?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, staring out at the water.

“Maybe. But with the light of the next morning,” she says, her voice low and poetic, “the sun will sweep away the night’s shadows. Forever.”

The silence that follows is heavy, each word a stone thrown into a bottomless well. You wait for the sound, but it never comes. You look at the sea, where the moon draws a silver path across the waves.

“Look,” you say, pointing. “Do you see the silver bridge over the sea?”

She follows your gaze and nods.

“Yes.”

“That bridge,” you continue, your words coming more slowly now, “it can connect us, no matter where you are. Even on the other side of the ocean, there will be a bridge like this. And you can walk across it and come to me. I’ll be here, in this same place. It’s where I belong. And I’ll be waiting.”

Shuhua smiles sadly.

“One day, you’ll get tired of waiting.”

“I learned to be patient from a certain someone,” you say, moving closer to her, gently touching her face. “And I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll be here.”

For a moment, she says nothing, just closes her eyes and rests her forehead against yours, as if trying to etch this moment into her memory. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice full of a sadness you don’t fully understand. “But... maybe you shouldn’t.”

You don’t respond because, deep down, you know she might be right. And there, on the pier, under the moonlight, you stay together. Shadows that, for now, still resist the morning light.

—

You hold her tightly by the waist, feeling her warmth blend with yours as you guide her toward the bed. The surroundings seem to dissolve under the intensity of the looks you exchange. Each breath is heavy with anticipation, each heartbeat a countdown to something inevitable, yet divinely uncertain. Shuhua is in your arms, so close you can feel the softness of her skin against yours, the intoxicating scent of her perfume mixing with the latent desire you both share. This is the last night you’ll have together, and that awareness is reflected in the intense passion shining in her eyes.

When you finally lay Shuhua down on the bed, your hands move with deliberate slowness, touching every curve of her body with an almost sacred reverence. Your lips find the delicate skin of her neck, delivering kisses that are both gentle and laden with desire. You feel her pulse quicken beneath your lips, a clear sign of the effect you’re having on her. Gradually, you move lower, removing the dress that covered her body, revealing her pale, delicate skin. Your kisses follow the path of the dress, leaving a trail of sensations behind. Your lips touch her tits with adoration, your tongue gently exploring every part, feeling the softness of her skin and her unique taste. You continue your descent, kissing her flat stomach, feeling the muscles contract under your touch until you finally reach the place where Shuhua’s desire is most evident. When your mouth finds her pussy, you suck with the uncontrollable desire you always have, each movement of your tongue making Shuhua moan with pleasure.

“I’m so wet for you,” she whispers, her voice thick with need and excitement, her body arching involuntarily with each new wave of pleasure.

Your response to her desire is immediate. You begin to remove your clothes, your cock already fully hard, pulsing with the need to be inside her. Shuhua, with a look that mixes lust and expectation, turns onto her stomach, her body’s muscles tense and ready.

“Fuck me now,” she begs, her voice husky, almost a moan, as she adjusts herself for perfect access. You climb onto the bed, kneeling behind her, your entire body alert, every nerve pulsing with the desire to possess her. When you finally enter her, the sensation is almost overwhelming. Shuhua’s pussy is incredibly tight, her legs slightly closed, amplifying the intensity of each thrust. You grab her ass firmly, feeling the soft, firm flesh under your hands, and start thrusting with fierce passion. Each thrust is deep and deliberate, drawing moans from Shuhua that fill the room like an erotic melody.

“Spank me... spank my ass,” she pleads, her voice almost desperate, and you obey, delivering slaps that make her pale skin flush with a bright red. The feel of your hand meeting her flesh is hypnotic, and every time you spank her, she responds with more moans, more pleasure.

“Like that... harder,” she demands, and you do exactly what she wants, feeling the connection between you deepening with each new slap, each new thrust.

With your cock now fully lubricated by Shuhua’s wetness, an irresistible desire to go further takes over you. Without warning, you guide your cock to her ass, the tight entrance offering a resistance that only heightens your excitement. The gasp of surprise and lust that escapes Shuhua’s lips is like fuel to the fire inside you.

“So good,” she murmurs, almost breathless, as she adjusts to the new rhythm. “It feels so good... fuck me deeper,” she begs, her voice trembling with pleasure. You lean over her, lying on top of her, your weight pressing her into the bed as you continue to penetrate her. The movements become even more intense, and you feel Shuhua tremble beneath you, her body responding to each thrust with a new wave of pleasure. you give gentle nibbles on Shuhua's earlobe, while your moans echo in her ear, an erotic song that makes Shuhua writhe in pleasure.

“I love hearing you moan in my ear, babe” she whispers, her voice thick with pleasure, and you feel the connection between you intensify even more, a mix of love and wildness that you both share without reservations.

The need for a change is instinctive. You both turn onto your sides, you still inside her, each movement smooth and controlled. In this position, the intimacy between you reaches a new level. With Shuhua’s body perfectly nestled against yours, you feel each of her breaths, each heartbeat, as you continue to fuck her from the side. Your hands roam her body, one holding her waist firmly, guiding the movements, while your mouth explores her neck, with kisses of affection and licks of desire. Shuhua’s moans grow louder, more urgent, and you feel her body begin to tremble as she approaches climax.

“I’m gonna cum, babe... don’t stop... please, don’t stop,” she begs, her eyes closed, her lips parted in ecstasy. You feel her body tighten around you, every muscle contracted in anticipation, and when she finally cums, you watch as she loses control. Her body arches, her moans turn into muffled screams, and you feel the wave of pleasure wash over her body, reverberating within you.

With her climax still hanging in the air, you continue, feeling your own pleasure rapidly approaching.

“I’m gonna cum,” you announce, your voice hoarse with desire and need, and Shuhua, still breathing heavily, quickly turns around, her body moving with feline grace.

“In my mouth... I want all your cum in my mouth,” she pleads, kneeling over you.

Her lips close tightly around the head of your cock, while her agile tongue slides and teases, pulling moans from you that echo through the room.

“Give it to me... fill my mouth with your cum,” she begs, and those words are enough to push you over the edge.

When you cum, it’s as if an overwhelming wave of pleasure sweeps through your body, and Shuhua receives every spurt of cum with an almost indecent enthusiasm. She doesn’t pull back; on the contrary, she sucks harder, her tongue swirling around the head of your cock, making sure not to let a drop escape. You watch, completely spent, as she swallows everything, her eyes lifting to meet yours.

“Mmm... Your cum tastes so good,” she whispers as she licks her lips.

“You’re incredible, Shuhua. Fuck… You’re so fucking hot,” and it’s all you can say at that moment.

—

That night dissolved into fragments, like an old film burning at the edges, the moments flickering and disappearing before you could grasp them. But some sparks of moments were still vivid, like when you both ran along the beach, your feet sinking into the cold sand as the salty wind cut across your faces. Shuhua laughed, the sound escaping her as if joy was something impossible to contain. You didn’t know where you were going, only that you had to keep moving, because stopping meant thinking, and thinking was something both of you wanted to avoid at all costs.

You two danced without music, moving to the silent beats that only the two of you could hear. The moon lit you up, turning the sand into liquid silver. She spun, arms wide, head tilted back, her hair floating around her like a dark crown. And you followed her, because there was no other choice, because she was the only thing that made sense that night.

The sea called to you, the waves licking your feet, cold like the reality you were trying to escape. She laughed again, a sound muffled by the water, and you let yourself laugh too, even if it was just a pale imitation of what she felt. You walked back to town in silence, just following the lights that blinked in the distance.

The places you passed seemed unreal, like poorly painted backdrops in a cheap theater. There were lights, there were people, but none of it mattered. You were the only ones who existed, caught in a current pulling you toward each other, keeping you together while the world around you disintegrated.

You remember it now as if it were a dream. The blurred faces, the faded neon colors, the distant sounds. Everything fleeting, so fast that you barely had time to realize what was happening before it was already over. Everything, except her. She was real. She was the only thing that didn’t disappear.

Until you wake up.

The room is empty. You’re alone. Shuhua is gone, without a sound, without a goodbye. She slipped through your fingers this time, point for her. Well, maybe it’s easier this way. But you’re left with the feeling of something lost, something ripped away from you without warning. The bed still carries the warmth of her body, but there’s no one there anymore. Just the echo of what was and what could have been.

You remember her crying last night. Out of nowhere, as you were leaving a carousel, the tears just started falling. She didn’t say anything, just threw herself into your arms, as if she wanted to disappear. And you didn’t ask why because asking would only hurt her more, so you just held her, feeling the tremor in her body, the weight of the impending farewell. She cried again later, when you were both in bed after sex. You wondered how long she had been holding it in, if you were the first anchor she found or just the first one she had.

Now, sitting on the bed, you look at the spot where she was lying. The pillow is still a little damp. Secret tears she couldn’t hide, marks of a sadness you couldn’t heal. You pick up the pillow, holding it for a moment as if it could give you some answer. Something slips from it, sliding softly onto the sheet.

The photo. The Polaroid you took of her the first time you met. Hard to say exactly when she put it there, whether it was the first, second, or last night. Not that it matters, anyway. The sea is behind her, her long dress blowing in the wind, her face turned to the horizon as if waiting for something that would never come.

You turn the photo over and see the words written on the back, in delicate handwriting:

“This is where I stay.”

You feel a tightness in your chest because you know what she meant. This is where she stays, where she belongs. Not with you, but with the moment, the memory, the place that will never move.

She said goodbye there, in those simple words.

And you’re alone, holding a photo that’s now all that’s left. The distant sound of the waves reaches you through the window, and for a moment, you imagine a silver bridge over the sea. A bridge that could have connected you if things had been different.

But all you have now is this fleeting memory, a dream that you’ll eventually struggle to recall, already fading like shadows in the first light of morning.

[captain-tch]

Oscar Worthy Performance (Logan Howlett x GNPlatonicTeenReader)

You get caught shoplifting, and a stranger plays the role of disappointed father

It dawned on you as you were staring at the security guard, him speaking into his radio, that you had royally fucked up. His face was one of stone, his eyes hardening every time his gaze fell back on you, which was often. It was like he was expecting you to bolt. You didn’t blame him, in fact ever since the security guard shouted out down the aisle you had been seeking the perfect opportunity to run. Unfortunately, you weren’t blessed with super speed. Even the usual charming smile you armed yourself with didn’t work, your innocent false words pleading that you didn’t do anything wrong also fell on deaf ears. 

It was official - you were fucked. 

Your only saving grace was that the guard was that conscious of you running, he didn’t risk moving you to the office where escaping was even less likely. You were standing under the fluorescent lights of the supermarket, your coat being weighed down by your responsibility, cursing your minor mistake that brought you into this position. If you weren’t so shit scared of getting caught, you’d cause a blackout - but then he would know you were a mutant. There would be no hiding how your hands would glow as the light was absorbed, or how your eyes would flash with renewed energy. Right now the worst you could get is a slapped wrist, if you played this right, but if he found out you were cursed with the x gene? You’d be lucky to escape alive.

The radio buzzed. The security guard turned to answer it, one of his eyes permanently fixed on you. Sweat was beginning to coat your palms and your heart was jumping out of your chest. You frantically wracked your brain for another option, something other than revealing your powers, only to fall short. Your chest heaved upon realising how royally screwed you were.  

“We gonna call the cops?” 

You swallowed. Anxiety gripped you tight - you couldn’t afford to get caught by the authorities. You were living under the radar and that was attention you definitely didn’t need right now. You were deaf to the response on the radio, your whirling thoughts overriding all of your senses. Your mission would fail, the people who relied on you would suffer and you’d be thrown into prison, surrounded by mutants ready to establish themselves as an authority figure by picking on the little fish, namely you. 

“Roger.” The security guard turned his steely gaze to you. “You’re coming with me.” 

“Please, don’t do this.” None of your words could pass your lips, the words stumbling out. The man just rolled his eyes. “I don’t show sympathy to dirty thieves.” 

A slight weight was lifted from your shoulders. At least he only thought of you as a troublesome teenager, desperate to get the attention of their parents with some petty shoplifting. At least he hadn’t realised that at the exact time you were slipping the tin of beans in your pocket, the lights flickered for a beat longer than usual. 

“It’s my first time, okay, can’t you just give me a slap on the wrist and send me on my merry way?” Your lips curved into a wavering smile. 

The man scoffed. “I’m sure you tell everyone that.” 

“I promise - I’m not lying.” You were. 

“Tell that to your parents when they come down here.” His hand found your shoulder, gripping harshly. He spun you around, guiding you through the store. 

Panic rolled over you in a wave. Your eyes scoured around the store, desperately taking in the surroundings to help you evade your fate. Your gaze danced over the patrons, it was late at night and the store was barren. A young woman pushing a pram, a businessman staring at the vast display of alcohol, and then there was him. A man with a face of thunder, his brown hair twisted in the corners giving him the slight imitation of having horns. His white shirt was stained, a flannel thrown on top not in an attempt to hide the mess, but to emphasise the size of his shoulders and his arms. An idea hit you like lightning and in your desperation you did the first thing that came to mind. 

“Dad!” You shouted, drawing attention to yourself. The two men turned to face you, the businessman dismissing you with a single glance. But the grumpy man, he stared you down, brows tilted slightly upwards. You smiled desperately at him, hoping to convey your message in your slight grimace. “I thought you were at the site all day today.” 

“Um…” He looked over his shoulder, as if looking for an escape. 

A light flickered overhead, your eyes flashing slightly. The man stood straighter, looking between you and the security guard. He cleared his throat awkwardly, walking towards you. “Um…”

“Are you this dirty thieves father?” The security guard demanded. 

The man’s brows lifted as he took you in. His assessing eyes danced over your half worn combat boots, caked in dirt, and your jeans that had holes that might be considered fashionable if it wasn’t for the seams falling apart at the hem.  “Thief?” 

You shrugged. “Alleged.” 

The security guard squeezed his hand on your shoulder. “I saw you slip something into your pocket.” 

“That could have been anything.” 

“Sure.” The guard rolled his eyes, sharing a pointed glance at the stranger you claimed to be family. “Come on sir, you’re coming with us.” 

The guard carried on the journey to the office, his grip slightly too tight on your shoulder. You squirmed under his grip, trying to grab your saviour's gaze to no avail. He looked as though he was being led to his funeral. You wish you could express your gratitude but his eyes were fixed firmly downwards, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. 

A door was opened, and they were led down several corridors. They were ushered into a small room, screens adorning one wall displaying all angles of the store. Fuck, you thought, they updated the security since the last time. No wonder you got caught - you were normally so careful. 

“Take a seat.” He gestured to the two chairs, and you slumped into it. Your ‘dad’ took to standing against the door frame, his arms crossed.  

“Look, this is serious. You were caught stealing. You could go to jail.” You couldn’t look at him, busy worrying at your lips. “But you’re lucky it’s me on shift, I’m a bit more friendly than the other guys in this place.”

“Hate to meet the others,” you muttered under your breath. The guard stared pointedly at you. An apology was breathed out with little feeling behind it. 

“Let’s see what you stole, and we can go from there.” 

Sighing, you reached into your pocket, dropping tin after tin of beans on the table. With each tin the guards eyes softened, and you knew as dire as the situation had seemed, you struck gold. You discreetly pinched your leg, hard, and mustered tears to appear. 

“Daddy’s been working so many hours at the site, and we can still barely afford the rent. I couldn’t bring myself to eat someone else’s trash again - I couldn’t.” You hiccuped, impressing even yourself with your acting skills. “I couldn’t be hungry anymore, is that a crime?” 

You turned your weeping eyes to your ‘father’, allowing your lip to wobble. “I’m sorry, I know you work so hard. I’m sorry I let you down.” 

Your ‘dad’ had a face of stone, nodding his head silently. The guard looked at him expectantly, and ever so slowly, your ‘dad’ walked towards you. He rubbed your shoulder, the only action that could seem paternal whilst limiting any major contact. 

“I’m sorry too.” He grumbled. You thanked the higher powers on your side that the man was joining in on the act, making it all the more believable. For the first time since you had been caught, you genuinely thought you might be okay. 

The guard sighed, pushing a box of tissues towards you. You made a show of taking a few handfuls, wiping aggressively at your eyes and blowing your nose. 

“Look, I know it’s hard. I’ve been there myself. But you can’t do this. I’m going to take the tins back, I’m sorry. There’s some food banks in the area, let me write them down.” The security guard sent you a soft smile, then disappeared. 

You collapsed back into your seat. Your anxiety was ebbing away and all you could do was thank whatever god was watching over you. You eyed the tins on the table, contemplating if he had counted them before leaving. Your fingers itched to slide one back in your pocket; you fought the urge, not wanting to end up worse off.  

“Quite impressive, have you ever considered a career in acting?” Your ‘dad’ commented, distracting your intense gaze on the food, his lip quipping up. 

“Hollywood couldn’t handle this.” You sighed. “You might not want to though, your role of loving and doting father leaves something to be desired.” 

“I didn’t even know I had a child until ten minutes ago.” 

“Funny, my dad said that too.” 

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why the fuck did I even get involved.” 

“Only you can answer that question, bud. All I know is I’m fucking glad you did.” 

He opened his mouth to respond, rapidly closing it when the door opened and the security guard reappeared. He handed you a list with writing scribbled on. The man then turned to your ‘dad’. 

“I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to step up. Your kid needs you more than ever.”

“Noted.” 

“You guys can go - but if I see you here again, I won’t be as kind.” 

“Thank you sir.” You nodded your head respectfully to him, sniffling for extra measure. 

You led the way out of the office, the guard leading you both to the staff entrance of the store and closing the door behind you. 

The pair of you walked away from the employee entrance, turning the corner. You fell against the wall, feeling a huge relief wash over you. You released a big breath, a bright smile lighting up your face. All of the muscles relaxed in your body and the sweat on your palms started to dry. “Wow, that was close.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

“Excuse me?” You huffed a laugh. “I carried that performance, you were merely a supporting actor.” 

“Yeah? From how I see it, without a ‘parent’ present you would be speaking to the cops right now.” 

“Whatever.” You shrugged. “Wanna smoke?” 

“I’m not going to promote teenage smoking.” 

“I’m gonna smoke whether or not you join me.” You dug into your inside pocket, producing a sealed packet of cigarettes. You received a look of disbelief and awe. “What? I wasn’t going to give up all the goods.” 

“Fuck it, I’m already an accomplice.” He offered his hand, and you handed him a cigarette. “Got a light?” 

You fumbled around in your pockets, foraging and finding an old match box. You handed it to the man, waiting patiently for him to light his cigarette. You pulled another one out of the pack, bringing yours to the end of his, watching as the light of flame spread to yours. You jumped up the wall, perching so that you rest your elbows on your knees as you took a drag.  

“Thanks,” he muttered, bringing the cigarette to his lips and exhaling smoke. You copied his motion, silence falling between the two of you. 

“Why me?” 

“Huh?” 

“Instead of the other guy in there.” 

“Isn’t it obvious? He was all prim and proper, you don’t exactly look like a law abiding citizen. Criminals stick together, well, sometimes.” You frowned, finally giving yourself a moment to actually think about what could have happened if he didn’t intervene. “But you didn’t have to - any reason why?” 

He looked at you, then at his hand. You noticed the line of scars perfectly indented across his knuckles. A flash of silver shot out of those scars, then retracted back into his skin. “It’s us versus them, right?” 

“Right.” You shook your head in disbelief - as if you not only managed to get someone to go along with your ploy, but that they also managed to be a mutant. 

“Well, as nice as this was, I’ve got places to be, trouble to cause and Oscar’s to win.” You stubbed out your cigarette, jumping off of the wall. “Am I ever gonna learn your name, or am I going to have to keep calling you Dad?” 

“Logan.” 

“Well, thanks old man. I owe you, big time.” You started to make your journey home, tucking your hands deep in your pockets, when you stopped at the sound of Logan’s voice. 

“Wait.” Logan called out. “Answer me this - of everything to steal, why beans?” 

Your expression fell. “I’m sure you can figure that one out, pops.” 

“There’s a place -” You cut him off, turning your back to him. 

“No thanks, I have my place, you should go back to yours.” You were almost disappointed when you made it to the end of the road and you hadn’t heard a response. But you didn’t turn around, determined to find another store to rob so you didn’t go back home empty handed. 

Logan waited until he couldn’t see your form anymore, the sting of the cigarette burning his fingers as ash crumbled around him in a halo. He shook his head, throwing the cigarette to the ground and crushing it with his boot. “Fucking kids.”

marvel masterlist

[sanguineterrain]

angel of small death | jason todd

Summary: You can't remember what it was like to be human. Until Jason returns. Now, he's the only thing tethering you to this world. And you won't let anything happen to him.

Pairing: Jason Todd x shadow monster!gn!reader

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings/tags: monster!reader, canon-typical violence, codependency, reader attacks Batman, reader accidentally hurts Jason, stalking, suicidal thoughts, crying, hurt/comfort, somewhat happy ending.

A/N: I wrote this in a day so if there are any grammar mistakes please feel free to lmk!

the divider

You feel it when Jason returns. 

No one else seems to. The Bat (his… family?) doesn’t sense anything is different, but you do. 

And just as quickly as you feel him, he’s lost. His grave is empty. You scour Gotham for him, his body, anything. But he’s gone. Stolen. 

If you were more powerful, free from this wretched body, you would find him. Hunt down whoever took him, then bring him back to Gotham, so he might rest. 

For a short day, your limbs had felt like flesh. The void that is your mouth had smiled. You were human again. 

Jason is lost. You scream in mourning. 

He’s back. 

You’re awake.

“Go through the side!”

Hood’s men scramble to obey, armed and ready. They’ve planned this ambush for three and a half weeks. Black Mask made himself scarce after Hood made it clear he wouldn’t leave him alone. You watched in pride and worry as Jason threw himself into his revenge. 

He’s stronger than in your memory. He’s big, bigger than most opponents. Bigger than the Bat. He’s good with a weapon. Good in combat. Scarred all over. Brutal. 

But he’s angry and hurt, and he’s human. He may have the Pit inside of him, but he is no monster. You would know.

The Bat is hunting him. You will tear him apart, if necessary. You will tear apart anyone who hurts Jason. 

You slip through the shadows, letting your limbs stretch as long as they can. They make awful shrieking noises when you stretch too far, and it makes the men below nervous. 

One of Jason’s men looks right at you. You look back. He gasps and runs back to the van.

These men are loyal but they’re nowhere near strong enough to protect Jason. You’d prefer to eat them all, but Jason seems to trust them. So you gut a lackey in a clown mask and silently remain on the highest balcony across the street from Black Mask’s lair.

Once, you permitted yourself to watch Jason in his apartment, in his bed, while he slept. He cried through a nightmare. You tried to chase the nightmare away, but you’d only made it worse. He awakened, sweating and gasping, and screamed as soon as he saw you.

You haven’t revealed yourself since. 

You are lonely. You want to die. You’ve wanted to die for a long time. 

But you won’t. Not before you see Jason home safe.

Automatic gunfire echoes from the lair. You rush to the unlit side of the building. You peer in through the window. 

It’s mostly Black Mask’s men on the floor, bleeding. You slip inside to eat the death. 

“The fuck is that?!”

You look up just as three bullets pass through you. You scowl at the offending gunman, who drops his gun and runs. Rude. 

You wouldn’t normally enter like this, make your presence so obvious. If someone were looking for you, they could easily track you after tonight.

But nothing matters except Jason. 

There’s shouting outside. You soar to the ceiling and through the skylight. 

“Shit, shit, fuck! Boss! Boss, you alright?”

“Shut the fuck up, Garett,” Jason says, helmeted head lolling against the brick. Three of his men crowd him.

You speed to the shadow, carefully avoiding the light casted by the overhead streetlight. You’ve stepped in one before and the fluorescent lights sting.

Jason is bleeding from his gut, where his armor separates to allow movement. 

You creep closer. If you still had a heart, it would beat fast. You remember how it felt. You don’t feel fear often these days, but now you know for sure that it was never gone.

You scream.

The streetlight shatters. Jason and his men cover their ears, shouting in pain. His men start to bleed from their ears. It doesn’t take much for you to strike them down, knock them into a fitful slumber.

“Who’s there?”

Jason immediately pulls out his gun, despite his injury. You try to stay on his side, so he won’t have to see your yellow, bottomless eyes. You’d close your eyes if you weren’t so afraid of hurting Jason further.

“I ain’t scared of you!” he says, and you’d be inclined to believe him if your teeth weren’t peeking out at the scent of his fear.

You swallow and focus on his injury. You stretch your fingers to two thin points. Then you reach into his stomach and pull out the bullet.

Jason yells in pain and fires. You ignore it and keep going. 

“Sssssss-sssor–ry,” you rasp.

Jason turns his head and looks right at you. He panics, trying to squirm away. You quickly hold him down so your fingers won’t rip through his intestine.

“Let go a’me! Let go!” 

He fires until the cartridge is empty. You are crying. 

“Sss-sssor-sssorry.” Then you sear Jason’s wound closed. 

That’s when he passes out, the pain overwhelming him. Black tears run down your face and join the dark. 

As soon as the wound is cauterized, you slink to the darkest corner of the city, inside an abandoned warehouse. 

You let yourself grow into your full form, showing your claws and exposed tendons and the hole in your chest.

Then you cry, cry, cry. The windows explode, the bricks become dust, and still, you cry into the rubble. You cry until morning.

You can’t stop.

You should. You’re fearsome and ugly and Jason is already entrenched in grief. You’ll only make him worse.

But after the ambush, you can’t rest. You have tried to return to the dirt, to where you had lain for so long. You swim to the bottom of the ocean and try to sleep with the creatures there. That doesn’t work either. 

So you follow Jason instead. You follow him every night on patrol. You snipe anyone who gets too close, intending to harm. Jason returns home with a full magazine, most nights. You know he should take care of his adversaries on his own to keep in practice, but you throw up iridescent black oil when you try to let go and not protect him. 

“I know you’re there.”

You’re crouched on an apartment’s fire escape two stories above. Jason has stopped. He’s been frozen for several minutes. 

You look around, trying to find who Jason sees. But the alley is empty. 

“I know…” Jason takes a shaky breath. “I know you’re there. I feel ya watchin’ me.”

Then he takes off his helmet and tosses it aside. He takes off his holsters and removes his knives and tasers and drops those next to his helmet.

You crawl on all fours down the apartment building, claws scraping the brick. You can smell his fear from here. 

You rattle a loose screw at the end of your climb. Jason turns in your direction. He gasps, eyes wide. 

You freeze. Neither of you move for a long minute.

“You’ve been followin’ me,” he says. 

You nod. You’re not sure if he can see you in the dark.

“Who—what are you?”

You crawl closer. Jason wants to move away, you can tell, but he doesn’t.

On your hands, you come up to his head. You wish you could make yourself smaller.

Jason swallows hard, chest rising and falling quickly.

You’re not good at speaking. You used to be. Used to have all the words. Now they’re gone. Your tongue is too big for your mouth.

“I feel… shit, I feel like I know ya,” he says. “You know me?”

“Rrrrrrrob–rrobiiii—robiiiiin.”

He inhales sharply. “Yeah. You knew me then?”

You reach for him. Careful. So careful. You use the blunt side of your claw to touch Jason’s scarred cheek. He’s so warm. So full of light. 

He steps back. Your hand falls. 

You start to cry. You can’t help it. 

Your claws dig into the pavement, tearing through asphalt. 

“Waaaan–wantttttt. Tttt. Jaaaayy. WAN—TTTT. WA—JAY. WANNN—”

You try to speak softly, but it comes out like a shriek. Jason grunts in pain, covering his ears. Red seeps through his fingers. 

You stumble backwards at the sight. You must go. You must try again and see if the ocean will take you.

“Wait! Wait, wait!”

Jason runs around, holding up his hands in front of you. You stop, black tears pooling into a puddle at his feet.

“It’s okay. It’s alright. I know you.”

You want to speak but you’ll hurt him if you do. So you cry in silence. Jason waits.

“‘S okay,” he says again. “You didn’t do it on purpose. Shh, shh. Don’t cry.”

His fear is lessened. Not gone, but not grown. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “Hey, honey.”

The tears keep falling. Jason keeps waiting. 

“‘Course I remember ya,” he says, and pets you where your cheek should be. “How could I forget you?”

You moan quietly. It doesn’t hurt Jason this time.

The night that the Bat finds Jason brings a thunderstorm with it.

You’ve followed Jason for weeks now. He’s no longer afraid when he catches glimpses of your endless mouth and shapeless eyes. Sometimes, on patrol, you get nervous. When you’re too close to people, to noise, you get restless. You want to run, but you can’t, because Jason will be alone. And so will you. 

Jason has begun to hum when you get nervous. You get closer when he does, looming over him, but he no longer smells like fear.

“Y’smell like peaches, y’know that?” he’d said a few weeks ago. 

You’d just pitched your head lower to show you were listening. 

“Yeah,” Jason had said. “Like peach pie. I was so confused the night you removed the bullet. Craved peach pie for days. Ain’t that the weirdest shit you’ve ever heard?”

Honestly, yes. After everything, that is definitely the weird part.

“Gooo—g-g…” You’d swallowed, frustrated. Jason had hummed.

“‘S okay,” he’d said. “‘M listening. Take your time.”

So you’d tried again. “G-good?” 

“Yeah, honey. Oh, yeah. So good. You’re so good.”

That hadn’t been what you meant. But you’d gotten the feeling Jason knew what you were asking and decided to answer another question anyway.

It’s pouring tonight. The rain doesn’t bother you, but if lightning starts, you may have to retire for tonight. 

That’s only in an extreme circumstance, however. For now, you’re right there with Jason. 

“Shit, ‘s really comin’ down, huh!” Jason shouts over the rain. 

He swings to a rooftop and almost slips on water. You rush to him, but he holds up a hand, laughing.

“‘M fine, ‘m fine. I gotta finish the southside. You can dip if you want.”

You don’t respond. Jason sighs.

“Alright, fine. C’mon.”

You’re two blocks into the southside when a dark blob lands in front of Jason. You stay hidden, eyes sharp. 

The blob is a man. The Bat. 

“Jason,” Batman says. Jason stiffens.

You feel a screech working its way out, but you stop it for Jason’s sake. You will intervene if he needs help.

Both of their fear levels have shot up. 

The Bat steps forward. “You lied to me, Jason. I can’t believe it’s you going around Gotham killing—”

“Oh, you can’t?” Jason spits. “You can’t believe your little bird that’s back from the dead is angry that no one fuckin’ cleaned up this city? The clown is still alive, Bruce!”

Thunder cracks the sky. You stay silent, keeping your grip on the side of the building light. You’d offered to kill the Joker for Jason. Ki–lllll clo–own? K–ill?

But Jason had told you no. Had said that it wasn’t your responsibility. So you’d refrained. 

The Bat is quiet for a moment. Then, “I’m sorry, Jason. I know you’re upset, but—”

“Fuck you. I don’t wanna hear your attempts at peacemaking. I’m not gonna stop no matter what you say.”

“Jason,” the Bat says. “You have to stop killing.”

“The only way I’m gonna stop is if you kill me.”

You scramble down as soon as you hear armor clash. A batarang strikes Jason’s chestplate. Jason’s increasingly aggressive, forcing the Bat to defend himself harder. 

Thunder strikes again. Jason knows all of the Bat’s weak points. And while the Bat is distracted, it doesn’t stop him from fighting well.

The moment the Bat draws blood, you stalk out of hiding and howl.

Three streetlights explode as you grow to your full, terrifying size. Both the Bat and Jason cover their ears. You slam the Bat down on the ground, claws shredding his cape and suit. You’re furious. You will kill.

One of your claws punctures the Bat’s thigh. He shouts in pain. You’ll tear him apart for making Jason bleed.

Rain beats down on you. You heave over the Bat, shaking with fury. 

“Stop! Fuck, fuck. Stop it!”

Jason pulls at your arm, which is nearly the size of his entire body. His helmet is cracked, his exposed eye bloodshot. That rekindles your anger, but Jason quickly intercepts. 

“Stop, please. It’s okay. I’m okay. Don’t kill him, please. Don’t kill.”

“Miiiiii—m—miiii-ine. Mine.”

Jason nods. He pulls off his helmet and tosses it. 

“Yeah, yeah, I am. I’m yours. He’s not gonna take me away from ya. He wouldn’t kill me.”

The Bat coughs, spitting blood. “N-never.”

"Mine," you say, tremulous, blood under your claws. "My Robin."

Jason shakes you. "Yours. I'm yours. C’mon, peach. C’mon, love.”

It would be so easy to end it now. End you and the Bat. And you would do it if you didn’t think it would end Jason too.

His fear is high. You pull your claw out of the Bat, who groans. You let Jason lead you away. He holds your darkness.

“Scaaaar—sc-ared. Scare-d?”

“Yeah,” Jason admits. “Little bit.”

You close your eyes. “Ba-ad.”

“No, honey. You’re not bad. You’re scared.”

You dig your claws into the roof, cracking the concrete. You let yourself shrink, so Jason can wrap his arms around your neck. You don’t trust yourself enough to touch him back. 

He’s crying. Jason is crying.

You pull back a little, so you can see his face. 

“Cr-y,” you say, feeling like weeping yourself. “Cry cr-y c-ry.”

You want to say so much more, but you can’t. Your words are gone. You know Jason doesn’t judge you for that, but you need to tell him. Tell him how you feel.

You lick Jason’s cheeks. They taste like salt and rainwater. You lick more. Lick until he stops crying.

“Son,” the Bat says behind you. 

“‘S okay, B,” Jason says. 

Rain drips down his face and suit. He’s beginning to shiver. You try to shield him as best as you can. 

“We’re okay,” Jason says, this time just to you.

“Sc-scaare—”

“No, no. Hey, peach. ‘M not scared. Y’hear me?”

You slowly drape your arms over Jason’s back. He strokes your wrist that droops and stretches unnaturally. 

“Yeah. You know me. I’ve never been afraid of the dark.”

[ghsface]

BUT WHEN YOU GET ME ALONE, IT'S SO SIMPLE | spencer reid

Sumary: After years of friendship you decide to ruin it for good

Warnings: (18+ MDNI) soft!dom spencer, oral sex (f), semi-public, p in v sex, If I'm missing something, let me know

Word count: idk i just started writing and i couldn't stop

Author's note: So this is my first smut I hate it but I like it at the same time, tell me what you think, I also have so many things to publish, tell me if you want to be on my tag list, I'm sorry if there are misspelled words or spelling mistakes, my first language is not English🎀

The clock struck nine at night and the FBI office in Quantico was unusually quiet. The fluorescent lights flickered occasionally, adding a touch of surrealism to the atmosphere. You had decided to stay a little later to finish a report that had been piling up on your desk for days.

In the distance, you could see the tall, thin figure of Spencer Reid, still absorbed in his work. Ever since you joined the team, you had felt an undeniable attraction to Spencer. His intelligence, his unique way of being, and his charming shyness had captured you from the first moment.

You had noticed that your eyes met more often than you considered casual, and every interaction, no matter how small, left a mark on your mind.

There was something about Spencer that attracted you in a way you couldn't explain.

The way his eyes lit up when he talked about something he was passionate about, or the way he bit his lip when he was focused on his readings.

He was a man who hid so much depth behind a facade of calmness and analysis.

That night, as you went over your notes, your thoughts inevitably drifted to him. You imagined what it would be like to be close to Spencer, to feel his warmth, his touch. The thought made you smile and sigh at the same time. You decided that tonight could be different.

Maybe it was time to break down the barriers and see what lay beyond the furtive glances and accidental brushes.

You stood up from your desk and walked to the section of the office where Spencer was working. He looked up at the sound of your footsteps, and his eyes met yours. The spark in his gaze gave you the courage you needed to move forward.

“Hey, Spence,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm as your heart pounded. “You staying late too?”

“Yeah,” he replied, with a smile that made your knees weak a little. “I’m just finishing up going over some cases. How about you?”

“Same here,” you lied lightly, feeling your true intentions reflected in your eyes. “I thought I’d take a break and check on you.”

The conversation flowed naturally, but the tension between you was palpable. Every word, every gesture, seemed to be laden with deeper meaning. When you both realized the office was completely empty, the atmosphere changed. Spencer leaned a little closer to you, and you responded by moving closer as well.

“I’ve always felt like there’s something between us,” you murmured, your eyes locked with his. “Something that goes beyond simple friendship.” Spencer nodded, his expression serious but filled with emotion.

“I’ve felt it too,” he confessed. “But I never knew if you felt the same.”

Without thinking, you moved closer and took his hand. “So what do we do about it?”

Spencer didn’t respond with words. Instead, he gently led you towards one of the empty offices. He closed the door behind you, creating a small haven of privacy in the middle of the vast building.

The room was dark, lit only by the dim light coming in from the hallway. Spencer looked at you with an intensity you had never seen before. His hands found your face, and his lips landed on yours in a kiss that was gentle at first, but soon became more passionate and urgent.

Your hands slid down his back, feeling the firmness of his muscles beneath his shirt. Spencer responded with equal intensity, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You found yourself lost in the feeling of being so close to him, of feeling every beat of his heart against yours.

The kiss broke briefly, and Spencer looked at you with a mix of desire and tenderness. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he murmured, his voice husky with emotion.

“Me too,” you replied, before pulling him back to you.

Clothes quickly came undone, each item of clothing falling to the floor in deliberate oblivion. The touch of his skin against yours was electrifying, every caress, every kiss, igniting a fire inside you that you didn't know existed. Spencer's hands explored your body with a mix of urgency and gentleness, as if he were discovering a hidden treasure.

His fingers found the clasp of your blouse, sliding it down deftly. You felt his breathing quicken as did yours. You helped yourself to get rid of Spencer's shirt, revealing his firm, sculpted torso. Your hands ran over his chest, enjoying the feel of his skin under your fingers.

Spencer led you to the office couch, and gently laid you down, placing himself on top of you. His hands explored every corner of your body, from your neck to your hips, and your sighs mixed with his in a symphony of desire. Every movement, every touch, was a declaration of love and desire, a testament to the deep connection you shared.

“This is more than I ever imagined,” you murmured, feeling the pleasure build with each caress.

“I know,” Spencer replied, his eyes filled with adoration as he looked at you. “This is just the beginning.”

His lips trailed down your neck, leaving a trail of heated kisses in their wake. His tongue traced circles over your skin, sending shivers of pleasure along your spine. When his lips found the edge of your bra, Spencer paused, looking up at you with a silent question in his eyes.

You nodded, giving him permission to continue. In one deft move, Spencer unclasped your bra, freeing your breasts. His lips found one of your nipples, sucking and licking until a moan escaped your lips. Meanwhile, his hands continued to explore your body, sliding down your sides and down to your thighs.

Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging gently as he continued to torture you with his mouth. Every lick, every soft bite, sent waves of pleasure straight to your core. You could feel the wetness pooling between your legs, desire burning inside you with an intensity you had never experienced.

Spencer moved down, his lips trailing kisses from your breasts to your belly. He paused briefly to unbutton your pants, sliding them and your panties down your legs. You found yourself completely naked under his intense gaze, vulnerable yet aroused for what was to come.

His lips found the inside of your thighs, kissing them softly before moving to your center. When his tongue finally made contact with your clit, a cry of pleasure escaped your lips. Spencer alternated between licking and sucking, bringing you to the edge again and again without letting you fall.

“Please, Spencer,” you begged, desperately needing more.

He looked up, his eyes dark and filled with desire.

“I want you to enjoy every second of this,” he said, his voice husky and laden with passion.

With those words, he slid up, aligning his erection with your entrance. He looked at you once more, seeking confirmation. You nodded, and he thrust slowly, filling you completely. The feeling of him inside you was overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure that left you breathless.

Spencer began to move, his thrusts slow and deep at first. You could feel every inch of his length, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through your body. Your nails dug into his back, your moans filling the room as he increased the pace.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice cracking with effort. “I’ve never felt anything like this before.”

“Me neither,” you replied, your voice barely a whisper. “Don’t stop, Spencer.”

His movements became faster and stronger, each thrust bringing you closer to climax. You could feel the heat building in your belly, a delicious tension threatening to boil over at any moment. Spencer leaned into you, his lips finding yours in a hungry, desperate kiss.

When you finally reached orgasm, your body arched beneath him, a cry of pleasure tearing through your lips. Spencer kept thrusting, bringing you to a second climax before letting go, his own orgasm exploding inside you.

You both collapsed onto the couch, breathing heavily as you tried to recover. Spencer held you close, his hands gently caressing your back as you rested your head on his chest.

“That was amazing,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his skin

“Yes, it was,” he replied, his voice filled with satisfaction. “I love you.”

"I love you too spence,” you said, feeling overwhelming happiness knowing that you had found something truly special.

You stood there for a while, enjoying the closeness and newfound intimacy. You knew this would change everything, but you were both ready to face whatever came. Spencer looked at you with a satisfied smile and you smiled back, feeling a happiness you had never experienced before.

“I think we should head back before someone misses us,” he finally said, with a soft laugh.

“Yeah,” you replied, though a part of you wanted to stay there forever. You quickly dressed, adjusting your clothes and hair before leaving the empty office. As you returned to the main area, a few coworkers glanced at you curiously, but no one said anything. The spark in your eyes was enough to make everyone understand that something significant had happened.

The next few days were filled with knowing glances and secret smiles. The connection between you had deepened, and though you tried to remain professional, it was hard not to let your feelings seep into every interaction.

One night, after a particularly long meeting, Spencer invited you over to his house for dinner. You eagerly accepted, knowing that this would be another chance to explore your relationship.

The dinner was intimate and relaxed. You talked about everything and nothing, enjoying each other’s company without the pressures of work. After dinner, you sat down on the couch, and Spencer pulled you close to him.

“I love you,” he said, his words filled with sincerity and emotion.

“I love you too,” you replied, feeling your heart fill with indescribable joy.

The kiss that followed was slow and deep, filled with the promise of a future together. Spencer led you to his bedroom, and that night, you gave yourselves over to pleasure and love again, knowing you had found something truly special.

Over time, your relationship grew stronger. You learned to balance work and personal life, finding ways to support each other both professionally and personally. The team noticed the change, but everyone stood by you, knowing you had found something rare and beautiful.

Every day with Spencer was a new adventure, a chance to discover more about him and yourself. The passion and connection you shared never waned, and together, you faced every challenge that came your way.

And so, what began as a silent attraction in an empty office turned into an epic love story, one that neither of you had anticipated but one you both embraced with your entire being.

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly☆

[sixtysixproblems]

disaster ramble about my headcanons for how the batch got their names & etc*

*this is related to a fic of mine (fluorescent mistakes/mistakesverse), tho having read it is 100% unnecessary to understand the post, and I'll likely use some of these for other fics as well.

the only HCs you (sort of) "need" to know is cody, fox, and wolffe are "triplets", and i say fuck canon and Rex is 3 years (1.5 years) younger than CC batch. bits in italics/blue are less applicable outside of the fic itself, but still make sense without the context or i give the context.

Cody (Kote) - got the name Kote pretty young, changed it to Cody tho around 16-17ish?

>Jango gave it to him, when he was 10ish..? Possibly even a little younger. Jango intended as more of a nickname for just him to use, but obv it didn’t stay that way. Was very proud of "earning it" for a long time. >Changed it to Cody later in a not-so-subtle rebellion against Jango/the Kaminoans, and partially in an attempt to choose something for himself/have a part of his identity outside of his skill as a commander. >Still uses Kote on very rare occasions with the batch and other old friends from kamino ONLY (only exceptions to use it more being Fox who gets to call him Kot'ika, Rex who get a free pass for anything/everything) >his name backstory is probably most plot relevant cause his arc deals a LOT with identity issues & such. Might even have a flashback to him snapping at Jango that "it's cody now" > The final nail in the hammer for changing it was probably Ponds getting reconditioned**, and him partially blaming Jango for it :(

Fox - before rex was around (so pre 13)

>Got called a “fox” due to him being a sneaky clever bastard, but it wasn’t a nickname until he made it one >chose it not long after cody,  probably? >this was a pretty big deal since it wasn't a) widely used by trainers, mostly other vode, and b) he made it clear it was his name. not a nickname, not a title, his name, as opposed to his designation number >I'm considering backstory that him & colt worked together to come up with the idea to bulshit the kaminoans with "it's actually more tactically useful in battle to have recognizable nicknames for the clones", which is true, but also to limit consequences for getting caught using names. >in addition to joint guilt in the creation of Ponds's name, he's also responsible for Thorn's name by repeatedly calling him a "prick" and "thorn in my ass" on kamino (tho that's it's own post lmao).

Wolffe - before rex was around (so pre 13)

>inspired by fox, but also spells it that way to spite fox (cody gave him the idea for it lol) >cody was annoyed that wolffe clearly chose it to match fox (bitey twins, lol) since they're supposed to be triplets. wolffe enjoys pissing him off but didn't want him to feel actually left out...so cody got to help with the god awful spelling. >confused some people into thinking it was pronounced "wolf-y". this is brought to you by my friend reading fluorescent before any other piece of star wars media and assuming that. >i love the potential meaning u can take from it of him being family/"pack" oriented and how that translates over to him being very loyal, protective, etc. Aka on the surface level he's this scary grumpy guy, but deep down is just a bit of a softie/just wants to keep his family safe. >but on a less serious note, i also love all the jokes i can make cough cough omegaverse

Rex - age 10-11ish

>encouraged to pick a name out by cody to help cope with being newly reconditioned/placed with the CCs as i imagine there’d be some identity issues after that :(  >perhaps nicknamed king or little prince or smth and that's where he got the rex idea. tho tbh i have no idea >abridged fluorescent lore is that he was a particularly talented/borderline defective CT, tho albiet from a "troublesome" batch. consequently he was reconditioned pretty heavily around 9-10ish, and Jango came up with the great (sarcasm) idea to use him sort of as a "test" of what CTs were actually capable of, and had him mixed into CC training. >this is how he met the batch, after not remembering his own/many details of his life pre-recon. they were supposed to train him once or twice, but predictably adopted him.

Bly - after rex arrived (and rex got his name) but not long after, so 13?

>litterally just chose a name they liked the sound of and thought fit them like a sane person. literally the only one to pick a normal name a normal way out of the whole batch. we stan >i like the hc being short for smth (like butterfly, etc) but i dont think it works for fluorescent :/ maybe in another fic. >possible them & rex worked together to find names that fit them bc i think that'd be sweet. i dont focus on their relationship much at all so maybe a little bonding, albiet in backstory only, is in order. >she's very likely gonna be trans (mtf) in fluorescent (tho it wasn't always the plan + she is not out yet (to herself or others) in the fic itself) so I'm considering implying Bly is traditionally a female/gender-neutral name in whatever star wars culture it's "from" (aka i make shit up) >considering a joke where someone asks her if she's picking a new one after she comes out and she's like "absolutely not, it was so hard the first time i refuse to do it again".

Ponds - last to get one, 14-15ish?

>went by “four” or 54 before he got his name. >Bly sometimes jokingly called him “squared”/ ”square”/ ”cubed”/etc when they were tweens cause of the two fours in his designation number + 64 is a perfect square in math. the vode assumed he'd pick one or one would eventually catch on permanently. >...and then he shoved three separate trainers in a pond, on three separate trips no less, during off-planet training (and since I'm guessing off-planet training was very rare, wtf buddy) >and the triplets went “you know what would be funny” and just. Picked it for him, and wouldn't stop calling him that, and eventually it caught on. And there was nothing he could do about it <3 >**yes, he was reconditioned at 16-17ish. Yay....Not much of a spoiler hopefully? this may somehow be related to why he was the last to "choose" (read: accept defeat) a name, despite being a outspoknen/protective ori'vod nightmare for the Kaminoans. >dw it's not too angsty. they didn't fuck with his memories much, and were trying to change his behavior to be "less inclined to rebelliousness/contempt for authority". And if you've read his arc in fluorescent, you know they failed spectacularly at making him less likely to break the rules. >tbh I think its fitting for (how I write) his character that his name was chosen by his siblings. i think he was and is "salty" about it, but not-so-secretely touched and/or proud about it.

this whole thing was very ramble-y and i'll be surprised if more than 2 people read it, lmao, but i couldn't stop myself. a lot of this is sort of "background" and may not be actually referenced in the fic itself...but who knows.

[ilydeku]

teacher izuku...save me...i need more teacher izuku....

I WANNA BE SAVEDD

detention with teacher izuku

Detention serves as a form of a discipline, to ensure an unruly student would own up to their misdemeanors in a supervised setting. So why were you just sitting there smiling to yourself in earnest?

Well, quite frankly, it didn't feel like it in the first place.

Filling the empty air was the clock that ticked so painfully slowly and the subtle scribbles of a pen from the teacher's desk. But not just any teacher. You steal a quick glance at Mr. Midoriya from behind your arm in wonder of his occupacy, one of the many in succession. Was he looking at you? Working on anything? He was concentrated on something, probably grading, and his expression showed. His focus, the way his eyes trailed, narrowing at minor mistakes and the occasional grin when a paper read reasonably. Ugh, he just looked so good.

The missing assignments splayed out on your desk remained neglected, barely signed by your name and date in effortless strokes. Guess taking time to focus on your own happiness comes with a price. You sigh, propping your arm up on the desk and resting your cheek on your palm. Despite your best efforts to focus on the present moment, your gaze inevitably drifted toward Mr. Midoriya once again.

Within minutes, the classroom began to melt, with him remaining at the focal point. The stark lines of desks, the muted colors of the walls, and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights all seemed to fade into the background. Mr. Midoriya stood out with a clarity that was both mesmerizing and disorienting. There was no doubting it, Mr. Midoriya was one hell of an attractive teacher, in all ways possible you might add. There was just nothing bad any student could say about him. He has everything. He embodied a blend of qualities that made him stand out perfectly: his sweet, engaging personality, the genuine bonds he formed with his students, and his dual legacy as a hero, both past and present.

The blurriness fades away and you're met with the piercing emerald gaze of Mr. Midoriya himself, his eyes vibrant and full. In panic, you quickly avert your eyes in embarrassment, your heart racing.

"Y/n," he directs, his gaze unwavering. After tons of X marks and overly excessive side notes that practically ran off the pages, the pen finally came to a rest as he filed his last graded paper and cleared his desk. "Have you finished any of your missing assignments?"

"Uh- no sir..." you mumble, staring at them with guilt.

"...Over the past 30 minutes, I've just finished grading all 20 of your class's assessments, y/n. Am I keeping you here for nothing?" He inquired sternly, but not so much of hard criticism. Even then he remained as patient and pleasant as he could be. In his voice lay genuine concern behind his words, a silent affirmation that he cared deeply about your progress and well-being. In a way, it stirred your heart into ache at the thought of disappointing him and that's exactly what you were doing. The knowledge that you were falling short of his expectations was crushing, but it also underscored how much you valued his opinion and how keenly you desired to meet his standards.

The silence that followed was thick with the weight of shame. Seconds ticked by slowly, and the distant chime of the hour alarm set on his phone seemed faint and irrelevant. Mr. Midoriya remained resolutely in his chair, his gaze fixed on a spot somewhere between you and the floor, thinking. Instead of eagerly releasing you from detention so he could go home, he decided uphold his role as a teacher and take matters into his own hands.

Mr. Midoriya rose promptly from his chair, with almost deliberate grace. He approached your desk with a quiet resolve, his footsteps clicking against the hardwood floor.

"You know, the grading period for this semester's almost over, I won't even be able to accept these anymore soon..." He stands over you, his figure casting a long shadow across your cluttered desk as he reads through the titles of the assignments. They were WAY overdue, some by MONTHS. Your head hangs low over your desk miserably. Your lack of input concerned him, and he takes a deep breath, his concern evident as he searches for a way to offer genuine support.

"Tell me, what's going on, y/n? Really," Mr. Midoriya asks, his voice low and gentle. He doesn’t stand over you in a domineering manner but instead squats down beside your desk, aligning himself with your level. His posture is open and inviting as he gazes up at you with empathy, his emerald eyes soft and attentive beneath his dark hair.

"..."

"I won't understand unless you talk to me, dear."

DEAR!??///// Your mind screamed in fluster. There was really nothing meant behind it besides a comforting invite, but still!! It made your heart flutter!!

You take a shaky breath, trying to organize your scattered thoughts. "I guess I...I can't focus," you answer hesitantly, your eyes trailing down every detail on his face. The faint, almost imperceptible scar on his cheek adds a rugged charm to his otherwise gentle features. He looked even better up close.

"You can't focus? Why not?" He questioned with a slight tilt of his head as if the answer was somehow written on your face. With the way your face flushed, it practically was.

"..." His gaze was intense, yet so tender. It felt like he could see inside of you and those thoughts of yours that unapologetically swam around him. Maybe he did and you'd never know. You find yourself caught between the comfort he offers and the dizzying effect he has on you.

Before you could open your mouth to speak, he went ahead.

"It's okay," he says softly. "You don't have to tell me..." Mr. Midoriya stood up and glanced at the clock on the wall for a moment and exhaled, deciding his next course of action. He reaches his hands to shuffle all the papers on your desk and sort them into a neat, thick stack.

He sighs. "...I don't usually do this but, tell you what. If you can complete all of these and turn them in to me before class in 2 days, I'll give you full credit," he announces, carrying a hint of encouragement. He smiles warmly as your face lights up in shock and simply nods in confirmation as if telling you 'yes, I'm completely serious'.

"Oh, thank you sir, but...I don't think I can-"

"Of course, you can! You won't get anything done with a doubting outlook like that, dear. Have a little more faith in yourself!" His hand presses against your shoulder softly with a gentle caress and you nod in bashful silence.

AKJSUGDDFYAVDHJAS

"Alright, you're dismissed y/n. Enjoy the rest of your day, but please use your time wisely, okay? I don't wanna see my student in detention!"

Mr. Midoriya truly is a wonderful teacher (and an attractive man).

[imagine-knowing-a-name]

A Study of Silence

Summary: Your life of married bliss is failing. A moment of heated arguing finally reveals the reason Natasha is pulling away from you, so you offer her the choice: stay or leave?

Word Count: 862

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Warning: Angst

A/N: I wrote this at 1am when my flatmates set the fire alarm off, so forgive any mistakes lol. It's loosely based on 'Fluorescent Adolescent' by the Arctic Monkeys.

»»————-　★　————-««

Silence. Then the occasional turning of a page. In your mind, there are three types of silences: a comfortable silence, a suspenseful silence, and an awkward silence.

This fell firmly into the third category, but you made no move to change it - wondering instead how and when such an activity – sitting silently in your wife's presence – had turned from comfortable to awkward.

It hadn't happened just in this session: that was doomed to awkwardness from its start - but a month ago? a year ago? It was hard to recall a single moment of comfortable bliss outside of the early days of your relationship.

Everything had seemed so bright: an Avenger falling for a simple mechanic, a match made only in your dreams… though sometimes you wondered if it should ever have gone beyond that. She'd promised to quit her job for you, retire herself to deskwork upon marriage. "I want to do it," she had promised, "my love for you overshadows any job I do, and if this means I'm not spending months away from you and you're not spending months worrying, then it's an easy decision."

You swore your life to her then, showed her your love and your devotion. That love never faded. But where did it go wrong?

"My love?" you said. The redhead didn't look up from her book; you tried to see what it was, but she maintained her senses enough to shield that from your sights. With a sigh, you continued into the silence, "I was thinking maybe we could cook together tonight?"

She looked up now, fingers sightlessly marking the page. "Again? Didn't we do that..." she trailed off, searching for a memory, a recent excuse.

You finish her sentence for her: "last month? Yeah. I thought we could maybe do some bonding this month too, but nevermind."

"Y/N, we can-"

"You're clearly not interested, Nat, I'm not going to force you, so go hang out with your old Avengers buddies again and I'll make dinner alone."

There was a bite to your words that you knew you'd later regret, but in the moment you couldn't bring yourself to care. Fighting had become the only sure fire way to end the stagnant silences, and these days, neither you nor Natasha were afraid to use the method.

"You always do this," Natasha seethed, "they're my friends. I used to spend my every moment with them, living together, working together, everything! And I gave that up for you! You want me to give up even seeing them too? Would that finally be enough?!"

The silence fell again. A fourth type: one of contemplating, one of heated feelings and unwitting confessions and, finally, understanding. You understood. In her anger, Natasha had revealed the secret to it all, where it had all gone wrong.

You softened your voice, speaking quietly as if your wife were an injured animal, easy to startle. "I didn't make you give that up. I don't want you to give up more and I don't want you to blame me for your choices."

She stayed silent, though her jaw tightened and her eyes focused on a point behind you. You didn't have to turn to remember which picture lies there.

"I love you, Natasha," you confessed again, knowing it could be a last confession. "I love you and I want only the best for you. And if you miss the superhero days, the risk, the team, everything... if leaving that and marrying me is the mistake that's making you miserable, then I'm giving you the chance to undo that mistake. I don't want to be the reason you live your life in nostalgia and regret."

You didn't wait for her to respond, what was the point? Her gaze was still fixed on the picture behind you: the team in its heyday, when they were still young and wild and disorganised. She clang to until she got sentimental, forgetting that you had been the one to take the photo, right before Natasha became the first of the group to settle down.

Her response would come soon enough, you knew, so you went to your room and waited. You hoped for the eventual knock on the door, the long awaited conversation, then either the forgiveness or the conclusion. You hoped all through the evening, even as you cooked by yourself, ate by yourself, and slept by yourself.

A night with the Avengers might have been what she needed to make her decision.

Natasha Romanoff came into your life with a burning passion and a humanity to her that few people could ever achieve. You expected it to last forever, but come morning you realised the truth: Natasha Romanoff was a spy born and raised, and no amount of humanity can ever erase that from her.

Her ring was on your bedside table in the morning, the house left in a state of suspended silence. Natasha herself was nowhere to be found, disappearing like a spy, with no words spoken on the matter.

She had made her choice, just as you had made yours.

You loved Natasha too much to keep her; she loved you too little to stay.

»»————-　★　————-««

taglist: @canvascoloredin

[chimcess]

Bittersweet || myg (1)

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader Other Tags: Grad Student!Yoongi, Undergrad!Reader, Grad Student!Hoseok, Uncle!Namjoon, Doctor!Namjoon, Grad Student!Jimin, Fuckboy!Jungkook, GradStudent!Jungkook, Boss!Seokjin, Yoongi POV Genre: College!AU, Strangers to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, kinda Student/Teacher but not really, Older!Yoongi, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut Word Count: 19.9k+ Summary: When a cynical graduate student meets an overly enthusiastic undergraduate, the air crackles with tension—though not all of it is good. Warnings: Mean!Yoongi, he's extremely rude, like extremely so, prank gone wrong, bitter grad student to the max, strong language, Jimin is a snitch, possible wrong science information (i'm sorry i'm not perfect), sexual tension, reader faints at the sight of blood, unfunny pranks, Yoongi is jaded, he's a softie once you get to know him, hospital visit, non-descriptive male masterbation, reader has a stutter when nervous, Yoongi just being in denial for almost 20k words, kissing at work, almost caught, Jealous!Yoongi, i'm sorry but this JK is kind of a slime ball, Reader knows what she's doing, they're adorable, lots of bickering, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: Another old draft I found buried in my Google Docs! I didn't need to change too much, and it's very loosely edited, so please forgive any grammar or spelling mistakes. This was rather long (and I don't know why I never posted it), so it had to be split into two parts because of Tumblr's new rules. Thanks for reading!

Next

Subject: Undergrad Mentoring From: Seokjin Kim, seokjinkim(at)fhcrc(.)org   Sent: Friday, January 14, 2024, 6:18 AM   To: Yoongi Min, ygmin(at)u(.)washington(.)edu  

Yoongi,  

I’m forwarding an email from a brilliant undergraduate. Have you thought about mentoring a student? I really think you should.  

— Jin  

---

From: ynyln(at)u(.)washington(.)edu   Sent: Friday, January 14, 2024, 2:08 AM   To: Seokjin Kim, seokjinkim(at)fhcrc(.)org   Subject: Undergraduate Research  

Dear Professor Kim,  

My name is Y/N Y/L/N, and I’m a junior in the School of Arts and Sciences, majoring in microbiology. I’m incredibly interested in undergraduate research, particularly in your fascinating work on Helicobacter pylori and its connection to stomach cancer.  

Although I don’t have prior research experience, I’m hardworking and responsible, and I would appreciate the chance to join your team. Please let me know if you have space available in your lab.  

Attached are my CV and transcript.  

Thank you!  

Y/N Y/L/N  

---

Dr. Seokjin Kim Member, Division of Basic Sciences   Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center   1100 Fairview Avenue North   Seattle, WA 98109-1024  

I stared at Jin's email, the words bouncing around in my head. No previous research experience? Oh great! Just fucking great!

As the clock hit noon, I trudged into the break room, where the fluorescent lights buzzed like a swarm of angry bees. It was my little escape, my sanctuary from the suffocating hallways of academia. Hoseok, the only graduate student I considered a friend, was already inhaling his lunch.

I plopped my Tupperware into the microwave, the day’s weight pressing down on me like a thick fog. “Jin wants me to take on an undergrad,” I grumbled, feeling the words stick in my throat.

“Seriously?” Hoseok asked, mouth half-full. He didn’t even bother to swallow before adding, “Have them do the dishes.”

“Oh man, this is going to suck,” I muttered, stirring my mac and cheese with the enthusiasm of a person headed to their execution. “I have to train her, and she has zero lab experience. I don’t have time for this crap.”

The microwave beeped, its harsh sound grating against my nerves. I pulled out my steaming food, the steam rising ominously. “I tried to get out of it, but Jin insisted it’s ‘all part of the training.’” I mimicked his voice, nasal and overdramatic. Hoseok chuckled, nearly choking on his food.

I dug into my lunch, my mind racing. “She’s probably some pre-med trying to pad her CV. Calling our research ‘fascinating’ like she even knows what we do here—just another cookie-cutter student firing off a hundred emails.” 

“Maybe she’s cute?” Hoseok waggled his eyebrows.

I rolled my eyes, ignoring him. My single status was a constant source of irritation for him. He meant well, but his attempts at matchmaking were like trying to fix a flat tire with a spoon.

“I already did my required TA-ing last year, and it nearly gave me an ulcer. I thought I was done with whiny undergrads! This really sucks!” The words burst out, hot and angry. The idea of babysitting a clueless student gnawed at me like a persistent itch.

I focused on my research, hoping it would be my ticket out of this academic purgatory. Mentoring an undergrad was the last thing I needed—a distraction threatening to derail my meticulously planned escape.

After lunch, I headed to the incubator to check on my cultures, the familiar hum a small comfort amidst the chaos. Then I settled at my desk, drafting a reluctant email to the undergrad, my words dripping with begrudging obligation.

From: Yoongi Min, ygmin(at)u(.)washington(.)edu   Sent: Friday, January 14, 2024, 1:05 PM   To: ynyln(at)u(.)washington(.)edu  

Come to the lab on Monday between 8 AM and 7 PM. Bring your schedule.  

Yoongi Min PhD Candidate   Kim Lab   Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center   1100 Fairview Avenue North   Seattle, WA 98109-1024  

This was going to suck.

“Hi, I’m looking for Yoongi Min?” A stranger’s voice cut through the quiet of the lab, and I felt my focus waver. I was knee-deep in DNA sequencing data, desperately searching for a start codon when the interruption struck like nails on a chalkboard.

“That’s him over there,” Jimin, my lab mate, replied. I didn’t need to look up; I knew he was pointing at me.

“CTT ATC GTG ACT…” I murmured; eyes glued to the screen. The code demanded my attention.

A shadow crept closer, invading my peripheral vision. I ignored it, hyper-fixated on the screen.

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” the shadow solidified into the undergrad I’d been dreading. I continued to stare at the screen, unwilling to break my concentration.

“Did you bring your schedule?” My voice was clipped, an attempt to maintain my rhythm.

CGC CTC CGT ATG… There it was! I highlighted the start codon, feeling a small sense of victory amidst the irritation. Finally, I turned to face her. She held a crumpled piece of paper in trembling hands.

The crackling noise of the paper grated on my nerves, and I snatched it from her. A quick scan revealed she had a limited availability. Tuesdays and Thursdays it was.

“Do you want one or two credits?” I asked, filling out her form with practiced efficiency.

“Oh… um… t-two,” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Oh great, a stammerer. I disliked her already. My frustration bubbled beneath the surface.

“That’s ten hours a week,” I said, scribbling on the form. “Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, maybe some Wednesday mornings.” I thrust the completed form back at her and turned back to my computer.

“See you tomorrow,” I dismissed her with a wave, eager to end the interaction. Her stammering was already wearing on my patience.

When I returned from lunch, she was perched at my bench. A laugh escaped me at the sight of her attire.

“What the hell is that?” I pointed at her lab coat, which was covered in hand-drawn bacteria.

She jumped, eyes wide. “My la-la-lab coat?” she stuttered.

Oh great, she’s a fucking idiot.

I took a deep breath, scanning her outfit for safety violations. At least she wore closed shoes and jeans, but her long hair hung loose.

“You should tie your hair up. You’ll be working near the flame.”

She pulled a hairband from her wrist and started tying her hair back. As I walked past, I noticed the back of her lab coat had “Bacteria Rule” scrawled in huge letters.

Bacteria Rule? Is she serious? I wanted to stab my eyes out with the pen in my hand. Who wastes time drawing on a lab coat? Nobody in their right mind, that’s for sure.

Something was off about her—I was certain of it. Concerned about her competence, I decided she couldn’t be trusted with any real work. Instead, I assigned her mundane chores, the kind even a high schooler could handle. It might not have been what Jin envisioned, but it was the only way.

God, I’m already dreading this. Can it be Friday already?

Hoseok and I lounged in the break room, our feet propped up on the coffee table, Tupperwares in our laps. The lack of a proper dining table didn’t bother us; it still beat eating at our desks.

“How’s it going with the undergrad?” Hoseok asked, mouth full.

“I’m pretty sure there’s something wrong with her,” I said, dead serious.

Hoseok laughed, even though I wasn’t joking.

“All she does is nod at what I say,” I elaborated. “Like one of those bobblehead dolls.” I stretched my neck and bobbed my head for effect. “Except she has bangs flopping all over her face when she nods frantically at everything I say.”

Hoseok snorted but kept eating.

“And she stutters! Well, when she speaks, that is. She doesn’t speak much. I kind of like that about her.”

Hoseok chuckled. “Sounds like you’re in love, bro.”

“Fuck you, Hoseok,” I shot back, uninterested. I already knew where this was heading.

“Is she cute?” Hoseok asked, glancing at me with a smirk.

“She’s a baby.”

“Is she a cute baby?”

“Hoseok, she’s… she’s a zygote.”

“Well, maybe with this zygote, you’ll learn how to be human again.” He turned his attention back to his food.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Come on. You’re not exactly social, bro. All you do is lab stuff and occasionally hang out with me and Serena.”

“What are you talking about? I am social.” My tone came out whiny, betraying my disbelief.

“Oh, really?” Hoseok raised an eyebrow, gesturing to my Tupperware. “So social that you prefer to eat alone in the lab over joining us in the break room?”

“Do you even hear yourself? You’re such a dork. I eat in here because the lab is a mess, not because I’m antisocial.” I shrugged, trying to hide the embarrassment creeping into my cheeks.

“Whatever you say, Yoongi,” he laughed, clearly unconvinced.  

I shook my head. I didn’t want to think about this right now. Instead, I grabbed my backpack, bracing myself for the next round of research duties.

After a few weeks of working together, I had to admit—albeit grudgingly—that the undergrad was following instructions better than I’d expected. If I could just ignore her ridiculous lab coat and the way those bangs flopped annoyingly over her forehead, she wouldn’t be half bad. The real annoyance, though, was her constant presence invading my space. But honestly, it could be worse; at least she wasn’t stammering nonstop. Most of the time, she barely spoke, and mercifully, she didn’t ask a ton of questions.

As I walked back from lunch with Hoseok, I was surprised to realize I didn’t dread the thought of the undergrad being in the lab when I arrived. Maybe having her shadow me wouldn’t be the end of the world after all.

Of course, the moment that thought crossed my mind, I jinxed myself. Stepping into the lab, I found her cleaning my bench, and a wave of irritation crashed over me. 

“What the heck are you doing?” I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended.

She flinched, turning slowly to face me, her gloved hands still gripping an ethanol squeeze bottle. “I-I just thought I’d clean up a bit,” she stammered.

“Did you touch my samples?” I shot back, a surge of panic coursing through me.

“Which samples?” 

“Those!” I pointed at the upside-down tubes that had been perfectly positioned when I left, now carelessly shoved to the side. 

“I-I just mov—”

“Did you touch my RNA samples?” Her mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air—an annoyingly stupid fish. “Do you know how labile RNA is?”

“L-la-labile?” 

“Yes! Unstable—easily degradable. The main point here: you don’t touch my RNA samples!” 

“I-I used gloves… I’m sorry,” she mumbled, tears shimmering in her eyes. 

If she started crying, I was really going to lose it. 

I took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of my nose to calm the storm brewing inside me. Slipping on my own gloves, I gently set my samples back in their rightful place, praying I hadn’t lost a week’s worth of work. 

I could hear her sniffling next to me, and I groaned out loud. “Why don’t you and your la-la-lab coat coat go find something useful to do?” 

I listened as she shuffled away, clearly eager to escape my sight. I should have known better than to think this arrangement would work out.

From: Seokjin Kim, seokjinkim(at)fhcrc(.)org   Sent: Monday, February 14, 2024, 6:27 AM To: Yoongi Min, ygmin(at)u(.)washington(.)edu

Yoongi,  

Part of the undergrad training involves more than just doing chores. Cleaning dishes, stacking pipette tips, and capping tubes do not count as experiments.  

I expect your undergrad to have enough experimental data to give a presentation at the end of the semester.  

Jin  

What the hell? Did she tell him I’m only having her do chores? 

Shit, shit, shit, shit. 

Jin was right, though. All she’d done these past few weeks were chores. Aside from that little incident with my RNA samples, she hadn’t completely messed up yet. Maybe I should cut her some slack and give her a real project. She might learn something—or at the very least, realize how frustrating science could be and decide to give up on it sooner rather than later. 

Oh God, how was she going to give a presentation if she couldn’t even say one coherent sentence without stuttering? 

This would be an embarrassment, not just for her but for me too. If she messed up, she’d make me look bad. 

Decision made. I needed to lighten up a bit and actually try to teach her something.

On Thursday, the undergrad was busy with her chores when I approached her, project sheet in hand. 

She looked at it, her eyebrows raised. “What is this?” 

“Your project for the next few weeks.” 

Her face lit up with excitement. 

“You didn’t have to go crying to Jin. I was going to give you a project anyway.” 

Her smile faltered into a frown. “W-What are you talking about?” She gazed up at me, bewildered, but I waved her off, unwilling to explain further. 

“Enough chattering. Those tubes aren’t going to wash themselves.” 

Gotcha, undergrad. Your puppy dog eyes don’t work on me.

It was the first week of real work for the undergrad, and I felt a knot of anxiety twisting in my stomach. My palms were clammy, and my heart raced uncomfortably. 

Am I excited about this? Nah… I’m probably just hungry.

“Do you know what PCR is?” 

She nodded eagerly, pulling out her notepad, ready to take notes. 

I explained how I wanted her to amplify two toxin genes from a set of H. pylori samples that had just arrived that morning from the hospital. Naturally, I only gave her a small subset of the total samples. It was a manageable number—enough for her to play around with, but not so many that I’d be ready to murder her if she messed up.

As usual, the undergrad took notes on everything I said, jotting down even where I pointed out the locations of various equipment. For all I knew, she was sketching a detailed map of the lab in that notepad of hers.

The undergrad sat at the bench, PCR tubes lined up in front of her, the protocol to her left, pipettes to her right, and a rack of reagents looming in the back. I watched her as she stared at everything, nervously picking at the edges of her gloves. 

She was going to drive me insane. 

“Do you know how to use the pipettes?” 

She looked up at me, shaking her head timidly. 

“Why didn’t you say so?” My voice came out louder than intended, and she flinched. 

We were never going to get anywhere like this. 

I took a deep breath and tried again, grabbing one of the micropipettes. “You set the volume here.” I pointed to the rings. “Clockwise to increase, counterclockwise to decrease.” 

I demonstrated, twisting the rings as I explained the display window and where to discard the disposable tips when she was done. 

After a few trials, the undergrad carefully pipetted into the PCR tubes, preparing the reaction with surprising precision. 

She was focused, making sure not to contaminate anything. It was clear she was paying close attention to every detail. 

Skilled hands, I noted, feeling a flicker of satisfaction. 

Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as I thought.

I led the undergrad into the darkroom, where shadows clung to the walls like forgotten secrets, ready to ensnare us. The air was thick with a sharp, chemical tang, buzzing with anticipation as we approached the agarose gel. The PCR products shimmered faintly under the dim light, a hidden treasure waiting to be revealed. Surprisingly, a flicker of excitement sparked within me, a rare departure from my usual brooding.

“The ethidium bromide binds to the DNA,” I explained, my voice echoing softly in the sterile silence. “When we expose it to UV light, it fluoresces an orange color. You’ll see the PCR products light up on the gel.”

She walked beside me, clutching the gel like a sacred relic, her wide eyes absorbing every word. I could almost see the gears turning in her mind, likely wishing she had her notepad to document my brilliance, as if capturing my words would somehow validate her existence.

As we stepped into the darkroom, she hesitated, like a deer caught in headlights, before gingerly placing the gel inside the UV box. She moved carefully, avoiding the pitfalls of air bubbles that could ruin everything. Either she’d done this before, or she had the sense to read up on it. 

Good. I liked a prepared undergrad.

Once she’d set the gel, I instructed her to turn off the lights. The room plunged into darkness, and I leaned in, my heart racing a little faster. Peering into the UV box, I couldn’t help but grin. “Well, look at that. All your reactions worked.”

“Really?” Her voice trembled from the back, laced with a quiver of hope.

“Yeah,” I called back, though the shadows played tricks on me. “Come closer so you can see.”

I waited, but she lingered in the gloom, frozen as if afraid to approach the light. “Come here, I don’t bite,” I coaxed, trying to keep my tone lighthearted.

Finally, she moved, her profile illuminated under the eerie purple glow. Her eyes widened, and a smile broke across her face like dawn piercing through a dark night. I snorted softly, amused by how easily undergrads were impressed.

After she soaked in the spectacle, I showed her how to take a photo of her gel, and we returned to the lab. She began dutifully filling in her lab notebook, and a glimmer of pride swelled within me. That was until I checked her progress later. The notebook was pristine—a meticulous record of her every move since day one. Hope flickered in my chest, only to sputter out when I turned to the last page. There it was, taped prominently: a picture of the gel with “All worked!” scrawled underneath, accompanied by a crude smiley face.

A fucking smiley face.

This undergrad, I thought, definitely had a screw loose.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” 

“What’s wrong with it?” I glanced down at my sweater, a worn piece of fabric riddled with holes—just like my soul. It was what I had been wearing all day, and it sufficed. 

“It has holes in it.”

“And?” I shot back, genuinely baffled. It was just clothing—a shield against the chill of the world.

“Are you making a fashion statement? You do know grunge was over twenty years ago? I know you live in Seattle and all, but I’m not digging the Kurt Cobain look… at all.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I muttered, irritation bubbling beneath my skin. “I’m starting to regret bringing you to this.”

“Relax, it’s just beers with Hobi and Serena,” she said, rolling her eyes like I was some petulant child.

I raked a hand through my hair, but it sprang back defiantly, so I slapped on a beanie to cover the chaos.

“You know, Yoongi, it wouldn’t hurt to wash your hair once in a while. How are you going to meet any cute girls?”

Here we go again.

“Yoonji, would you get off my case? I don’t want to meet anybody.” 

Yoonji dropped in at least once a month, a whirlwind of concern and relentless nagging. She never believed me when I claimed to be fine over the phone. 

It was endearing, in a way, but mostly a burden I didn’t need. My family was my anchor, yet their relentless need to take care of me felt like shackles.

“Okay, okay... let’s go then.” 

“It’s just beers, for crying out loud.” 

“I’m telling you to relax.” 

In the car, I felt her eyes boring into me. “It’s just... I worry about you.” She brushed her hand along my arm, and I sighed.

“I’m fine,” I insisted, but I could see the disbelief flickering across her face. “Really. I’m just tired of school. I want to start real life already. I’ll be twenty-six this summer, and I’m still stuck in this academic limbo.”

“Hell, I’m twenty-seven!” Hoseok said when we arrived at the bar, lifting his pint in a mock salute. “And look at all the fuck I give!” He downed it with a flourish.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I shot back.

“Hey,” Serena interjected, her tone warning.

“It’s okay…” Hoseok waved dismissively. “He’s just got a bad case of graduate bitterness.”

Graduate bitterness... yes, that was exactly it. A malaise that settled in my bones like a persistent chill. I glanced around, my throat tightening as if the weight of my uncertainty was squeezing the life out of me.

I led the undergrad through the winding corridors of the building, our footsteps echoing like whispers in the shadows. She walked beside me in near silence, her gaze occasionally darting down to her notepad, scribbling furiously as if the ink might escape her. If only she spent as much time observing her surroundings as she did with her frantic notes, she wouldn’t need them to find her way back to the sequencing facility.

There was something peculiar about her. She avoided meeting my eyes, her demeanor skirting the edges of unease, a deep-seated shyness that pricked at my irritation. And Hoseok thinks I’m the antisocial one!

As we turned a corner, I pondered the unspoken rules of social behavior in the lab when we suddenly bumped into Jungkook Wand, another graduate student known for his knack for lurking around.

“Min,” he greeted, his gaze fixated on my undergrad, likely eyeing her in that ridiculous lab coat that looked like it had seen better days. Why she insisted on wearing that tattered garment was beyond me.

“We missed you at happy hour,” he added, his eyes still glued to her, ignoring me completely.

Every Friday, the department hosted a gathering that, while lame, at least offered beer. Last week, Yoonji was visiting, and I wouldn’t have dreamed of dragging her into that debacle.

“Yeah, my cousin was in town,” I managed, trying to shake off the feeling of being an afterthought.

Jungkook’s smile widened as he turned his attention to her. I should probably introduce them, but for the life of me, her name eluded me. Panic set in like a cold sweat.

“Hi,” Jungkook said, flashing a grin that felt a bit too eager.

Shit. What was her name again?

The girl glanced up at me, and a flash of annoyance crossed her features, as if she could read my mind. “I’m Y/N,” she said, her voice laced with indignation as she extended her hand. The scowl she shot me could peel paint off the walls.

Y/N. The name landed in my mind like a lead weight. How had I forgotten it?

Before I could muster an excuse, Jungkook was launching into conversation, his gaze lingering on her with a familiarity that irked me. I didn’t like Jungkook, nor the way he looked at my undergrad, so I steered her away from him, back toward the safety of the lab.

Now, what was her name again? Damn it.

The following week, I was knee-deep in sequence alignments at my cluttered desk when the fire alarm shrieked, slicing through the stillness like a knife. I turned to find my undergrad, her wide eyes betraying sheer panic. 

She thought it was real. In that moment, a mischievous idea sparked in my mind. 

“Run, Becca! Run!” I shouted, leaping from my chair.

“What?” 

The color drained from her face, and I couldn't help but laugh as confusion and fear played out across her features— priceless. I doubled over, laughter bubbling out like soda from a shaken can. 

The alarm blared on, drowning out her startled gasp as she clutched a rack of tubes, trembling. “It’s just a fire drill! Relax!” I finally managed to gasp.

She set the tubes down, took a deep breath, and shot me a glare, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “That was not funny,” she huffed, her voice laced with indignation. “And my name is Y/N!”

With that, she stormed off, leaving me with echoes of my laughter still ringing in my ears. 

Oh, being social was unexpectedly entertaining!

The fire alarms continued to test my patience, ringing again and again. Each time, I chuckled at the memory of her startled expression. Now, standing outside for what felt like the fifth time, I glanced sideways at Y/N, who was shifting her weight from foot to foot, hands shoved into her pockets. 

“Want to grab some coffee?” I asked, feeling an odd urge to make amends.

She blinked at me, surprise flickering across her face as if she couldn’t believe I was actually talking to her.

The cafeteria at the library was our destination, and we walked in silence, the clouds parting for a moment to let in the faintest hint of sunshine. 

As we stood in line, I noticed her tense shoulders. Suddenly, she muttered a string of curses under her breath. Before I could react, her arm was around mine, grinning at me like a Cheshire cat.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked, bewildered.

She maintained her smile but released me, stepping in front. “Say something funny,” she ordered, her voice low and urgent.

“What?”

Then she erupted in laughter, leaving me standing there in utter confusion.

She pressed a hand against my chest, and I wasn’t sure whether to be amused or alarmed. Was this how lab partners acted in her world?

But just as quickly as the laughter came, it faded, and she stepped back, looking sheepish, as if the moment had been a strange dream.

I moved up in line to get my coffee. “Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks,” she replied, shaking her head. I decided to drop the subject entirely.

As we started heading back, she caught up to me, her expression suddenly earnest. “I’m sorry,” she blurted. “There’s this guy, Jonah. He won’t take a hint. I thought if he saw me with someone…”

I tuned out her words, her rhythm a blur as I realized just how bizarre everything was.

Could undergrads get any weirder?

Sitting alone on a bench Wednesday afternoon, I savored the solitude when Jungkook appeared, looming over me like a vulture. 

“Min,” he said, his tone dripping with false familiarity.

I glared at him, not in the mood for whatever nonsense he was about to spill. 

“Where’s that cute little thing you were with?” 

“Who?”

“You know, the one in the colorful lab coat.”

Colorful? I snorted, recalling the eyesore she wore.

“She’s not here,” I replied curtly.

“Got her number?”

“Why would I have her number? And why do you want it?”

He raised his eyebrows, a smirk spreading across his face. “You know… you and her…”

I cut him off, anger flaring in my chest. “Me and her what?”

“Is she up for grabs?”

I couldn’t believe he’d come to my lab just to ask about her.

“Jungkook, she’s an undergrad.”

He laughed, completely oblivious. “Dude, have you looked at her? She’s fine.”

“Yeah, and she’s crazy.”

“Even better!” His expression made my stomach churn.

“I don’t have her number, and if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you.”

With that, I shoved my earbuds in, blocking him out as he stormed off, his words echoing in my mind.

Fucking creep.

Even though it was Friday—one of those days Y/N usually avoided—the lab felt off-kilter, like an old, rickety house holding its breath. She hovered at my desk while I pulled up the sequencing results on my laptop. Last night, I’d sent her a simple email, expecting a casual response. But her reply had come back faster than a ghost in the night. She wanted to see the data today.

As we sat there, the silence between us thickened, almost palpable. Her face was a mask of concentration, but her expressions kept faltering, crumpling like old paper. Not that I cared too much; she had to learn that research was 90% disappointment wrapped in frustration.

“Why didn’t it work?” she asked, her voice tinged with sadness, as if she were mourning a lost hope.

“Maybe you made a mistake?” I suggested, trying to sound casual.

“I was very careful,” she shot back, defensive, her eyes narrowing like a predator ready to pounce.

How typical. Pre-med students always thought they were immune to failure, that the universe owed them success on a silver platter.

“It happens,” I shrugged, trying to dismiss the tension.

“I don’t understand,” she said, her brows knitting together.

“There's a reason it’s called research. If you only had to do it once, it would be called a search.”

“So, what do I do now?”

“You start over.”

“From the beginning?” Her voice trembled, disbelief flickering in her eyes.

“Yeah.”

A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she gazed at her notebook, defeated. Her eyes flitted to the calendar on the wall, and her pencil scratched furiously on the pad. “Can I come tomorrow? I want to have cells growing by Monday.”

Her eagerness surprised me. I added “overachiever” to the growing list of quirks that made Y/N so peculiar.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I teased, raising an eyebrow.

“I know that.”

“Don’t you have a frat party to attend?” I quipped, but her glare silenced me, a reprimand that cut through the lab's sterile air. “Fine, come tomorrow,” I relented, knowing I’d be here anyway. Weekends in the lab were the best; no distractions, just the hum of machinery and the click of keys.

“Awesomesauce!” she chirped, her smile lighting up the dim room. I rolled my eyes, annoyed yet impressed by her determination. Maybe, just maybe, she had what it took for grad school after all.

Saturdays were sacred—my little slice of peace amid the storm of classes and lab reports. After a killer morning workout, I made my way back to the lab, my damp hair fluttering in the cool breeze. Just as I settled into my zone, my phone buzzed with a message that snapped me back to reality. 

“Mr. Graduate Student, I’m at the front of the building. Y/N.”

I chuckled, shaking my head at her cheesy attempt at humor. By the time I reached the entrance, I found her wrestling with her hair, tying it up into a high ponytail that looked like it could give anyone a headache just by looking at it. But when she caught sight of me, her face lit up with a grin that could brighten the cloudiest day.

“Very funny,” I replied dryly as I held the door open for her. “It’s Yoongi, remember?”

As we stepped inside, the silence stretched between us, thick and awkward. I considered tossing out a quip about her hairstyle or her lab coat, but then a mischievous prank began to brew in my mind—dark and delightful, like a noxious weed spreading through my thoughts.

“Start your experiment from scratch,” I said, forcing a serious tone. “Could be that my reagents were contaminated.”

Her eyes widened, and I could barely suppress a smirk. It was a complete lie, of course; the old autoclave in the corner was already wheezing like an ancient beast. But picturing her panic was too tempting. 

Settling at my bench, I could barely contain my excitement. But instead of the expected rush of alarm, there was a loud crash—glass shattering like a million tiny dreams—and then silence. 

What the hell was that?

I found her on the floor, surrounded by shards of glass that sparkled like lost hopes. The autoclave hissed and wheezed, steam curling around us like a ghost. I rushed to her side, trying to stem the leak with my hands. 

“What happened?” I asked, crouching beside her. She looked like a wilted flower, her head buried in her knees, eyes squeezed shut.

“Are you okay?” I tried again, dread pooling in my stomach as I saw her trembling hands. Her breath came in quick bursts, and my heart raced. 

She mumbled something I couldn’t catch, her palm pressed hard against her leg. “Let me see,” I urged, only to be hit with a wave of horror: a deep gash across her palm, crimson pooling onto the cold tiles.

Oh, no...

Panic surged as I scooped her up, her fragile body slumping against mine. “You’re okay,” I whispered, the words feeling hollow. “It’s okay.” 

I hurried her to the sink, the cool water a sharp contrast to the rising heat in the lab. She buried her face in my chest, her panic palpable against my shirt. 

“Is there still blood?” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

“Mostly gone. But we need to get to the ER,” I insisted, urgency tightening my tone.

She groaned, eyes still shut tight, her composure slipping away. 

“Please, open your eyes,” I pleaded, gently lifting her chin. I rubbed my thumb along her cheek, trying to anchor her to reality.

“Can you walk?” 

She nodded weakly, but when she tried to stand, her legs buckled. I swept her back up, panic clawing at my throat. 

What have I done? The air felt thick with dread, and I knew I had to get her out of there. 

I carried her to my car, the world outside fading into a blur, as if the universe was holding its breath. Carefully, I placed her in the passenger seat, her eyes still shut like she was blocking out the horrors around us. I fastened her seatbelt, feeling the weight of the moment. "Please say something," I urged, glancing at her, desperate for any sign of life.

"I hate blood," she mumbled, voice fragile.

Relief washed over me—she was talking. It struck me as strange that a pre-med student would detest blood. "Are you still dizzy?" 

She nodded, and my heart sank at her admission. The crease in her forehead deepened, and I wanted nothing more than to smooth it away.

"We’ll be at the hospital in ten minutes," I promised, focusing on the road ahead.

"Would you distract me, so I don’t think about the blood?" 

"I don’t know how," I admitted sheepishly.

"Say something funny." 

"Funny? Okay. It’s pretty funny that you want to go to med school and you faint at the sight of blood." 

"Who says I'm pre-med?" she shot back, and I blinked in surprise.

"You're not?" 

"No, and that really wasn’t funny. Talking about blood isn’t going to help me forget about it." 

Frustration clawed at me as I struggled for something to say. 

"What do you want me to say?" 

"Don’t you know any jokes?" There was an edge of frustration in her voice.

"No." 

"Everyone knows at least one joke, Yoongi." The way she said my name sent a jolt through me, tightening my stomach with something close to admiration.

Before I knew it, I blurted out the lamest joke I could remember from college. "Two hydrogen atoms walk into a bar," I began, watching her lips twitch upward. "One says, ‘I think I've lost an electron.’ The other asks, ‘Are you sure?’ The first replies, ‘Yes. I'm positive.’"

I cringed at how cheesy it was, but when her smile finally broke through, it felt like winning the lottery.

"That was lame," she said, but the glimmer of her smile gave me hope.

At a red light, I risked a glance at her. Her eyes were still closed, but the pale green tint to her skin had faded, replaced by a healthy glow. My heart swelled with relief.

The driver behind me honked impatiently, snapping me back to reality.

"Does it hurt?" I asked, noticing her fingers curling around her injured wrist. 

She nodded, a pout forming on her lips that made my heart ache. I nearly missed a stop sign, cursing under my breath.

"God, I’m such a jerk," I muttered, guilt gnawing at me. I had messed up, all in the name of a stupid joke. I racked my brain for something else to say but came up empty.

"I don’t know any more jokes, but I was good at geeky pickup lines back in college," I offered, desperate to lift her spirits. Her smile returned, lighting up the car.

"This better be good," she warned teasingly.

"If I were an enzyme, I’d be DNA helicase, so I could unzip your genes." 

"Oh my God," she snorted, and I laughed, relieved to see her react. "Did you use that on anybody?" 

"Maybe," I hinted, my chest tightening with excitement.

"Did it work?" 

"No," I admitted, but I was laughing now, and she was grinning, even with her eyes still closed. I was determined to keep her smiling. 

"Oh! Do you like The Police?" 

"The police?" She frowned, confusion crossing her features.

"Yeah…" 

"As in the profession?" 

"No, you dork. The band. Sting's band?" 

"Oh, yeah. I guess." She shrugged.

And against my better judgment, I cleared my throat and began singing. "Every bond you break… Every electron you take…"

Finally, her eyes fluttered open, surprise and delight dancing across her face. I couldn’t help but wiggle my eyebrows, and her smile broadened, banishing the shadows of panic. "Oh, can’t you see, you’re covalently bonded to me…" I sang, pouring my energy into the ridiculousness of it. Nothing felt more beautiful than the light in her eyes. 

How had I never noticed how amazing her smile was before?

We pulled into the University’s Medical Center in under ten minutes, just like I expected. I parked quickly and rushed around to help her out, but she stumbled out on her own, nearly losing her balance. I caught her just before she could face plant onto the pavement—or worse, land hard on her injured hand.

I could feel irritation bubbling up inside me. Did she really think I wouldn’t help? Sure, I was an idiot sometimes, but I still had a decent sense of gentlemanly instincts. 

“Can you walk?” I asked, keeping my hand around her elbow as we approached the entrance.

“I think so,” she replied softly, but I kept my grip steady, guiding her into the emergency room. 

Inside, a flicker of relief hit me—the place was nearly empty, and we should get seen fairly quickly. “Hello,” I said to the front desk lady, who was glued to her computer screen. She glanced up, her expression completely bored, and didn’t reply. Instant dislike. 

“She cut her hand, and it looks deep,” I said, gesturing toward Y/N beside me.

“Name?” The front desk lady’s question hung in the air like a sword about to drop, and suddenly, I froze.

Goddammit…

She didn’t mean my name. My stomach twisted as I desperately searched my memory. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten her name again.

It starts with a B, doesn’t it? I racked my brain, stalling as the front desk lady’s eyebrows shot up impatiently.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” came the shaky voice next to me, cutting through my fog of embarrassment.

God, I was such an idiot! I wanted to punch myself for being so careless.

I looked at her—Y/N—and even though she shook her head, a grin crept onto the corner of her mouth. Maybe, just maybe, I was forgiven. Y/N, Y/N, Y/N… I repeated silently, determined that this time I would remember.

I was convinced that the “doctor” tending to Y/N wasn’t a real doctor—not yet, anyway. He claimed the cut wasn’t deep and that it hadn’t damaged any tendons or nerves. He even said it was clean enough to glue shut, which apparently was a thing now. But my gut twisted with doubt; something about him set off alarms in my head.

Y/N had her eyes squeezed shut, clutching my hand like it was a lifeline while this wannabe physician—Doogie Howser, I mentally dubbed him—cleaned her wound. She perched on the examination table, her injured hand resting on a tray beside her, as I stood behind her, anxiety tightening my chest. In the chaos of her injury and my desperate attempts to care for her, her ponytail had loosened, hanging low at the nape of her neck. A sudden curiosity gripped me: What would her hair look like, cascading down like a waterfall?

“Y/N,” I whispered, leaning closer, needing to say her name again, to engrain it into my memory. “Breathe through your mouth. It’ll help.”

I lingered near her neck, unable to pull away, drawn by something I couldn’t quite name. I tried to find the words to describe her scent—something fresh, like the morning air spilling through an open window—but words failed me. I’d caught a hint of it earlier when I held her close at the sink, but now, in the confined space of the ER, it enveloped me, bringing back echoes of happier times.

Y/N smelled good—no, different. Refreshing, like the world waking up after a long sleep. And I was trapped in this moment, lost in the intoxicating blend of her presence and the sterile smell of antiseptic.

Every time she flinched, my instinct was to lash out at Doogie. I wanted to punch him for every wince that slipped from her lips, but I knew that wouldn’t help; it might just make things worse. I fought against the urge to ask the nurse for someone else to help her, terrified to leave her side. So I stayed, fingers entwined with hers, trying to offer some measure of comfort in the storm of uncertainty.

When Doogie finished and began to bandage her hand, I felt a wave of relief wash over me as she released her grip. I stepped back, taking a breath that felt heavy in my chest. Tension still coiled inside me; I hated that she’d gotten hurt, but a part of me marveled at her resilience. Despite her aversion to blood, she had held herself together with a strength I hadn’t given her credit for. There was more to Y/N than I realized, and that realization struck me hard.

“Listen, I’m really sorry,” I said once we were back in the car, the weight of guilt pressing down on me.

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault I’m such a klutz.” She offered a radiant smile that twisted my insides with guilt all over again.

“So, what happened?” I asked tentatively, hoping against hope that this wasn’t really my fault.

“I was carrying a rack of test tubes when that thing started shooting vapor out. I freaked out. I thought it was going to explode! So I dropped the tubes and cut my hand trying to pick them up,” she admitted, embarrassment creeping into her voice as she stared down at her hands.

I should have known...

“Shit…” I thumped my head against the steering wheel, frustration bubbling up inside me.

“Hey, stop.” Her hand reached up to my shoulder, a gentle gesture that only deepened my self-loathing. “You couldn’t possibly have known that thing was going to start leaking, right?” I peeked at her, guilt etched on my face. She scrutinized me, her brow furrowing as realization dawned. “You did know, didn’t you?” Her hand dropped from my shoulder, and I felt the accusation hanging between us like a thick fog.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry,” I said earnestly, trying to convey the depth of my regret, how much I hated myself for her injury.

“You’re unbelievably cruel!” she shot back, eyebrows knitting together as she glared at me.

She was right, but I felt compelled to explain. “There wasn’t any risk of you getting hurt. The door just leaks a little vapor. I was going to close it after you got scared. It was a stupid joke, Y/N. You weren’t supposed to get hurt.”

“Well, excuse me for ruining your prank,” she snapped, rolling her eyes and turning away from me.

Sarcasm. Just lovely.

“I am truly sorry. Can you forgive me?” I asked, keeping my gaze on her even though she pointedly avoided me.

“Whatever, Yoongi.” She shrugged, irritation radiating from her as she stared out the window.

I wanted to tell her she was acting like a child, but I held my tongue, knowing that teasing her wouldn’t help my case. Instead, I focused on driving, ruminating on how to make this right again.

How the hell do I fix this?

“Stay here. I’ll be right back,” I said to Y/N, trying to sound calm even though a knot twisted in my stomach as I parked in front of the research building.

“This is really not necessary, Yoongi. I’m fine,” she replied, brushing off my concern.

“Y/N, can you please, just for once, not contradict me?” I shot back, frustration bubbling under the surface.

“I never contradict you!” she protested, eyes wide in disbelief.

I fixed her with a glare until the tension between us shifted, and a small smile broke through her pout as I climbed out of the car. Maybe I was getting through to her, even just a little.

I dashed into the lab to grab her bag, but was abruptly halted when I spotted Jimin hunched over her bench. An urge to warn Y/N about the mess brewing in the autoclave room hit me hard. 

“Jimin?” I called, feeling an unusual tension in the air as he turned to me, eyes wide like I’d just spoken an alien dialect. We rarely exchanged more than necessary pleasantries. “There’s a big mess in the autoclave room. I’ll be right back to clean it up.”

“And you’re telling me this why?” he shot back, still looking as confused as a cat in a dog park.

“There’s a bunch of glass… I don’t know. My undergrad—she dropped the tubes. I—” The words tumbled out in a jumbled mess, and Jimin continued to stare at me like I’d just pulled a rabbit out of a hat. “Never mind,” I muttered, eager to escape the awkwardness.

“How’s that for a change? First, you have her doing your chores, and now you’re cleaning up after her,” he called after me.

I spun around to glare at him, irritation sparking. Sure, he was right, but I had bigger problems than petty lab gossip. I left him behind, shaking off the encounter.

When I climbed back into the car, Y/N was waiting for me, eyebrow raised, holding a CD case. My stomach dropped as I recognized it—my mom’s treasured Carpenters album.

“Really, Yoongi?” she asked, her smile widening. “The Carpenters? Okay, cool.” She casually tucked the CD case back into the glove box.

She was teasing me—smiling at me. That had to be a good sign, right? Maybe she had forgiven me after all.

I couldn’t help but let my gaze linger on her face, how her smile lit up the whole car. It was stunning; how had I never noticed it before? A pang of regret hit me for all the moments I had let slip by.

“Are you okay?” Y/N’s voice broke through my thoughts, pulling me back to reality.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just—uh, how’s your living situation?” I mumbled as I started the car and drove off, reminding myself to keep it together. She’s just an undergrad, I thought, shaking off the flutter in my stomach.

As I parked in front of her building, my chest tightened again. I was still angry—mostly at myself—for letting her get hurt. I wouldn’t feel at ease until she was safely tucked inside her apartment.

“Are you still dizzy?” I asked, unable to hide the concern in my voice.

“I think I’m all right now,” she replied, a small grin dancing on her lips.

Would it be weird if I walked her to her door? Did guys still do that? It had been ages since I’d been on a date. What was the protocol these days?

What the hell am I thinking? This isn’t a date.

But she didn’t look a hundred percent. Maybe carrying her bag would help. I climbed out of the car, and she shot me a bewildered look as I opened her door.

“I’ll feel better once I know you’re safe inside,” I insisted, my voice firm.

“I’m fine. You don’t hav—”

“Please, humor me,” I interrupted.

Y/N hesitated, then took my hand as she stumbled out of the car. I grabbed her backpack, and we walked inside together, a strange sense of connection warming the air between us.

At her door, she paused, her hand hovering over the doorknob. When she turned to look at me, her brown eyes sparkled with something I couldn’t quite pin down.

“I’ll see you Tuesday then,” I said, handing her the bag.

“Yes. Tuesday.” Her gaze flickered up through her long lashes, and I was momentarily mesmerized. “Not Monday.” A playful grin crept across her face, and I felt my breath catch at the sight of her eyes crinkling with delight. “You know why not Monday?”

I was still entranced by her smile and completely missed the point she was trying to make. “Because rainy days and Mondays always get me down,” she said, and heat rushed to my cheeks.

Great… she’s making fun of me.

I took a deep breath and snorted, forcing myself to look away from her lips. “You’re such a dork, Y/N. How long have you been waiting to say that?”

“Too long.” Her giggle sent my heart racing, a rhythm I couldn't ignore.

“Good night, Y/N,” I replied, managing a smile despite my racing heart.

As I walked back to my car, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window and was horrified to find myself grinning like a fool. I frowned and climbed inside, but before I could drive away, I pulled my mom’s CD from the glove box, popped it in, and began to hum along.

Why do birds suddenly appear… every time… you are near?

I slammed on the brakes and hit the eject button.

Holy shit, what the hell is wrong with me?

Thankfully, when I returned to the lab, Jimin was gone. I started cleaning up the autoclave room, picking up shards of glass and mopping away the blood from the floor. As I worked, I spotted Y/N’s lab coat next to the sink, and my heart sank. It didn’t look festive anymore; it resembled a tattered Halloween costume.

Shit… She loved that ridiculous thing, and now it was ruined.

Before I knew it, I found myself washing the lab coat. I tried everything, even bleach. When I was done, the blood stains had vanished, but so had the whimsical bacteria drawings she’d painstakingly decorated it with.

Fuck my life...

When Hoseok called, I told him the chances of me making it to Serena’s party were slim. “I’m stuck in the lab and still have a long way to go,” I said, leaving out the details of my time spent doodling on a lab coat that now looked like a toddler’s art project. I also didn’t mention that I was starting Y/N’s experiment along with my own.

After inspecting the now-ruined lab coat, I realized I couldn’t give it back to her. Tossing it felt wrong, though—I’d just spent hours on the damn thing. So, I wrapped it in a plastic bag and tucked it under my desk, trying to forget it existed.

I left the lab after two in the morning, exhausted but restless. My mind buzzed with thoughts, not about experiments this time, but about Y/N—how she had gotten hurt because of me, and yet she hadn’t unleashed her fury. Somehow, she felt bigger than this. Bigger than me.

God, I’ve been such an asshole.

Images of her haunted me throughout the night. The way she smiled at my lame jokes, how she laughed at my terrible rendition of “Every Breath You Take.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sung to someone, not since my mom had forced me to sing The Carpenters with her. I turned over in bed, a smile creeping onto my face at the memory.

I didn’t have to be a jerk to Y/N anymore. I didn’t want to be. It wasn’t her fault grad school was a pain. If anything, having her around made it bearable. Maybe I could lighten up a bit… or maybe we could both learn something from this. No, I wanted to be nicer to her. I wanted to see her smile.

I want to make her smile?

First The Carpenters, now this?

When did I turn into such a marshmallow?

Monday night in the dingy gym felt like a scene straight out of a bad movie. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a harsh, sterile glow that did nothing to uplift the atmosphere. Hoseok and I were at the bench press, trading off sets like two battered soldiers in a war that would never be chronicled. I stood behind him, bracing for the weight, but my gaze was pulled away, caught in the orbit of something infinitely more captivating.

There she was—Y/N—effortlessly gliding on the treadmill like she was born to run. Her ponytail swung rhythmically with each stride, a pendulum marking the time as she jogged. My breath hitched, a tightening in my chest as I let my eyes wander down her back, tracing the delicate curve of her spine. And then—oh God—those shorts. Tiny and black, they hugged her body in a way that made my heart race uncontrollably.

The fabric didn’t just cling; it cradled her curves, indenting just enough in the middle to draw the eye downwards. I could almost feel the heat radiating off her skin, my mind spiraling into places I really didn’t want it to go.

“Dude! Hold the bar, would ya?” Hoseok’s voice jolted me from my daze. I blinked hard, shaking off the spell as I refocused on the weights pressing down on him.

“Right, sorry,” I mumbled, fumbling with the bar as I lifted it off him.

Hoseok wiped the sweat from his brow, the glistening drops catching the unforgiving light. I tried desperately to keep my thoughts in check, to suppress the smirk that threatened to creep onto my face, but my eyes betrayed me, fixating once more on Y/N’s ass as it bounced with every determined step on the treadmill.

“What is it?” Hoseok shot me a sideways glance, amusement dancing in his eyes. He knew. Damn him. “You look like a kid in a candy store.”

“Nothing,” I shot back, the word cracking like ice beneath my weight. I raked a hand through my hair, feeling more like a deer caught in headlights than a man. “That’s... um... that’s my undergrad.”

“Your undergrad?” He nearly shouted, and I winced at the volume.

“Shut up!” I hissed, heat creeping up my neck.

“She’s your undergrad?” He lowered his voice, his tone conspiratorial, as if we were discussing some top-secret mission.

“Yes,” I said, willing myself to tear my gaze from Y/N and muster some semblance of composure. “I don’t know why she’s here. This is the first time I’ve seen her in this gym.”

“Are you kidding?” Hoseok replied, incredulous. “She’s here all the time! You’ve just never noticed because you’re practically blind.”

My eyes darted back to her. She was still running, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing behind me. Could Hoseok really be right? Had I been so wrapped up in my own world that I hadn’t seen her before?

But then again, I didn’t recognize anyone else in this place. I came here every day—every damn day—and not one face looked familiar. Blind. I was completely blind.

And yet, here I was, rooted to the spot, entranced by the hypnotic sway of her hips, the way her legs flexed with each determined stride. It was as if she had cast a spell over me, one I didn’t want to break. But I had to; I was standing there like a moron, the weight of Hoseok’s gaze a smirk stretched across his face as he shifted to take his place on the bench.

“Yoongi!” he called, pulling me from my daydream. “It’s your turn.”

I shook my head as if waking up from a fog and stepped to the bench, but my mind remained tangled in thoughts of what I’d just seen. Y/N’s form, bouncing like it was teasing me, was too much. Too distracting. My body was responding in ways I hadn’t felt in years, and it took every ounce of willpower to focus on lifting weights instead of ogling her.

Then, as if she sensed my eyes on her, Y/N turned her head slightly, her gaze locking with mine. For a brief moment, the world melted away—the gym, the weight, the noise—all faded into the background as our eyes met. She faltered on the treadmill, her grip tightening on the bars like a lifeline before she recovered just in time.

What was I doing? I didn’t realize I was moving until I stood beside her, the tension thick enough to slice through the air.

“Hi,” I managed, the word slipping out like a confession.

“Hi?” Her smile lit up the stale space between us, brightening everything. “Who are you and what did you do to my bitter grad student?”

“What?” I stammered, disbelief knotting my stomach. “You’ve seen me here before?”

*Her eyes rolled in a way that was both exasperating and endearing. “Yes.”

“Well, I’m saying hi now. So, hi.”

“Hi…” she giggled, and I felt a low groan bubble up from my chest. What was happening? I hated how she made me feel, how she toppled everything I thought I had under control.

“How’s your hand?” I asked, grasping for something to anchor myself in this whirlwind of emotions.

“It’s fine,” she said, lifting her bandaged hand like it was a trophy. But I was lost, mesmerized by the way her lips moved, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, and how the sweat glistened on her skin.

I needed to leave before my body betrayed me further. “Um, I should go,” I interrupted, offering a shaky goodbye as I fled, a whirlwind of confusion and unwanted desire crashing over me.

What the hell was happening to me?

I ran home, my legs pumping, heart racing, trying to outrun the chaotic thoughts swirling in my mind. It had been four years since Estelle, and the memory felt as distant as a long-forgotten dream. But Y/N was everywhere now, invading my thoughts—her freckles, her laugh, those bangs that had once annoyed me but now framed her face like a masterpiece.

I stormed through my apartment, shedding my sweat-soaked clothes, bewildered by this tempest of feelings. I couldn’t fathom why it had taken me so long to notice her, why she had pierced through the fog of my indifference and settled in my mind like an unwelcome guest.

In the shower, the warm water cascaded over me, soothing yet insufficient to wash away the turmoil. She was a kid, for Christ’s sake! Nineteen? Twenty? Too young, too innocent for someone like me. I banged my head against the tiled wall, cursing my own weakness.

And yet, even as I stood there, I could feel her presence lingering, like a ghost clinging to the edges of my consciousness—a haunting I couldn’t shake. Was I becoming one of those men who pursued young girls, crossing lines drawn in the sand, sliding down that slippery slope of desire? The universe had a wicked sense of humor.

God, I hoped I wouldn’t see her again at the gym. The very thought sent a chill down my spine—a mix of longing and guilt. But there I was, fantasizing about her hands instead of my own.

When did I become such a creep?

I’m in a foul mood. Not a glimmer of sunshine inside me, just the dense fog of irritability that seems to thicken the air around me. Maybe it’s the weight of the world pressing down on my shoulders, or maybe it’s just Tuesday. Either way, I know I’ll probably regret having lunch with Hoseok today, but deep down, I’m still holding onto the hope that, by some miracle, he didn’t notice my bizarre behavior at the gym last night.

As I step into the lunchroom, Hoseok’s voice slices through the stillness. “What the heck happened to you yesterday?”

Well, so much for miracles.

“Nothing. Why?” I try to sound casual as I toss my food into the microwave, but my heart races in protest.

“Nothing? You nearly killed me, bolted off to talk to Y/N, and then stormed out. That seems normal to you?” He raises an eyebrow, a mischievous grin stretching across his face.

I shrug, feigning indifference, but my stomach twists.

“We were supposed to have drinks with Serena and her friend with the—” he gestures dramatically, “the big personality.”

“Listen, you and Serena need to stop setting me up with her friends.”

“Why? Did you take a vow of celibacy or something?”

“I’m just not in the mood for this today, Hoseok.” I plop down in a chair, my food forgotten.

“Is it because of Y/N?” he asks, cheeks bulging with half-chewed food.

“No,” I reply, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “And her name is Y/N, by the way.”

“OH. MY. GOSH. It is! You’re totally crushing on her!” Hoseok leaps from his chair, fork aimed at me like a weapon. His eyes widen as if he’s just uncovered a major conspiracy.

“What? NO!”

“Dude, you remembered her name!” He plops back down beside me, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Hoseok, what does that—”

“Oh man. This is too good... like, really, really good.” His grin is the kind that makes me want to punch him—or maybe just smack some sense into him.

“Hoseok, please. Just for one day…” I rub my forehead, trying to ease the confusion tightening my temples. The last thing I need is Hoseok’s theories swirling around my mind like a chaotic storm.

“Okay, okay…” He continues to chew, stealing glances at me every few seconds. “So, when’s Yoonji coming?” he asks, smirking, and I shoot him a glare that could curdle milk.

So what if I remembered her name? It hardly means anything. I’ve been working with her for weeks now. I’m not some clueless idiot; I can remember a name. I don’t care what Hoseok or Yoonji think. This is nothing. This doesn’t mean anything.

Except it does. Because Y/N, not “the girl” or “the undergrad,” is going to be in the lab when I return. And I’m not just aware of it—I’m looking forward to it. I want to see her smile, to hear her laugh.

I want to hear her giggle? Jesus, I need to get a grip on myself.

My bad mood evaporates the moment I spot Y/N at my bench, scribbling away in her notepad. Her hair cascades over her shoulder, wild and free. It should bother me—should send alarm bells ringing—but it doesn’t. It looks soft and inviting, and suddenly, all I want is to run my fingers through it.

Okay… I’ve really lost it now.

And just like that, my bad mood crashes back in.

“I can’t find my lab coat,” she says, tying her hair up with an intensity that almost makes me envious.

I feel a spark of irritation at the safety rules that dictate her hair must be tied back. I find myself imagining the kinds of experiments that would allow her to leave it down, just so I could watch it flow freely.

“Do you know where it could be?” she asks, glancing up at me.

I’ve completely lost track of her words, staring at her blankly.

“My lab coat?” she repeats, tilting her head.

Right… the lab coat.

“Let me get you a new one. That one was all covered in blood.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll wash it.”

“We have lab coats here, Y/N—new ones. I’ll get you one,” I say, moving past her, determination pushing me forward.

She stops me, grabbing my elbow. “Please, can I have my old one back?” Her eyes are wide and earnest, as if I hold the key to some sacred treasure.

A flush of embarrassment rises in me, and instead of confessing, I lie. “I threw it away.”

“What? Why?” Her gaze pierces through my flimsy excuse.

“It was covered in blood!” I bark, frustration bubbling over.

“I could have washed it!” she snaps, defiance igniting her eyes.

“I’m getting you a new one.”

“I don’t want a new one. Is this some cruel joke? Because if it is, I’d really, really like my lab coat back. It means a lot to me.” The shift in her expression from anger to sadness tugs at something deep within me. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, like I’ve just crushed her puppy.

Realization washes over me like a cold wave: I’m making her cry. With a deep sigh, I relent. “Okay, I didn’t get rid of it.”

“Oh thank God,” she breathes, closing her eyes in relief.

“But… I tried to wash it, and the bloodstains wouldn’t come out. I thought it would be a good idea to use bleach. And it was. I mean, it got rid of the bloodstains, but it also erased your drawings.”

“Oh no…” Her eyes fly open, panic etching her features.

“I’m sorry. Can I please get you a new one?” I plead, hoping to smooth over this disaster before it spirals further.

“I would really prefer to have my old one back,” she insists, crossing her arms defiantly, her gaze unwavering.

Jesus! Why does she have to be so difficult?

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” I groan. She’s staring at me like she’s just won the lottery, and I can’t bring myself to back down. “Fine…” I reach under my desk for the bag containing her lab coat and hand it over, feeling like I’m offering her a corpse.

I should have burned the damn thing.

Her gasp as she pulls the coat from the bag makes my stomach drop.

“Oh my gosh!” She turns it around, inspecting the shapes I drew in a moment of misguided creativity. When she spots my pathetic attempt at rewriting “Bacteria Rule” on the back, she giggles, and I swear my heart stumbles.

How do I keep up with her?

One minute, she’s annoyed; the next, she’s crying; now, she’s laughing. It’s like watching a storm change directions on a whim.

“You… did you do this?” She glances up at me, her eyelashes still damp, and my chest tightens painfully.

“Yeah, it looks even more ridiculous now. Didn’t think that was possible. Would you please let me get you a new one?”

“Oh no. I’m wearing this one,” she chirps, slipping her arms into the sleeves like she’s donning a crown.

“Please say you’re kidding.”

“What? It’s perfect!” she beams, buttoning the coat closed, that radiant smile piercing through my irritation.

Even as she parades around in that god-awful coat, all I can think about is pulling her close and kissing her senseless. It’s ridiculous and utterly baffling, but I can’t shake it.

I really must have lost it now.

The morning air felt heavy, thick with a strange malaise that weighed on me like a thick blanket. "So, what's on the agenda for today, Boss?" Y/N chirped, her pen clicking in a cheerful rhythm as she flipped open her notebook, the sound almost irritatingly upbeat.

"Don’t call me Boss," I grumbled, trying to shake off the oppressive darkness that seemed to cling to me like damp fog.

"Okay, Grumpy. What are we doing today?" Her smile was a bright spark against the backdrop of my brooding mood.

I could tell she was trying to be funny, deliberately poking at my irritation. With an exasperated huff, I shoved the list of activities at her. "Try not to mess up this time, Becca."

She took the list with a theatrical pout, and I stifled a real smile beneath my carefully crafted mask of indifference—a skill I'd perfected over the years. 

Her brow furrowed as she scanned the list. "I thought I was starting from scratch."

"You are," I replied, trying to keep my tone as casual as possible.

"But you did all these steps already." She pointed to the initial tasks, her voice laced with disbelief.

"I was bored Saturday," I said, as if boredom were an acceptable excuse for taking the initiative.

Her eyes darted between the list and mine, a spark of awe lighting up her face. "You started my experiment for me?"

The way she looked at me made my skin crawl—a mixture of discomfort and something warmer I didn’t want to acknowledge. I clamped down on my tongue, suppressing the urge to explain myself. 

"You better get cracking, Y/L/N. There's a seminar at four I want to attend."

Her gaze lingered on me a moment longer before she shook it off, returning to her notebook. A sense of relief washed over me. 

We worked in silence, but I could feel her stealing glances at me like a kid peeking into a haunted house. I knew—I just knew—I had crossed some invisible line. What I felt was tangled, a confusion I was desperate to untangle.

"What’s the seminar about?" she asked, her voice light with curiosity as we carried bottles of growth media to the incubators.

"I don’t know," I said, holding the door for her as we entered the incubator room.

"Then why are you going?" She squatted to stow the bottles inside, her dark hair falling around her face like a curtain.

"Free food." I shrugged, trying to sound indifferent.

"Seriously?" She looked up at me, disbelief written all over her features.

"Y/N… if you go to grad school, you’ll learn to appreciate the majesty of free food."

When she stood up, she released my hand with a huff, her pride surfacing. "When I go to grad school, I’ll enjoy the seminars, even without the free food."

"Right…" I turned away, shaking my head.

"So, can I come?" she asked shyly, her voice nearly drowned out by the hum of the incubators.

"You want to come to the seminar?" I shot her a skeptical glance.

"Hells to the yeah!" 

I suppressed a snort, the surprise of her enthusiasm bubbling up inside me. "Why?"

"I might learn something."

"Okay, you can come, but the la-la-lab coat stays." 

The thought of her actually being excited about attending a seminar with me sent a strange thrill through my chest, one that both excited and unnerved me.

As we made our way to the seminar, Y/N rattled on about her dreams for grad school, her voice bubbling over with energy. I struggled to interject, her words flowing like a vibrant stream, full of life.

When we reached the seminar room, she shook her head at my heaping plate of food. I settled into my seat, grateful for the chance to hide from the annoyed glances of the people behind us. Y/N plopped down beside me, her nervous energy radiating from her.

"That one with the sweater vest is Prof. Waylon," I said, nodding toward him. "He has a serious case of narcolepsy. Snores through the entire talk but wakes up right on cue to ask the hardest questions."

She giggled, and the sound pierced through the fog that had settled around me.

"And over there, with the red bow tie, is Dr. Amun-Kebi. Brilliant but completely bonkers—he discovered Quorum Sensing, yet can’t make eye contact because he’s too busy staring at the ceiling."

She snorted, laughter bubbling up as she covered her mouth, her joy infectious.

"Then there’s Jin," I continued, "who dresses like he’s going to a board meeting every day. Knows more adjectives than a thesaurus, but his favorite is definitely 'fascinating.'"

I mimicked Jin’s exaggerated tone, and Y/N laughed again, drawing some disapproving throat-clearing from the folks behind us.

"Main point is, Y/N," I said, "science makes you lose your mind. You’ve been warned."

"Oh, I think I can handle it," she replied, winking at me, and my heart twisted painfully in my chest.

As the speaker began, I couldn't help but chuckle when I noticed her furiously scribbling notes as if her life depended on it.

Once the seminar ended, we returned to the lab. Y/N still had work to catch up on after being away for an hour. I’d finished my tasks long ago, but I lingered, a shadow in the corner, unwilling to leave her alone in this sterile, fluorescent-lit space.

She closed her notebook with a satisfying smack and turned to me, her eyes bright. "This is so exciting! I can’t wait to see if it works this time."

"Yeah, you’ll get over it," I said, trying to keep my tone light.

"Have you always been such a grump? Or was there a time when you actually liked what you do?"

Her question hit me like a punch to the gut, catching me off guard. I could feel her gaze piercing through my defenses.

"I like what I do."

"Do you love it?"

Her question hung in the air like a dark cloud, and I found myself lost in a maze of memories, the joy of discovery overshadowed by the weight of expectations. Had there ever been a time when I shared her enthusiasm?

"I don’t really remember," I mumbled, avoiding the truth. "It’s getting late, Y/N. How are you getting home?"

"I’m walking."

"I’m walking too. Let’s go."

Did I used to love what I did? The memory felt elusive, slipping through my fingers like water.

As we walked, Y/N asked, "Why did you decide to go to grad school?"

"Why does anyone?" I shot back, a cryptic smirk teasing my lips.

"To make a difference? To revolutionize the field?"

"Very cute, Y/N."

"It’s not cute. It’s true."

"Is that why you want to go to grad school?"

"Yes. I’ve always wanted to help people. Since medical school is out of the question for me—"

"You’ll get over the smell of blood, Y/N."

"It’s not just that. I get too attached. I’d rather contribute silently from the lab." She smiled, her eyes sparkling. "Plus, where would medicine be without science? They’d still be pouring hot oil into wounds!"

I chuckled, a genuine laugh bubbling up like warmth breaking through winter’s chill. "You’re funny." The words slipped out before I could think better of it, and before I could process my thoughts, my fingers brushed against her arm, lingering over the fabric of her hoodie.

She halted, her cheeks tinged pink, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

I froze, my hand dropping to my side, panic racing through me. That had to be inappropriate.

"I’ve been called worse," she joked, her smile radiating a warmth that sent shivers down my spine.

We walked on in silence until we reached her building.

"Do you live on campus too?" she asked, fishing for her keys from her bag.

"No. I live in Portage Bay."

"Oh… we passed that already."

"I know."

Suspicion flared in her gaze as she pieced things together, and I felt the weight of my own guilt creeping up on me. She would realize I was that gross old grad student trying to woo the sweet, naive undergrad—the very person I had mocked in others. The thought made my stomach churn.

"I know what you’re doing," she accused, crossing her arms defensively.

Here it comes…

"You feel guilty because I got hurt," she said, her voice steady. "You feel responsible. But you don’t have to do this."

Is that really what she thought?

"You think I’m walking you home out of guilt?" My voice was harsher than I intended, anger bubbling up inside me.

"I know you are."

"You don’t know anything," I spat, turning away, desperate to escape the rising tide of emotions threatening to drown me.

"Yoongi, wait!" she called after me, dread washing over me.

Keep walking… don’t look back.

I couldn’t believe she thought I was being nice out of guilt. I had done nothing but act like a jerk for too long, and now I was about to lose the only flicker of light stupid, lonely world.

God, she had no clue.

Wednesday morning felt heavy with an unsettling quiet when Y/N arrived at the lab a little earlier than usual. I was already there, lurking like a shadow in the corner, unable to shake off the ghosts of a sleepless night. I busied myself with the equipment, clinging to the hope that keeping my distance would somehow quell the anger simmering beneath my skin.

It was confusing, really. I was furious with her—not just because of the injury that haunted my thoughts like a ghost, but because she had twisted my kindness into something it wasn’t. Sure, I felt like a hollow shell, the guilt gnawing at my insides like a rat in a rotting wall, but that didn’t mean I didn’t enjoy walking her home. Yesterday’s seminar had been a strange kind of fun—the first I’d experienced in what felt like ages.

As I returned to the lab, pretending to check something in my desk drawer, I caught her gaze from across the bench. The way her eyes followed me stirred something deep inside, a mix of frustration and longing I couldn’t quite place. I tried to slip away, but as I turned to leave, her fingers brushed against my elbow.

“Hey, I’m sorry about yesterday,” she said, her voice soft and sincere, those puppy-dog eyes piercing through my defenses. Warmth rushed through me, a strange blend of emotions swirling inside. “It was really nice of you to walk with me. Thank you.”

With a timid smile, she released my arm, leaving me reeling, torn between the urge to pull her back and the need to retreat. Just then, I caught sight of Jimin, his piercing blue eyes wide with suspicion from the shadows of the lab. What the hell?

“You’re welcome,” I muttered dryly to Y/N, my voice almost a growl, before storming away, seeking refuge from the chaos in my head.

In the media preparation room, I paced like a caged animal, cracking my knuckles repeatedly to chase away the madness. This was absurd. I was losing it over a girl—an undergrad—who seemed blissfully unaware of the tempest she stirred within me. Deep breaths. Focus. But I knew this strange obsession wasn’t going anywhere.

When I returned to the lab, I found Jungkook leaning casually against my bench, chatting with Y/N. She wore that timid smile again, twisting something inside me. My hands curled into fists, rage and jealousy flaring up like a wildfire.

“I’ll see you Friday,” Jungkook said, flashing a grin as he sauntered past me. Did he just ask her out? The urge to grab him by the ponytail and shove him to the floor was overwhelming. “What did he want?” I spat, unable to contain the fury boiling within.

“Nothing,” she replied innocently, her attention flitting back to her notebook as if she hadn’t just tossed gasoline on my fire.

“Y/N,” I hissed, slicing through the air with my words, demanding her attention. “What did he want?”

“Nothing important,” she clarified, but her eyes locked onto mine, searching. My resolve wavered. What the hell was wrong with me? The desire to pummel Jungkook quickly transformed into an intense longing to press my lips against that bottom lip she kept biting. The confusion swirled around us, thick and suffocating, and I felt trapped.

Just then, Jimin reentered the lab, breaking the spell that had ensnared us. I stepped back, the tension snapping like a brittle twig, and Y/N sighed, disappointment heavy in the air.

“Are you done?” I asked, my voice cold, each word laced with the weight of my internal turmoil. “I need to use the bench.”

Hurt flickered in her eyes before she masked it, and guilt settled in my stomach like a stone. I tried to focus on my work, but her presence lingered, a distraction gnawing at my concentration until she finally left for the day. This is ridiculous! Why did she affect me so much? I couldn’t keep living like this.

Thursday afternoon arrived, and I maneuvered around Y/N like a ghost. I didn’t want to be a jerk, but the thought of her and Jungkook had me seething. It felt like every nerve in my body was on fire, irritation coiling tighter with every passing second. I tried to stick to succinct answers and instructions, but the tension thickened around us like fog.

As we received her sequencing results, I could no longer pretend she didn’t exist. She pulled a chair next to me at my desk, her presence suffocatingly close. My fingers twitched on the mouse, nerves sparking as I avoided glancing her way. She tapped her pen rhythmically; each tap a countdown to my sanity.

“Please, stop that,” I groaned, frustration spilling over.

She halted instantly, a sigh escaping her lips, and my heart sank. I hated feeling this way—trapped between annoyance and an attraction that sent shivers down my spine. How was that even possible?

Finally, the software loaded, and I opened her file. Y/N gasped, and I held my breath as she leaned closer, the tension between us palpable.

“Sample 1. Ran well. Sample 2. Ran well… ran well, ran well, ran well…” All fifty samples had run flawlessly. Impressive. I couldn’t recall a time when every single sequencing reaction had succeeded; there was always a failure or two. Y/N was undeniably skilled.

As I turned to her, a smile crept onto my lips despite myself. Her eyes sparkled with joy, and before I could process it, she squeaked, throwing her arms around my neck. Her warmth enveloped me, her hair brushing against my face, and the world narrowed to just her, the scent of her shampoo intoxicating. My body responded in ways I couldn’t understand.

I shot up from my chair, breaking the spell. “Sorry,” she mumbled, her cheeks a deep crimson, laughter spilling from her lips. “I’m just so happy! They all worked!”

My heart raced, shock coursing through me as I struggled to regain composure. The pull I felt toward her was almost unbearable, thrumming like an electric wire, demanding release.

“Good job,” I managed, forcing my voice to remain steady. But as she smiled at me, her joy tearing through my carefully constructed barriers, I knew I was in deep trouble. I wanted to hold her again, to kiss her until the world faded away. God, I needed help.

As I turned to her, a smile crept onto my lips despite myself. Her eyes sparkled with joy, and before I could process it, she squeaked, throwing her arms around my neck, her warmth enveloping me, her hair brushing against my face. The world narrowed to just her, the scent of her shampoo intoxicating, my body responding in ways I couldn’t understand. 

God, I needed help.

You know those days when nothing seems to go right? When you drag yourself out of bed, and it feels like the universe is playing tricks on you, pushing you back with every step forward? Yeah, today is one of those days. A downright miserable Friday, and I can’t help but feel that the promise of the weekend is just a hollow consolation.

This morning was a disaster. I tossed and turned all night, haunted by thoughts of Y/N. Her smile flickered in my mind like a candle caught in the wind—warm and inviting one moment, then snuffed out the next. The irony is, while I’m relieved I won’t have to face her today, the gnawing uncertainty of whether she’s out with Jungkook weighs heavily in my stomach. Anger simmers beneath my skin, bubbling over in waves I can’t seem to control.

As I step into the lunchroom, the emptiness greets me, broken only by the taunting hum of the microwave. I slam my fist against its cold metal side, frustrated when it refuses to cooperate. It beeps at me, a cruel mockery in the sterile silence. I slam the door shut again, and my temper flares.

“What did the microwave do to you?” A familiar voice cuts through my frustration. It’s Hoseok, ever the jester, his amusement practically radiating off him.

“It’s broken,” I mutter, fingers still mashing buttons like a madman.

“Step away from the microwave,” he orders, a playful yet firm tone in his voice. In two quick moves, he’s heating up my food. “What’s up your ass?”

“Nothing,” I groan, flopping down in a chair with a defeated sigh. “Just one of those days.”

“Why?” 

“It’s just one of those days…” I can’t muster the energy to say more.

“Like, ‘Everything’s messed up and everyone sucks’?” He turns his baseball cap backward, bobbing his head as if ready to launch into a nu-metal anthem.

“Great, Hoseok. Quote Limp Bizkit. That’s really going to help.” I cut him off before he can get into full swing.

“Dude, you’re in a mood. What happened?” His eyes reflect genuine concern as he rummages through the fridge.

“Nothing,” I insist, rising to retrieve my Tupperware.

“Bullshit. I’ve known you for four years. This isn’t just a failed PCR kind of mood.” He crosses his arms, blocking my path.

Part of me wants to spill my guts, but the words feel lodged in my throat. Still, they tumble out. “If I tell you, can you at least try to be mature about it?”

“Mature is my middle name,” he grins, but I can’t help but scowl.

“Fine. It’s Y/N.”

“I knew it! I fucking knew it!” 

I bury my face in my hands, feeling the weight of his excitement pressing down on me. “What happened?” he whispers, leaning in, all ears.

“She’s... I don’t know.”

“Come on, man. I’m serious.”

“Yeah, she’s out with Jungkook.”

“Jungkook?” Hoseok’s voice rises as if he’s just spotted a raccoon in the hall.

“Jesus, Hoseok!” I hiss. “Keep it down!”

“Sorry.” His whisper is tinged with amusement. “Jungkook fucking Jeon?”

“Yes.” I take a deep breath, frustration bubbling over. “And she’s my undergrad.”

“Puh-lease. Who cares?” 

“I’m at least five years older than her,” I retort.

“The younger, the better.” He waggles his eyebrows, clearly enjoying this way too much.

“Disgusting.”

“Stop brooding, dude. Jeon’s got nothing on you. Go get your girl. She’s fine, and she was always checking you out at the gym—like I told you a thousand times.”

Y/N checking me out? No way. Hoseok’s just being delusional. I shake my head, dismissing his words. This fixation has to end. She’s just my undergrad. That’s all she’ll ever be—at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

Happy Hour. The name is ironic, a pathetic excuse for mingling—if you can even call it that. It never lasts an hour, and “happy” is a stretch, but hey, there’s free beer, so here I am. Alone in the corner, I down red cups like they might wash away the grime of the day. By the time Hoseok and Serena finally stroll in, I’ve polished off four.

“You’re here before us. That’s weird,” Serena quips as they approach.

“Thanks for the observation, Captain Obvious.” 

“What’s his problem?” Serena glares at Hoseok, arms crossed.

“He’s in a mood,” Hoseok replies, handing me another red cup that I chug.

“Why?” Her tone is whiny, as if I owe her an explanation.

“Lady problems,” Hoseok shoots back before I can stop him.

“Yoongi has lady problems?” Serena sounds incredulous, as if she’s just discovered a new planet.

“I’m standing right here!” My voice is louder than I intended, laced with irritation.

“So you like a girl, Yoongi. Not the end of the world. I mean, this self-imposed celibacy was bound to end someday. I just wish I knew who she is.” She twists the conversation back to herself, as always.

“It’s not just a girl. It’s his undergrad,” Hoseok interjects, unable to contain his enthusiasm.

“You old perv!” Serena playfully smacks my chest, and I can feel the heat rise in my cheeks.

“I’m going to get fired,” I murmur, tipping my cup back for the last drops of liquid courage.

“No, you won’t, drama queen.” She dismisses me with a wave, annoyance radiating off her.

“It happens all the time! PIs hit on post-docs, post-docs on grad students, grads on undergrads. What world do you live in?”

“It’s like a jungle,” Hoseok chuckles.

“Shut up, Hoseok,” Serena snaps. “Good news is, now that there’s this girl, you can stop with the emo bitterness. It’s getting old.”

“Fuck you, Serena.”

“Hey, hey now,” Hoseok says, grabbing my arm. “Let’s go get another round.”

When we return, my anger toward Serena simmers just beneath the surface, but I’m too tipsy to think straight. “For your information, Serena, this girl has a name. Her name is Becca. No, wait... it’s Y/N! Dammit!” My palm meets my forehead in a facepalm of pure embarrassment.

“Wow. She must be something special, Yoongi. You don’t even know her name.”

“Baby, stop. He’s drunk, and he’s having a shitty day.”

“Why?” 

“Y/N is out with Jungkook,” Hoseok explains.

“Jeon?” Serena’s expression shifts to one of shock, and they dive into speculation, completely oblivious to my presence.

I shut them out, groaning into my cup as I gulp it down. It’s true. I know it. Jungkook is with Y/N tonight, probably taking her to dinner and drinks, sharing laughs while I’m stuck here. My mind spirals into a dark abyss—what if he kisses her? What if she invites him in? God, I’m sick just thinking about it.

Of all the undergrads in this department, Jungkook Jeon had to go after mine. I hope Y/N gets drunk and spills her drink all over him.

Worst. Hangover. Ever.

Well, maybe not the worst, but it’s definitely up there. My head pounds like a jackhammer, and my stomach feels like a chaotic whirlpool of regret as I stumble into the shower. The hot water cascades over me, a fleeting relief, but all I can think about is how tempting sleep sounds right now. But I have things to do in the lab. Don’t I always?

The apartment is a total disaster zone—a messy tribute to last night’s antics. Red cups are scattered across the coffee table like the remnants of a forgotten battle, and chip crumbs litter the floor like confetti from a party that had long overstayed its welcome. Hoseok and Serena wouldn’t leave me alone last night, terrified I’d do something reckless, so we ended up bringing Happy Hour back to my place. I was just the third wheel, watching them get lost in their own world of laughter and flirting. By the time I woke up on the couch, blanketed by a pile of crumpled chips, they were long gone.

I shuffle into the library, desperate for my usual caffeine fix on the way to the lab, but my stomach is rebelling. Still, I know I’ll need that coffee to survive the day.

Inside, the library feels like a claustrophobic hive of undergrads buzzing around like over-caffeinated bees. It’s overwhelming.

What a nightmare!

I hurry to the coffee line, pouring sugar into my mug like it’s a lifeline. Just as I catch my breath, I spot her—Y/N—sitting at a table surrounded by a fortress of books. Her hair falls like a curtain, hiding her face from view. I can’t help myself; I’m drawn to her, like a moth to a flame.

“Hello, Y/N,” I say, sliding into the chair across from her.

She looks up, surprise flickering across her features, and for a moment, my heart races. 

“Oh, so I’m back to being Y/N?” There’s no hint of humor in her voice, only seriousness, and it feels like a punch to the gut.

What’s going on? Where’s the smile that usually lights up her face?

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light as I settle in.

“What are you doing here?” she replies, her gaze cool and collected.

“Y/N, please go easy on me today. I’m not feeling great,” I admit, running a hand down my face, feeling every ache from the night before.

“Oh... what’s wrong?” Her stoic facade starts to crumble, replaced by genuine concern, and it warms me a bit.

“Too much beer,” I confess, and the word makes my stomach churn at the memory of my poor choices.

“I see... does that explain this?” She pulls out her phone and turns it toward me.

Grumpy: Becca, you’ve just revealed yourself to have absolutely no taste.

“Who the hell is Grumpy, and why does he call you Becca?” I blurt out, anger bubbling up before I can stop it.

Her eyes widen in disbelief. “You’re the only Grumpy I know.”

“Are you saying I sent you that text?” 

“Yes,” she says, sighing as her eyes drift away like leaves in the wind.

I pull my phone from my pocket, my heart sinking as I check my sent texts.

Well, great…

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, rubbing my eyes, wishing I could take back last night’s mistakes.

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean either. No taste in what? Music? Food? Men?” 

“Men?” I let out a dry laugh. “Jungkook is not a man. He’s a tool.”

“So this is about Jungkook?” she says, gesturing to her phone.

“Yes.” My brain feels sluggish, like I’m moving through molasses.

“Why do you care?” 

“I’m uncomfortable with you dating my classmate,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest, trying to appear nonchalant.

“He’s not your classmate, and we’re not dating.”

“We both started our PhDs at the same time in the same program. That makes him my classmate… Wait… you’re not dating?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no. We went out for coffee, talked, he asked me out again, and I kindly declined. I’m focused on my studies right now, Yoongi, and I really don’t have room for anything more.”

“Oh…” Relief floods through me, even as my hangover rages on. I might even be smiling.

“Yes, oh indeed. Which brings me back to why you’re sitting here distracting me from my study session.”

“What are you studying?” I ask softly, a smile creeping onto my face, hoping to steer the conversation away from Jungkook.

“I have an organic chemistry exam on Monday.”

“Oh, I see…” I hesitate, but the temptation of spending time with her outweighs my growing pile of work in the lab. “Well, it might just be your lucky day, Y/L/N, because I happen to be an expert in all things organic chemistry.”

“You are?” Her lips curl into a small grin, and I feel a surge of relief wash over me. She’s back.

“I am…” I smile at her. “So, do you want some help?”

“I could use some help.”

Help… yeah… that’s what I’m here for… help.

For the next two hours, I guide Y/N through her organic reaction problem sets, all while ignoring my cooling coffee. She’s a quick study, soaking up the information, and I’m confident she’ll ace her test on Monday.

I keep my hands clasped between my knees—except when I need to draw reactions for her—wanting to hide how my fingers twitch every time she brushes her hair behind her ear.

Y/N is focused on her notebook, but the third time I yawn, she looks up at me.

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, just tired. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Tell me about it… On average, I get about four hours a night.”

“Four hours? If I don’t get at least six, I get grumpy.”

“Grumpier than this?” she says, waving a hand at me, a smile teasing at her lips.

“This,” I gesture to my chest, “this is the five-hours-of-sleep me.” I stretch, feeling my muscles pull, and I notice her eyes trace down my torso before I quickly pull my shirt down.

Was Y/N checking me out?

“Anyway…” I scramble for a distraction. “It’s healthy to sleep eight hours. I’m all about being healthy.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re an old man.”

“Hey… I’m only twenty-five!”

She laughs, and before I can ask how old she is, her gaze shifts behind me, and I can sense her tension.

“Shit…” she whispers.

“What?”

“Remember that guy I told you about, Jonah Rodgers, the stalker?” Her voice drops to a near whisper, laced with panic.

I wrack my brain, trying to recall. Y/N had a stalker? She looks at me, and it’s clear she knows I’m lost.

“Just play along, please,” she whispers, scooting her chair closer to me. Her hand brushes my knee, and I’m startled by the tentative touch.

A vague memory flickers in my mind—her acting strange around me one day, but it’s obscured by the haze of regret and longing.

Y/N’s gaze is intense, making it hard to focus on anything else. She smiles shyly, then looks down before peeking at me through her thick lashes.

God, what is she doing to me?

I know she’s faking it, pretending for someone else—but I can’t help how my body reacts, how hyper-aware I am of her presence. My hand moves to her cheek, my thumb tracing her soft skin. She blushes, biting her lip, and it sends a jolt through me, a deep ache to pull her closer—bring her lips to mine.

Her hand slides from my knee, brushing my thigh, and I can feel a warmth stirring inside me.

This isn’t real… it can’t be.

She’s still staring at me, and I’m lost in her gaze, wondering what she’s thinking, if she feels it too.

But then, all too soon, her attention darts behind me again.

“He’s gone,” she breathes, relief washing over her. Her hand rubs my thigh one last time before she withdraws. “Thank you.”

I know I should let go, but I can’t. My hand remains on her face, my thumb tracing her cheek while my fingers tangle in the nape of her neck. Her expression shifts, confusion knitting her brow. She reaches for my hand, her fingers enveloping my wrist—her thumb brushing the top of my hand, once, twice—and then she smiles.

But she’s not looking at me seductively anymore. She’s looking at me like she doesn’t understand why I haven’t let go. And honestly? Neither do I.

I drop my hand from her face and stand abruptly.

“I better get to the lab,” I say, running a hand through my disheveled hair. “Good luck on your test.” Her eyes linger on me, confusion clouding her expression as I turn to leave.

I guess the show is over…

I spent the rest of the weekend in the lab, mostly because I had nothing better to do. It felt easier to throw myself into my work than to face the nagging thoughts of Y/N swirling around in my head. Pining after her felt wrong—she was just a kid, my intern, and whatever was brewing inside me needed to stop. I had to keep my distance.

When Y/N walked in on Tuesday, she looked a bit worn out. I wanted to ask her about the test, but I bit my tongue, forcing myself to act indifferent.

As the day wound down, she asked for my help, and I followed her into the dark room. She needed to cut different bands from an agarose gel to purify the DNA. Even though she knew how to use the UV light box, I guided her through the excising process.

Once inside the dimly lit room, Y/N flipped on the UV box and switched off the lights. I stood behind her, watching as her shaky hand hovered nervously over the gel, clutching the blade. 

"I think it’s safe to say that not going to medical school was the right choice for you," I teased, trying to keep the mood light despite the tension. "With those shaky hands, I wouldn't want you holding a scalpel near me."

"I had too much coffee today," she shot back, her tone sharp but playful.

"Right," I snorted, a grin breaking free.

"Shut up. You're making me nervous." I could almost hear her smile through her words.

"Here," I said, inching closer. I covered her hand with mine, steadying her fingers over the blade. "Relax," I suggested, hoping it would ease both our nerves.

Her proximity felt electric, as if the air around us vibrated with tension. The scent of her hair—fresh and unplaceable—danced under my nose, making my heart race. Y/N's hand trembled beneath mine as she turned to glance up at me. In the faint blue glow of the UV light, her features looked even more striking. 

"This is making it worse," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

I felt her warm breath against my neck, and everything inside me screamed that we were too close. I should step back. I needed to step back. But God, I wanted to kiss her. Nothing else mattered in that moment.

Her bewildered expression shifted as her eyes drifted from my gaze to my lips. My heart thundered in my chest as I watched her tongue trace the edge of her bottom lip before she began to nibble on it nervously.

Then, without thinking, I closed the distance and pressed my lips against hers.

I inhaled deeply through my nose, intoxicated by her sweet scent as my mouth enveloped her bottom lip. Y/N whimpered softly against me, turning her body to face mine. My hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her closer.

What was I doing?

I felt lost, unsure of how to proceed or how to stop. Reluctantly, I released her neck and gripped the bench for support, struggling against the rising tide of desire. All I wanted was to wrap my arms around her and pull her onto the counter, to lose myself in her warmth.

No, stop! This is wrong!

I broke the kiss, panting heavily. "Y/N…" I gasped. "Shit, I'm so sorry." I stepped back, needing space. She was breathing hard too. "I-I didn’t mean to do that. I shouldn’t have… Shit." My hands raked through my hair, searching for words that eluded me.

Then, with a single determined step, Y/N closed the distance. She grabbed my t-shirt and pulled me down to her level. Her lips collided with mine once more, and I felt her inhale sharply.

I was too tall, or she was too short; either way, I hunched over her as her legs wrapped around my hips, lifting her onto the countertop beside the UV box.

Her hands tangled in my hair, tugging in a way that made me groan into her mouth, while my own hands hovered uncertainly over her body, torn between desire and restraint.

Loud, insistent knocking on the door shattered the moment.

Y/N gasped, and her legs slipped from my sides. 

"I need to look at a gel, Yoongi. What’s taking so long?" Jimin's voice rang out.

Jimin… shit…

I groaned against Y/N's shoulder, gripping her thighs to steady myself. Her fingers remained tangled in my hair, and I felt dangerously close to losing it.

"We're cutting a gel, Jimin," I called out, taking a reluctant step away from Y/N. "Give me a fucking break," I muttered under my breath.

I heard Jimin huff through the door, and Y/N’s voice came low and tense. "What do we do?"

I didn't know about her, but I needed to get out of there. I was uncomfortable and desperately needed to regain control. I moved to the UV box, which was still glowing. Y/N jumped down from the bench as I grabbed the blade, cutting around the bands on the gel. I found it ironic that my hands were now shaking, yet I managed to do a decent job.

Once finished, I shut off the UV light and flicked the room lights back on. Y/N jumped a little, and though I was sure she was staring at me, I couldn’t meet her gaze—I wouldn’t.

I ran a hand through my hair and took a deep breath. "Take each piece of gel and put it in a single epi tube," I instructed, forcing myself to focus on anything but her. "You can follow the rest of the protocol at the bench."

"Yoongi," she whispered, urgency lacing her voice.

"I’ll be back in a bit," I said, my hand on the doorknob. I didn’t risk a glance at her, fearing that a single look would draw me back in. I opened the door and stormed out, nearly colliding with Jimin, who stood there with his arms crossed.

What the hell just happened?

A few moments later, I was outside the building. Rain hammered down, but I didn’t care. I wished I smoked, drank, or had any vice to help me calm down. I tried deep breaths to steady myself, but the rain only added to the chaos swirling inside me. I made it to the tree line behind the parking lot, leaning against a trunk with one hand while the other pressed against my chest, where my heart threatened to pound its way out. I was panting, sweating, and completely unraveling.

What the hell had I been thinking?

Well, clearly, I hadn’t been thinking at all.

God, I could still taste her on my lips.

I swallowed hard.

Y/N had the sweetest lips I’d ever kissed.

I was doomed.

This could ruin everything. I couldn’t let myself be distracted by Y/N like this. I had lost all control, and I didn’t know what would have happened if Jimin hadn’t knocked. Or worse, what if Y/N had opened the door without knocking? Thank God the light was off, and the “IN USE” sign was outside.

No one could know about this, especially not Jimin—he was Jin’s puppy! If Jin ever found out…

God, this was all so messed up!

I had to make it clear to Y/N—this had to stay between us. We had to pretend it never happened.

It would never happen again.

I could never have my lips on hers again—just the thought of it made my chest ache.

I had known kissing her would be good. She had the most beautiful lips I’d ever seen. They didn’t disappoint. Her kiss exceeded any expectation I had dared to dream. How could I endure not kissing her again, knowing how sweet she tasted?

If I thought it was torture to be around her before, now it was going to be hell.

And she had kissed me back. She had. It wasn’t just me. She wanted this too. Didn’t she know it was wrong? I needed to talk to her, to explain that this couldn’t happen again. We had to keep things professional, to work together without awkwardness. We had to manage that. I needed to manage that.

I wouldn’t look at her lips, or her smile, if that’s what it took. Maybe I could lie and say we needed to wear mouth masks for the rest of the project…

With a groan, I stepped away from the tree. I fisted my hair, realizing I was getting drenched, and walked back into the building. I shook my head to rid myself of some of the water, but I was still soaked when I climbed the stairs.

When I entered the lab, Y/N pretended not to see me, but I knew better. Her posture shifted, her back straightened, and the foot she had been tapping on the floor stilled.

I noticed Jimin was in the lab, standing at his bench across from Y/N, staring at her. It became clear to me that Y/N was putting on a show for him.

I sighed, feeling a little relief wash over me.

Y/N wouldn’t tell anyone—at least that much was clear.

But I still needed to talk to her. What happened was wrong and completely inappropriate. I couldn’t let her get the wrong idea.

I buried myself in my computer for a while, pretending to work by aimlessly scrolling and clicking, but my attention was entirely on Y/N. She seemed to move through the purification protocol without a hitch. What was going through her head?

Y/N strolled into the lab on Thursday, her smile cutting through the sterile, fluorescent gloom like a ray of sunlight. I gave her a nod—polite, detached—but that didn’t stop my heart from racing at the flicker of warmth in her gaze. As I turned back to my work, she let out a sigh that lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught her glancing at Jimin's empty bench, and the reminder of his absence hung like a storm cloud between us. 

"Okay," she began, hands planted defiantly on her hips. "Should we talk about this?"

I forced myself to meet her gaze, focusing on those deep, captivating eyes while battling the temptation to let my gaze wander to her lips, which seemed to whisper promises that drove me mad with longing. 

"There’s nothing to talk about, Y/N."

"Well, are you going to go back to being mean to me?" 

"I was never mean to you."

Her eyebrows shot up in disbelief, and heat crept into my cheeks as I remembered all the stunts I’d pulled—the pranks that had hurt her, the lab coat I’d ruined...

"I won't be mean to you again," I muttered, letting out a heavy sigh and looking at the floor.

"Yoongi..." Her voice was soft, almost melodic, and it tugged at my heart. 

When I met her gaze again, it was a mistake—her lip caught between her teeth was a distraction I didn’t need. My hands clenched into fists, seeking refuge in my pockets as her eyes searched mine, wary but hopeful, like a deer caught in the headlights.

"It won't be awkward, all right? I promise."

That smile of hers struck me like a bolt of lightning, forcing a groan deep within my chest. I could see the words dancing on her lips, ready to spill out, but they vanished like smoke when Jimin walked back into the lab. Taking advantage of the reprieve, I buried myself in my work, fighting to act normal.

But normalcy felt like a distant memory whenever Y/N was near. She moved through the lab with quiet grace, while I stood like a rock in a river of uncertainty, drowning in my thoughts.

As the day wore on and shadows lengthened, I noticed her gathering her things. Instinct kicked in—I pretended to be engrossed in my computer, watching her shuffle and fidget until she finally took a step toward me.

"Hey, Yoongi?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes?" I turned to face her, masking the turmoil inside.

"Um, I was wondering... I know I’m just an undergrad here, and there’s really no room for me to... I-I mean, I know it’s really not my place to ask, but..." Her words faltered, and the crimson blush creeping up her cheeks sent my heart racing.

"Y/N, would you get on with it? I don’t have all day." My frustration boiled over, the energy it took to be normal around her fraying my patience.

Her frown was instant, a storm brewing in those beautiful eyes. 

Shit, that was uncalled for...

"Never mind…" she sighed, disappointment echoing in the air.

"Wait." I took a breath, willing myself to soften. "I’m sorry. Please, Y/N, tell me."

She sighed again, a deep, resigned breath. "I know there’s that recruitment party this Saturday. It’s for prospective students to meet the current students in the department. And I know, I’m just the undergrad, but I think it would be great if I could meet them. You know? Hopefully, in a year, I’ll be going through recruitment myself." Her fingers twisted anxiously in front of her, a sight that both amused and strained my patience.

"Is there a question you wanted to ask?" I barked, the irritation bubbling to the surface.

"Yes…" she snapped back, indignation rising. "My question is: do you mind if I’m there?" She crossed her arms, defiance written all over her.

Why would I care if she came? I hadn’t even planned on attending that stupid party. But suddenly, the thought twisted in my gut, a knot tightening as a realization hit me.

I shot up from my chair, startling her. "Who told you about the party?"

Her eyes dropped, a sigh escaping her lips, and just like that, the truth hit me like a freight train. I fucking knew it.

"You’re going with Jungkook, aren’t you?" I took a step closer, looming over her.

"No, I’m not going with Jungkook." Her voice was steady, but her gaze flickered to meet mine. "But I’m going."

"Well, I guess I’ll see you there, then."

"Okay," she said with a nonchalant shrug, but the smile that graced her lips made my stomach twist. She turned to leave, and I felt something unravel within me—my hands instinctively reached out, fingers curling into frustrated fists. I didn’t know if I wanted to strangle her or pull her into a desperate embrace. All I knew was that I was left staring helplessly as she walked away.

I didn’t need her to say it; I knew Jungkook was behind this. She might not be going with him, but the thought of him lurking at that party made my blood boil. For the first time in a long while, I felt the gnawing sensation of jealousy eat away at my insides.

Fucking Jungkook Jeon.

I couldn’t believe I was even considering this.

Why did it matter if Y/N went to the recruitment party? It shouldn’t. Yet here I was, battling an angry tide rising in my chest, all because of that idiot Jungkook. If she were going with someone more acceptable—someone who didn’t make my skin crawl—I’d be okay with it. I should be okay with it. The rational part of my brain knew that, but the irritation overshadowed everything else.

What did she even see in Jungkook? The guy barely scraped by on his Qual after taking it twice and hadn’t published a single paper. He was working with fruit flies for crying out loud! And his personality? A brick wall. I couldn’t trust him. I didn’t like him. I couldn’t stand him.

I had to go to this party.

At lunch, against my better judgment, I decided to bring it up with Hoseok. 

"Hey, where’s the recruitment party this year?" I asked, trying to sound casual as I stabbed my fork into the mac and cheese.

"You’re going to the recruitment party?" Hoseok dropped his fork, suspicion etched across his face like a roadmap to his thoughts.

"Yes," I groaned, already regretting bringing it up. Of course, he’d make a fuss.

"To our department’s recruitment party?" He pressed a finger to his chest as if I’d committed a heinous crime.

"Why is that so hard to believe?" I shrugged, pushing the macaroni around in my bowl.

"Let me think… maybe because I’ve organized every single one since I got here, and you’ve never attended."

"Will you just answer my question?" I snapped, frustration boiling over.

"It’s at the South Campus Center, bro." Even though he finally answered, his gaze lingered, scrutinizing me like I was a specimen under his microscope.

"Great, thanks." I tried to keep my tone light, rolling my eyes at his obvious scrutiny.

"I can’t believe you’re going." A knowing smile danced at the corners of his lips, and I loathed it.

I pretended not to care, shrugging off the comment as he took a seat next to me. 

"If only I had known all it would take was an undergrad to get through you."

"This has nothing to do with Y/N," I spat, defensiveness creeping in, my irritation sharpening with each word. Her name was Y/N, not ‘the undergrad.’

"Right, so it���s just a coincidence… this is just the year you happen to decide to attend this thing."

"Yes."

"Is she going?" His eyebrow arched, mischief glinting in his eyes.

I groaned and turned away, pretending to be absorbed in my food.

"Dude, I can see it. How she’s affected you. It’s kind of obvious. You can talk to me, you know? It might help."

The breath I took was deep and shaky, every nerve ending igniting with frustration. But before I could stop myself, the words came pouring out. "She drives me crazy, Hoseok. I can’t stand it. I lose all control when I’m around her. I kissed her… I kissed her, and she said she doesn’t want to jeopardize her work in the lab. And it makes sense for her to think that. But the worst part is now I can’t stop seeing her everywhere. She’s in the lab, at the gym, at the freaking library where I get my coffee—she’s everywhere! I need to go back to not seeing her, because I can’t handle this." I stared down at my lunch, the food suddenly unappetizing, a lifeless pile of carbs.

"So you don’t want to see her?" Hoseok asked, surprisingly calm, like he was dissecting a specimen on his lab bench.

"Exactly."

"You don’t want to kiss her again?" He pushed, an amused grin creeping across his face.

"I don’t know what I want!" I barked, irritation flaring.

"Sounds to me like you want to go to the party, see her, and kiss her again. The question is, how are you going to deal with Jungkook?"

My shoulders tightened at the mention of his name, a cold shiver running down my spine. "I don’t care about him."

"I don’t know, man. It’s weird. The vibes are strange. You’re talking about her with a lot of… emotion."

"Emotion?" I snapped, but deep down, I felt the truth behind his words. I was at the mercy of my own feelings, a trembling wreck in the face of Y/N’s smile. I hated it. I wanted to turn it off. I couldn’t afford to feel anything.

"Fine," I muttered, sinking back into my chair, wishing to be swallowed by it.

"You’re going to have to confront those feelings eventually, Yoongi."

I grunted in response, refusing to admit he was right. I didn’t want to think about Y/N, and I definitely didn’t want to deal with Jungkook. All I wanted was to escape this mess, but deep down, I knew I was already trapped.

© chimcess, 2024. Do not copy or repost without permission.

[smusherina]

bridges burnt - chapter 2 [epilogue series] (regina george x reader)

fandom: Mean Girls (all media)

pairing: Regina George x OFC/Reader

summary: When an invitation to Gretchen Wieners' wedding ended up in your mailbox, you'd been sure it was a mistake. Only, it read your name in neat, swoopy calligraphy. It was addressed to you. And Regina George, whom you hadn't spoken to in years.

additional clarification: This is set in the universe of yard work, a series of mine that can be found on my page! Reading this one might be a bit challenging without the context of the series :)

chapter 1 / chapter 3

You stared at yourself in the mirror. Your suit was still immaculate thanks to your incessant fiddling, adjusting, and pruning. If not for the gel wearing out in your hair and the sweat beading your brow, the illusion was almost believable. Your rings clinked against the sink's enamel, your silver accents glinting in the fluorescent lighting, while a person did their business in the stall behind you. You sighed and washed your hands.

Damn, the soap was nice. They'd really gone all out for the reception, the fall theme extending even to the cinnamon spice soap bars.

Who were you even trying to fool? You were hiding in the bathroom. You'd arrived on the scene of the reception party in relatively high spirits, convinced all was fine and dandy, that Gretchen was looking to make amends in this small way. But you'd been wrong.

The invitation hadn't been a fluke. There hadn't been some mistake, because on the little plaque where your name was scrawled in neat cursive sat another right next to it. On the round table where you'd be sitting, there would be Regina George directly to your left. On your other side would be Shane Oman. Across from you, Damian and Janis.

You stepped out of the bathroom, a lump still firmly lodged in your throat but resolve found. You'd brave it, be an adult about it. The breakup had been perfectly amicable, for the most part anyway, so there was no reason for you to be so wound up.

"The maid of honour is a major bitch." Amanda sidled up to you as you walked towards your table. She directed you to the bar by the arm.

"She won't let us switch?" You asked, dismayed but not surprised.

"She won't even let you move to the spare table," Amanda said indignantly. "The whole time, I swear, she was lookin' me up and down all judgy."

"Ugh," You groaned. "Can she get your strongest drink?" You motioned for the bartender. The man nodded with a smile, seeming relieved to be rescued from the old lady chatting him up. He was a good-looking fella, tattoo sleeves and a military haircut.

"Anything for you?" He asked you, eyes lingering on Amanda shyly. Amanda leered at him unabashedly, batting her eyelashes while he made her drink.

"Just a coke." You'd been sober for a good couple of years now, free of all substances. You'd had a nasty relapse in college, a disgraceful return to party drugs and obscene amounts of alcohol, but you'd been able to find your footing since. Largely due to Amanda's intervention.

"You gonna be alright?" Amanda asked, for now deciding not to make a move on the bartender. You knew she was biding her time, establishing tension before she struck. She picked up men like a shark.

"Sure, yeah. It's gonna be okay. It's just, y'know, my ex. And her ex. And her nemesis and that nemesis' best friend. All good."

Amanda eyed you warily. You sipped at your coke through a straw. She, too, took a large gulp.

By the time the bride and the groom made their entrance, you were sitting in your spot, desperately trying not to make eye contact with the other occupants of the table. Shane was squirming on your right, fiddling with what seemed to be an engagement ring. Janis and Damian, sitting across from you, didn't seem to have changed much, except obviously grown up.

Janis was still unapologetically goth, though seemingly turned more toward clean, angular lines rather than messy, smudged blacks. She had on a dress and a shawl, beaded bangles and silver jewellery covering her wrists. She'd gotten more piercings since you last saw her. Angel bites on her upper lip, a bridge between her eyes, and stretched ear lobes. There were some bold tattoos as well, such as a rose crawling up her neck and the head of a snake on the back of her hand, extending up her arm.

Damian was in a cute, velvety green suit. His shirt, white with light green fleur de lis patterns, had ruffles going down the buttons. The length of its sleeves also surpassed that of the suit's, which made the whole look seem kind of piratey. His natural hair, a poofy afro, the bulky red-tinted glasses, and the pointy boots he had on gave off a bohemian seventies disco star vibe. He had a very specific aesthetic and you couldn't help but be impressed.

The seat on your left was pointedly lacking a person. Only the plaque was there along with its elegant scrawl. You crossed your legs and threaded your fingers together, bracing for the moment somebody said something to you. Or you were forced to do it yourself.

"So..." There it comes. Surprisingly it was Shane, of all people. "You and Regina."

"Huh?" You made a sound.

"I mean, you're here together, right? That's what I heard." He scratched at his neck, seeming nervous. All the confidence and obnoxious self-assurance seemed to have melted off of him.

"No, you- what? Where'd you hear that?"

"Just some nasty gossip. Don't worry about it. Aaron and I know what it's like." He smiled supportively but somewhere in the crevices of his cheeks, it seemed sad. "Have you been out for long?"

Your eyebrows furrowed. Shane and Aaron? Was he saying what you thought he was saying?

"Um, pretty much since high school. To be fair, I didn't tell a lot of people back then. You know how Northshore was." He nodded along solemnly. "But in college I sort of bit the bullet."

"That's really brave. Aaron and I haven't been out for long, only since the new law passed." He still seemed cautious and shy, but talking about Aaron clearly made him happy.

"When did you two get together?"

As Shane began to tell the tale, you slowly began to relax. Maybe Regina wouldn't even show up. If you and Gretchen were estranged, Regina and she were even more so. Regina had never given you details, but you did know Gretchen had been heavily involved in your shitty junior year. They'd had an explosive, very public falling-out that'd led to a whole lot of drama.

By that point, you'd sort of checked out of high school as well as your relationship with Regina, so you'd paid very little attention.

"Oh, here she comes," Shane pointed behind you, cutting off his own story. You whirled around, back crackling as you twisted your spine.

Regina George, in the flesh. Your mouth watered, pupils dilated, and there was no way you could've suppressed your reaction. Her eyes were locked on yours, a predatory glint in her eye as she strutted towards your table.

You almost didn't hear Damian's whistle or Janis' stunned laugh, but as Regina shifted the white fur stole she had to reveal her shoulders and chest, you went wholly deaf to all but the clack of her heels.

She had on a baby pink bodycon dress with a slit sinfully high up on her thigh, satin hugging her hips sensually. She had on white high heels with thin straps at the ankle and fur at the tops of her toes.

Her makeup was natural, with subtle browns and blacks, except for the prominent blush she'd picked. Her hair was a warmer blonde than before, complimenting her tanned skin. She had on golden jewellery, a familiar golden necklace resting on the dip of her clavicles like a taunt.

She kept on advancing towards the table. You could do little else but stare, slack-jawed at the visage of her. Other people were staring too, you could tell. You could only imagine what Gretchen was doing with her face at the moment, perhaps scowling like a pug or maybe looking like she was about to cry. Regina was but a guest and yet...

Regina was never just Regina. You knew that better than anyone. No matter how she dressed, behaved, or what her priorities were, she was an innate presence that influenced those around her. Gretchen inviting her to this wedding was essentially like shooting herself in the foot.

Regina didn't have to try to snatch the attention of the room, but when she did, there was no competition. And Regina had gone all out. You could tell by the movements of her hands, the way her lashes fluttered, and how her mouth parted just a little. It was obvious, at least to you, that Regina was doing what she did best: Revenge.

"Hi, baby," She cooed down at you. You took a moment to react, surprised by how she was suddenly there, right in front of you.

Her hands reached for you, long acrylics brushing against your collar, then your neck, then the back of your neck and in your hair. Her thumbs directed your head to tilt up. She pulled you close as she leaned down and then—peach lipgloss, glittery eyeshadow, saccharine perfume—your skin tingled where she touched you, sparks going off behind your eyelids as they fell closed, bliss pouring out of your pores as you became filled with it.

You kissed her back, took hold of her hips and pulled her to stand between your legs. Fuck, this was bad. But, fuck, it felt good to kiss her again.

Distantly, like someone shouting into the water in which you were submerged, you realized that this was perhaps the worst way, place, and time you could've reunited with Regina.

Even so, you kissed deeper, licking into her mouth until she made a sound you'd so missed all these years. Just as you began debating the pros and cons of laying her down on the table right there in the open, Shane tugged hard on your shoulder.

"What?" You grumbled, turning to him with a glare already in place.

He was red-faced, and frazzled, but had on a wide grin. "Get it, girl, but calm down. The mother of the bride looks like she's about to implode." He inclined his head towards the long table where all the important people sat. The mother of the bride did indeed look to be on the precipice of a furious blow-out.

"Okay," You swallowed, sense slowly coming back to you.

"Ugh, you're such a party pooper, Shane." Regina pulled away, leaving your palms achingly empty. She didn't go far though. She sat down on her chair before reaching into her white Valentino bag and pulling out some napkins. Then, she leaned in again.

Your eyes fluttered closed and lips puckered. Regina laughed.

"Silly, you have gloss all over your face."

"Oh," Your eyes opened. Gosh, that was embarrassing.

Regina wiped your mouth. Then, she pulled out a compact mirror and fixed her own lips. You watched her do all this. She and Shane started chatting. Apparently, they'd been in somewhat regular contact.

You'd just kissed Regina George. After, what, eight or nine years? In front of the whole goddamn venue. In front of Gretchen, in front of Gretchen's family, in front of basically your entire year from high school.

You got up. "Oh, where are you going?" Shane asked, all innocent. You hoped you didn't look as panicked as you felt. He didn't seem to think anything was wrong. You glanced at Regina.

Fuck. She totally knew. Obviously, she knew you. She could read you like a book.

"Smoke. Be back in a few." You fled.

"I'm coming too," Janis said.

Notes: Sorry for the long break everybody! I graduated and had a party for that! Went on a little trip to the countryside with friends! And now, at last, I'm back at my desk and ready to churn out some long overdue chapters.

Taglist posted separately! Comment on that post to get on it if you want!

[anncanta]

‘The Rings of Power’ and what is adult cinema

I think I understand what the matter is. Why there is such a strange attitude towards The Rings of Power and constant reproaches from a number of viewers that the series is boring and that it lacks epicness and vivid characters.

This point of view (and it is the same point of view) has two reasons – age and an excess of content.

The thing is that modern viewers consume a huge amount of content. These are books, films, computer games, fan fiction, TV series. It is not that it is difficult to surprise such a viewer – it is actually possible to surprise them since they are quite naive – it is as if they have sensory fatigue. Or, rather, they have stopped perceiving shades and see only colors. And among the colors – only those that glow neon and fluoresce. What is below this threshold is not interesting to them, simply because their sensitivity is dulled, like (sorry for the comparison) for a user of psychoactive substances who needs to increase the dose to get the same sensations.

That's why the characters of The Rings of Power are dull for these viewers, the storylines are boring, and the whole story lacks epicness. And it doesn't matter that this story is not about epicness at all. It's about the price living beings pay for epicness. About what attempts to start a ‘great war’ or ‘correct big mistakes’ turn out to be. How good intentions and the desire to return to the ‘great past’ or start into a brilliant future end. What an attempt to cheat death leads to.

And here we come to the second reason. To adulthood. The series The Rings of Power is for adults. Not only because adult actors play in it. Young people play there too. But because it is written in an adult way, conceived in an adult way, and played in an adult way.

These heroes and this story do not have the problems of ‘who looked at whom in what way’, ‘who does not want to marry whom off to their beloved’, and ‘which armies clashed on this hill’. With all due respect to these problems. The Rings of Power is about something completely different.

In this film, one of the central scenes is the conversation between Galadriel and Elrond in Cirdan's workshop. The scene in which stubborn Elrond repeatedly brings Galadriel back to the question she doesn't really want to return to – has Sauron really left her consciousness? How did he get there? How far did he go?

And it's not about whether she's in love with Sauron or whether he has a chance to become her lover. I have the impression that the writers don't care about that at all. They care about Galadriel's relationship with Sauron inside. For them, evil is not a black blot that just wants to destroy the whole world (in this sense, the beginning of the second season and Sauron in his black form are also a parody of such decisions), but something that has crawled into your soul and become you. Where, at what point did it become you? How much has it become you? Can you resist it? These are very boring questions to answer – especially if you are uncomfortable with them.

The other pivotal scene is where Sauron tortures Celebrimbor. I know it's bland for viewers used to detailed violence and fan fiction. But it's monstrous. It's horrifying in its simplicity. You look at this beautiful creature who knows exactly where to shoot, so it hurts, but also so the victim stays alive. Then he comes over and moves one arrow slightly. You look at it and you want to scream.

And then Celebrimbor defeats him. Not because Celebrimbor is physically stronger, or a greater wizard, or has a deadlier sword. Because Celebrimbor speaks the truth. Because all these mind games are worthless when you look at them with clear eyes. So Celebrimbor looks. And makes Sauron look. That is stronger than any battle. As is the silence Sauron remains in, which he has tried so hard to drown out with the sounds of thunderous battle. That is why he weeps, and not because Celebrimbor has humiliated or insulted him.

The central part of the story is strange, imperfect, doubting Galadriel. After centuries of pain and loss, fear and anger, rage and grief, she believed that there was someone in this world who could understand her – and he turned out to be the Dark Lord. This makes their misunderstanding all the more vivid and profound – Sauron thinks that Galadriel rejected him because he did not offer her enough, but she did it because he offered too much. The noble Halbrand was enough – not the divinely handsome (another jab at fans of epic films with grandiose perfect men), but a man who was wrong and willing to admit his mistakes. By showing her that Halbrand was a deception, Sauron betrayed not her love, but her belief that there was a way back. Including for herself, who, no matter how absurd it may be, still cannot forgive herself for putting the helmets of her brothers and sisters in the mound.

This faith will be restored to her later by Adar – for a moment, for a few minutes, he returned to his former elven appearance and showed her that it is possible to forgive others and forgive herself. Having missed the opportunity to escape with the ring of power and accepted her help and their alliance.

All these plot lines, all these stories, all the events and heroes do not look bright and spectacular. Even the battles do not look spectacular. Do you know why?

Because battles are not spectacular. They are dirty, stinking, disgusting, and full of pain and blood. Eregion during the siege does not look like grandiose fortresses – it looks like bloody besieged cities. Like cities on which bombs fall. Like cities into which, like cockroaches, aliens crawl. This is what the truth looks like. Do not believe the artificial mouse running across the floor. Better check if the candle is burning out.

The problem and, in fact, the essence is that all these things are impossible to see and understand if you are a young person. In youth, all the stories are about love (with a capital letter), about war (heroic and brilliant), and about refined characters who proudly walk back and forth. They talk little because the young are not interested in conversations. They are interested in kissing and figuring out who is better.

But I am interested in something else. And many people like me are too. And I am incredibly happy that the authors made this film for us. It is not even about Tolkien – I repeat, I am rather indifferent to him. The point is how, through Tolkien and his legendarium, the authors talk about what is important to me. And they do it masterfully. And the most beautiful thing is that those who are young will definitely grow up and become adults.

And then maybe they will love this story too.